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Sep 28, 2025

Only The Tip of Madness

A/N: Did anyone ask for this? no. Anyway... here's my take on Will Graham and common Tumblr situationship escapades. (Titles a double entendre lol)

Warnings: NSFW, Rough Sex, Semi-public Setting, Dry Humping, Power Play [Sub/Dom themes], Dirty Talk, Begging, Canon-typical Psychological Tension, Mutual Obsession, Toxic Romance Undertones, Porn W a Plot, Alcohol Use, Crime Scene Mentioned, and Will lowkey being unwell.

Synopsis: You should be chasing killers. Instead, you’re chasing Will Graham. Curiosity twists into temptation, and temptation into something far filthier when late nights and shared cases blur into lust. And you can’t look away — not from his mind, not from the fragile, feral way he lets you closer than he should. In the end, maybe you’re just as mad for wanting him.

WC: … it’s long… like 8k words long.

Will Graham x Fem!Reader

“He tastes like loneliness, and you’ll drink it every time.”

When you step into the dim coroner’s office, the first thing you see is him. Will Graham stands at the examination table, his eyes fixed on the corpse, hands hovering with the tentative reverence of someone both fascinated and disturbed. “Jack must’ve sent you,” he says without looking up. His voice is quiet, a little rough. “Will Graham.”

You offer a stiff nod. “Yes. First day.” Your gaze flicks to the body, but your attention keeps pulling back to him—his focus, the way he leans into silence so intimately as if it’s second nature. The sight is too heavy; you catch yourself watching him instead. His words ring in your ears, and your fingers curl around your arm for steadiness. He notices, and you’ll later realize that he always notices. “I don’t bite,” he murmurs, mouth twitching at the corner. “You can come closer.”

You move to his side, eyes lingering on the corpse. Pity catches in your chest, and your fingers brush the case file before pausing on the victim’s nails, trimmed nearly to the root with a raw pink. Will’s glance cuts sideways, a short stare at evidence most wouldn’t have noticed. “Intentional,” he says. “Maybe to hide something. Or maybe just control.”

“And you?” you ask, voice low. “What do you see?” His silence is heavy before carefully saying, “Everything. Too much.”

You study him openly now, curiosity edging toward something darker. The stories about him—his empathy, his unraveling—whisper at the back of your mind. “Jack told me to observe you. Learn from you.” That earns you the faintest huff of laughter. “So you’re here to watch me fall apart.”

“Or help,” you counter quickly, folding your arms. “Think of me as a trainee. A friend, even. Not an experiment.” His eyes finally meet yours. They're cold, startlingly blue, and searching through shaky pupils. He tilts his head as though testing the shape of your words. Then, softer than before, he says, “It won’t be dull,” with the slightest bounce of his eyebrows.

The room feels smaller suddenly, the corpse between you almost forgotten. You break the moment first, pulling back toward the desk chair, trying to regain your composure. But his gaze follows you, unblinking and unsettling in a convoluted sense that made you want to stay.

You leave him to his work, heels clicking across the tile, and the glass door shuts softly behind you. For a moment, Will just stands there, still bent over the body, but his mind is no longer on the corpse. He exhales through his nose, steadily, trying to shake off the pull of your eyes on him. But it lingers.

You noticed the nails. Most don’t, most look away, but you didn’t. That unsettles him more than the corpse.

Will trails his focus back to the body, forcing the shift into empathy. He lets the room fall away, lets his imagination become the killer’s hands. He breathes with the victim, then breathes with the one who ended them. His pulse climbs. The images swarm fast and sharp. It’s always too much. And in the middle of that storm—your face interrupts. Curious, unafraid, and studying him. It makes his throat tighten.

He presses both palms against the edge of the table until his knuckles whiten. He can feel the unraveling at the edges of his mind, the slow slip Jack warned him about. And now—now there’s someone new watching.

The next day, you found him again in the morgue, standing too still before another body. Will’s eyes were shut, his breath shallow. You’d heard whispers of what it looked like when he worked, but watching it was something else entirely. His fingers twitched, his shoulders tight, as though he was caught between inhabiting the victim and the killer.

You didn’t move. Jack had warned you that he prefers silence. But when his eyelids fluttered, and his body trembling like he’d brushed against something jagged inside his own mind, your fingers curled into your palms. Every instinct told you to step in, but you didn’t.

At last, he exhaled—a shudder that emptied him out. His eyes opened, unfocused, until they landed on you by the doorway. For a moment, he looked almost startled. “What did you see?” you asked quietly. Will dragged his gaze back to the corpse, voice thin but certain. “The wounds don’t match the hand. Right-handed strikes, but the killer’s left. Victim fought—wasn’t supposed to be them.”

The heels of your shoes clicked against the tile as you approached. You studied the jagged lines across pale flesh, trying to picture the chaos. “So it was a mistake.” He tilted his head, brows knitting. “Or collateral.” The air between you seemed to thicken, the body just an excuse for the gravity drawing your attention to him. You chewed your lip, then pushed forward anyway. “If it wasn’t the intended victim, who was?”

Will leaned back from the table. He was restless and pacing. He tapped two fingers against his temple, muttering to himself about motives, witnesses, wrong place at the wrong time. You watched him move, it was sharp and unmoored, your arms folding tight across your chest to steady yourself.

When his words spiraled into silence, you sighed softly. “That’s why there’s an investigative unit, right? We’ll find the pattern.” That earned you the faintest ghost of a smile, gone as quickly as it had came. You made for the door, but couldn’t help glancing back. “It was… good to work with you again, Will.” Your tone slipped warmer than you intended. He didn’t look at you, eyes still fixed on the body, but his answer was quick, quiet, and edged with something unreadable. “Until next time.” The morgue air still clung to you when you slipped into the break room. Beverly Katz was bent over a file with her usual sharp grin, Alana Bloom cradling a mug of coffee between manicured hands. You lingered a moment before asking the question already burning your tongue. “What’s his deal? Will Graham.”

Beverly’s eyebrows lifted. “Jumped in fast, huh? He’s… good. Too good. Gets inside their heads until he forgets how to get out again.” Alana gave her a warning look, then turned to you with something softer. “He’s fragile. Brilliant, but fragile. Don’t push too hard. He breaks easier than he looks.” You nodded, though the words only added to your interest. Fragile. Brilliant. Too good. Your fingers drummed restlessly against the counter, replaying the sight of him trembling, then snapping into clarity like the crime itself was pulling his strings.

Later, when you stepped outside into the fall air, the chill hit your skin like a reset. You should have been unsettled. Instead, the memory of his raw focus lingered, catching at you like the aftertaste of something dark and addictive. The house was dark except for the glow of a lamp and the shuffle of paws across the floor. The dogs clustered around him, restless mirrors of his own unease. Will sat on the edge of the couch, hands steepled in front of his mouth, weary eyes crinkling above that wry grin he gave his pets.

He’d carried the morgue with him, like always. The corpse still lay in his head, skin pale under fluorescent light, breathless and still. But overlaid on top of it—unwanted and persistent—was your face. The way your voice asked, What did you see? It stuck like a burr. And whenever he’d try to claw it away in his mind, barren nail beads stared back at him. His jaw clenched. He could still feel the tremor in his hands from earlier, the way the images had almost swallowed him whole. He hated when anyone watched that. Jack, Alana, and now you. But instead of shame, the memory left something else, something he didn’t want to name.

Will leaned forward, elbows braced to his knees, trying to breathe through it. He scratched one of the dogs absently behind the ear, comforting himself in the simple rhythm. The animal pressed closer, so unbothered and trusting.

He envied that. But his mind circled back again, inevitably, to you. The faint warmth in your tone as you left: It was good to work with you again. He’d heard the slip of excitement under it, however unintentional. And now he couldn’t shake the question—Were you here to help him? Or to study how fast he’d fall apart?

By the third morning, a rhythm had set in. You’d appear in the lobby around the same time he did, coffees in hand, notebook tucked under your arm. Sometimes you caught his glance as you passed him in the hall. Sometimes he pretended not to look. Either way, you knew he noticed.

He never said much, not at first anyway. Just watched you out of the corner of his eye when your heels clicked past the morgue. A distraction… No, an intrusion more so. Today, you found him in the autopsy room, sleeves rolled up, staring at the body like it was a mirror. He didn’t look up until you laid two thin files on the counter.

“Two cold cases. Overlaps in the reports,” you said, voice casual, though your pulse betrayed the anticipation of catching his attention. Will blinked, dragging himself back from wherever he’d gone in his head. He took the file gingerly, scanning the pages. “Consistent injuries,” he murmured. “But the gap between them…” He trailed off, frowning. “Regular intervals,” you offered. “Could be intentional. A way to avoid suspicion.” His mouth twitched. “Or a game.”

“If it’s a game, it’s a long one.” You leaned closer to the table, unable to resist needling him. “Almost… indulgent.” Will finally looked at you then, brows knitting. It wasn’t anger, exactly—more like he was trying to place you, figure out what you wanted from him. He didn’t answer, just let silence stretch until you broke it by moving to the computer.

Beverly drifted in with a tray of samples, her eyes flicking between the two of you. “You two look busy,” she teased, half-singing the words. Will’s jaw tightened, but you ignored it, typing in addresses and mapping out the victims’ last known locations. “They’re all within fifteen minutes of each other,” you said. “Different neighborhoods, same hunting ground.” Will’s expression softened, just slightly. “Good catch.” The praise was so spare it should have meant nothing. Instead, it lodged in your chest like a hook.

Your eyes met his. They were emotionless, yet brimming with something restless underneath. It made you falter. “Should I tell Jack to send patrols?” He shifted uncomfortably. “No. Too visible. He’ll smell it.” You nodded, pretending not to notice the way his gaze lingered. Pretending you weren’t listening for crumbs of approval. “Then I’ll leave it to your team. I’m just… observing.”

“Observant enough,” he muttered, a thin edge of sarcasm sharpening the words. But when he added, “You should sit in on the meeting tomorrow,” it came out hesitant, almost reluctant. You smiled at that, a cheeky thing, letting him have the last word as you backed toward the door. “Good night, Will.”

He looked down, muttering something that sounded like “’Til tomorrow” as though the phrase tasted foreign in his mouth. You left him with the corpse. He stood in the morgue far longer than he needed to, staring after you when he thought no one would notice. The silence closed in, and for the first time in months, he felt a strange anticipation for morning.

That night, he dreamed of corpses again. Only this time, you were there, standing at the edge of the scene, watching him like you always did. Like you were supposed to. He couldn’t forget. The room smelled faintly of chalk and old coffee. Will stood at the blackboard, his scrawl jagged and frantic, diagrams of movement and injury crisscrossed with hastily drawn arrows. He muttered to himself, the words more for the dead than the living. —

You slipped into a seat near the back, notebook open. Not full of neat case notes—more half-legible scribbles, fragments of his phrasing, the curve of his thought patterns. He noticed almost immediately. Your presence was becoming harder to ignore. “Don’t hover,” Will said without turning, his voice tight. “It makes me feel like a lab rat.” You tapped your pen against the notebook. “Then don’t treat me like a clipboard. I’m supposed to learn something from you.”

That made him pause. He turned, brows furrowed, as though weighing whether you were mocking him. Then he sighed, the tension loosening slightly. “You don’t need to watch every tic and twitch. I’m not a manual you can memorize.”

“Maybe not,” you said evenly, “but I can pay attention. Sometimes that’s enough.” Something flickered across his face—annoyance, maybe, but softened by a reluctant trace of recognition. He rubbed the back of his neck, chalk dust smearing faintly across his knuckles, and went back to the board. The silence wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t empty either. — The conference room was colder than usual, sterile light glinting off the steel table. Jack stood at the head, files fanned before him. Beverly leaned back in her chair, tapping a pen against her lip. Hannibal sat with immaculate posture, suit pressed, hands folded like a cathedral.

Will slouched at one end, restless already. You took the seat beside him, closer than you meant to. His eyes flicked to yours, a quick glance that didn’t quite land, before darting back to the file in front of him. Jack’s voice broke the hush. “New victim. Twenty-five. Female. Sex worker. Same injuries as before. Found in a vacant lot outside Baltimore.”

A photo slid across the table. Will stared too long. His fingers twitched once, then flattened against the page. Jack pressed. “Will?” Will’s eyes closed. His voice came low, rasping. “She wasn’t killed there. He… prefers privacy. Somewhere he can work without distraction. The wounds—” He faltered, jaw tightening. “They’re intentional. Torture. He was looking for something.”

The room fell still. Beverly tilted her head. “Looking for what?” Will’s breathing went uneven. His hand flexed against the table as if steadying himself. You leaned forward slightly, voice cutting through the quiet. “If he’s working undisturbed, he’s somewhere hidden. Underground, maybe. The sewers filter everything—blood, waste. No clean-up, endless places to vanish.”

All eyes shifted to you. For a moment you regretted speaking, but Will’s gaze caught yours—there was approval there, faint but certain. “Possible,” he said, his voice steadier now, borrowing strength from your words. Jack nodded, seizing on it. “We’ll have teams map the sewer access near each crime scene.”

But it was Hannibal who spoke next, voice soft and measured, each syllable deliberate. “A predator who seeks such a lair… is patient. He waits. Chooses not only his victims, but the canvas for his violence.” His gaze moved briefly, too briefly, to you, then to Will. “A game of control.”

Something in his tone made the back of your neck prickle. It was too smooth, too staged. Everyone else nodded as though it was gospel. You, however, found yourself frowning faintly, unsettled. Beverly flipped through the file. “So, wrong place, wrong time? Victim wasn’t the target?”

“Not exactly,” Will muttered, voice distracted. His eyes had gone glassy again. “She tried to run. He brought her down hard—knife from above, jagged, sloppy. He didn’t want her dead, not yet.” Jack exhaled sharply, his jaw tight. “I need answers, Will. Not maybes.”

Your hand tightened around your pen. “He just gave you an answer,” you said, your voice sharper than intended. The room quieted for a beat. “If she wasn’t the target, then someone else is. He’s escalating, and that matters more than speculation.”

Will looked at you quickly, gratitude flashing in his eyes before it was buried under exhaustion. Hannibal, however, studied you with quiet interest, his gaze steady in the way of someone who didn’t blink often enough. His mouth curved in something that might have been a smile, though it felt more like a warning.

“Insight,” Hannibal said smoothly, his eyes still on you. “Sometimes it comes from the most unexpected of places.” You forced yourself not to look away first, though unease crawled through you. It felt rehearsed, that calmness of his. Scripted and enttirely too polished for the blood-soaked reality on the table between you all.

The meeting moved forward, Beverly asking logistics, Zeller droning on about forensics. But you could feel both of them—Will, vibrating faintly with nervous energy at your side, and Hannibal, composed and still, dissecting the room with his eyes. And in the middle of it, you realized your own pen was shaking slightly against the paper. A tic you hadn’t noticed. A crack you didn’t mean to show. —Pov’s

You When Jack closed the file and dismissed the room, the tension didn’t leave with him. The others filtered out quickly—Zeller muttering, Beverly still scribbling—but the silence that followed was worse than the chatter. Hannibal’s voice lingered in your ears, the polished cadence of it. So careful, so perfectly phrased, it was almost soothing… even charming. But no one was that composed. No one should be. It unsettled you, the way he seemed to move through the world like it was already written. Perhaps it was just his intelligence that bothered you, you were always prone to jealousy.

Will He should have been used to it by now, the weight of expectation, the eyes that waited for him to bleed answers. But when you spoke up, when you cut through the quiet to shield him from Jack’s impatience, something jolted. It wasn’t gratitude, not exactly. More like panic, that anyone would bother. Your voice had been calm, but in his chest it echoed too loud, and he hated the way it warmed him even as it burned.

You You pretended not to notice his glance. Your pen tapped against the folder in your lap, restless. You shouldn’t have spoken; you knew that. What did it matter if Crawford doubted Will Graham? You weren’t here to play savior. And yet—your mouth had moved before you could stop it. You weren’t supposed to care this much.

Will He saw the way your jaw tightened after you spoke, the way you squared your shoulders as if expecting someone to snap back. You carried tension like a blade—ready to cut or be cut. He wanted to look away, but his eyes lingered longer than they should have. You weren’t supposed to care this much either.

You When Hannibal rose from his chair, his smile skimmed across the room, the creases in his cheek folding delicately. You still weren’t sure why you felt this way; his demeanor overshadowed his obvious attractiveness for reasons that shouldn’t matter. His gaze caught yours for a second too long; it was polite, placid even. It should have been reassuring, but it wasn’t, even when you returned the smile. There was nothing human about perfection that precise. He was an interesting anomaly.

Will The scrape of Hannibal’s chair against the floor made him flinch. He hated that sound, hated the neat finality of it, like a door closing on something he hadn’t finished saying. But worse was the way his eyes immediately found you again. He told himself it was a distraction, nothing more, but the truth was worse in his eyes. He wanted you to look back.

You You didn’t. Instead, you busied yourself with the files, steadying your hands with careful movements, though the tremor beneath your skin betrayed you. You could feel him watching, and you hated that part of you that wanted him to.

Will Of course, he noticed. That was the curse of it. You were meant to observe him, but somehow, it was inverted—he was the one cataloguing your tics, your tells. He wanted to shut it out, wanted less of it. And yet, when it came to you, he only wanted more. —

The highway blurred past in streaks of orange lamps and black trees. Will’s hands clenched tighter on the wheel, knuckles white, sweat slicking the leather. He saw you.

Not in the passenger seat—not yet—but in the glass of the windshield, superimposed over the road the way Hannibal sometimes appeared. A ghost stitched into his vision. He blinked hard, and for a moment, it was Hannibal’s face instead. Then yours again, with lips moving with Hannibal’s voice, coaxing, prodding. “Say it, Will. You know what you saw.”

The wheel jerked. Tires screeched briefly before he corrected. His chest felt tight. He didn’t want to go home. The thought of the house waiting for him, empty and echoing, only made the visions worse. Almost without thinking, he turned down the side street that led to Hannibal’s office.

The lights were low, the space calm in its deliberate order. Books, decanters, the faint burn of wood polish. Hannibal rose as though he’d expected him all along. “You’re late,” Hannibal said mildly with a grin, though there was no appointment. Will sank into the chair, his breathing uneven. “Couldn’t… couldn’t quiet it tonight.” Hannibal poured him water, not scotch, and set it neatly on the side table. He didn’t press at first. Instead, he let the silence expand until Will filled it. “I keep seeing things I shouldn’t. Faces where they don’t belong.”

“Faces,” Hannibal repeated softly, like tasting the word. Will rubbed his palms down his thighs. “Someone new. It’s… distracting.” He wouldn’t say your name. He wouldn’t let Hannibal have it. Hannibal’s gaze sharpened almost imperceptibly, though his smile remained perfectly in place. “Distraction can be useful. It reminds us we are not machines. We form bonds. Some more valuable than others.”

Will’s jaw tightened. “Bonds complicate things,” he sighed. “And yet,” Hannibal murmured, leaning forward slightly, “you and I have one. A rare thing, built on trust. Do not mistake complication for weakness.” The words slid through the room like smoke. Will swallowed, guilt thick in his throat. He wanted to protest, but instead he nodded once, eyes closing briefly as though to hold himself together.

Hannibal didn’t look away. Inside, he acknowledged what Will had not spoken—the quiet rift between Will and the observer. A rift Hannibal could widen, or use. But for now, he guided Will back to their friendship, tightening the tether. Once at home, the glass of scotch burned his throat raw. He sat in the dark, staring into nothing, guilt knitted with craving. He hated that your defense lingered louder than Hannibal’s careful words. He hated more how much he wanted that warmth again, knowing it would do nothing but complicate things.

Alone, you pressed your palms to your eyes, but it was useless. Behind your eyelids, his face came clear as though waiting. Those glasses that framed his eyes, restless hands, the way he hovered near collapse. He was as potent as the alcohol you’d left untouched on your counter. You exhaled, shaky, unsettled. Neither of you slept well that night. — Weeks later, that same plaid button-up filled your vision. You tilted your head, a sly smile curling at your lips. “What can I say? I’m a curious cat.” Will’s eyes lingered longer than they should. You’d noticed that before—in debriefings, in stolen glances Jack had clearly caught. For a moment, you wondered if you haunted his thoughts as often as he haunted yours.

He gave a soft laugh, surprising himself. “Most people don’t like having their brains picked apart.”

“Most people aren’t me,” you countered easily, leaning just enough to close the gap. He mirrored the shift, barely perceptible, his voice dropping. “I’m… particularly interested in yours. The way it ticks.” His gaze flicked to your mouth, then back to your eyes.

Your lashes fluttered, betraying you. You tried to play it steady. “And what makes you tick, Will?” The question hit too close. He stalled, eyes holding yours. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m already past the edge.” The words were so flat, so certain, they unsettled you. You stepped away, busying yourself with gathering your briefcase, though your mind still circled him like a moth around flame.

Will watched you cross the room, thoughts swarming inside him. He should’ve been relieved, but all he felt was the loss. With a sigh, you heard the door quietly click behind you, causing you to hastily shove papers in your bag. Here you were poking and prodding again. You caught up with him just as he slipped out of the morgue. Will didn’t look back at first, but his shoulders tensed—he knew it was you. “Heading to class?” you asked lightly, clutching your notepad like it was a ticket inside his world. “Always,” he muttered, then glanced sidelong. His voice softened, betraying reluctance. “You’re not scheduled to follow me there.”

“Maybe not. But you don’t exactly give tours. Thought I’d ask while you’re cornered.” That earned a flicker of amusement in his pale eyes. He sighed, already half-resigned. “I’m not a good guide.”

“Maybe I prefer the unpolished version.” Will hesitated at that, the corner of his mouth tugging like he wanted to argue but couldn’t. Curiosity won out. He wordlessly gestured ahead, and you fell into step beside him.

His presence carried its usual charge. He walked quickly, clipped strides betraying unease, yet he didn’t tell you to leave. Somewhere between irritation and intrigue, he was becoming accustomed to the sound of your footsteps shadowing his. You followed him through the narrow corridors of Quantico, the smell of coffee and chalk dust clinging faintly to the air. Will’s posture was as it always was—half-withdrawn, half-braced, like he expected someone to strike him if he stood too tall. He gestured toward the lecture hall. “This is where I spend too much of my time. Teaching students how to think like monsters.”

“Doesn’t sound very enthusiastic. You say that like you don’t belong up here.” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “I don’t. But Jack thinks otherwise. And enthusiasm makes people expect too much.” You leaned against the desk, arms folded. “I think you do. You’re too self-aware to see it.” His gaze flicked to yours, sharp but searching. “And you think you see what I can’t.”

“I notice things,” you said, smiling. “Mysteries have always been my weakness.” That landed heavier than you intended. Will’s stare lingered, unblinking, as though dissecting whether you meant the case—or him. He finally let out a slow breath. “Mysteries cut both ways.”

“Then maybe I don’t mind bleeding a little.” His expression faltered. For a second, the air between you shifted—less mentor, more something dangerous. He realized, too late, you were flirting. And worse, he wasn’t shutting you down. His laugh was quick, but bitter. “Then you’ve found the right company.” You smiled at that, though you weren’t sure if he meant it as invitation or warning.

You laughed softly at his line about mysteries cutting both ways, the sound bright in the empty lecture hall. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of being figured out, Will. That would make you predictable.” His eyes narrowed, the smirk tugging at his lips betraying both annoyance and reluctant amusement. “Predictable, hm?”

“Terrifying and unpredictable for them,” you teased, tilting your head toward the ghost of his absent students. “But for me?” Your grin softened into something quieter, more dangerous. “I think you want someone to keep up.” Will’s chest tightened. He should’ve deflected—dismissed you, scolded you, anything. Instead, his feet betrayed him and he took a step closer.

The space between you shrank. He could see the fine lines at the corner of your mouth, the steady rhythm of your pulse just beneath your throat. You weren’t afraid, though maybe you should have been. “What?” you asked lightly, though your voice dipped, quieter now. His jaw flexed. “You keep looking at me like you want to solve me. Like I’m…” He trailed off, searching for a word that didn’t make his skin crawl. “…a puzzle you enjoy being trapped in.”

“And if I am?” The challenge in your tone pulled something taut inside him. He leaned closer, almost unconsciously, until his breath brushed your cheek. His hand twitched at his side, fighting the urge to touch. Your lips parted, not quite a smile. But waiting.

Will’s gaze dropped—just for a second—to your mouth. The kind of second that could collapse into forever. But he froze there, trembling between restraint and surrender. “Don’t,” he rasped, though his voice betrayed the opposite. “Don’t what?” you whispered back, not moving away. The silence stretched until it was unbearable. He hovered there, inches from you, caught in the gravity of his own desire and dread.

Will’s breath hitched, his body frozen in that impossible space between retreat and surrender. For one raw second, he looked almost pleading, as though he needed you to make the decision for him. And so, you did.

Your hand slid up the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his curls as you rose just enough to close the distance. His lips crashed against yours, hesitant for only a heartbeat before hunger overtook him. Will groaned low in his throat, the sound half-relief, half-ache. His hands—tentative at first—found your waist, gripping harder than he meant to, pulling you flush against him as though solitude might claw you away if he let go.

The kiss deepened fast. His lips parted under yours, and you tasted the faint trace of coffee and something sweet. His tongue brushed yours, cautious at first, then greedy, searching like he was memorizing you the way he memorized crime scenes. You anchored him with the press of your hand at his jaw, grounding his trembling restraint. “It’s alright,” you murmured against his lips, your breath fanning across his cheek.

That reassurance nearly snapped another thread in him. His grip tightened, and he tilted his head, deepening the kiss with a sudden dominance that surprised even him. He walked you back until the edge of the desk pressed into the backs of your thighs. The movement wasn’t rough, but purposeful, like he was claiming, needing.

And yet, even as he caged you there, his body shook faintly, betraying how much he was surrendering. You felt it in the way his fingers pressed into your sides like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to hold you still or if he was terrified you’d slip through his grasp. When he finally broke the kiss for breath, his forehead dropped against yours. His chest heaved, and his voice was hoarse when he whispered, “You don’t… understand what you’re doing to me.”

Your thumb traced the hollow beneath his ear, guiding him back down, steady as an anchor. “Then let me.” The words made him shudder. He kissed you again, slower this time but no less desperate, his lips dragging over yours in a rhythm that tasted like yearning and guilt tangled together. Every shift of his mouth said what he couldn’t: I want this. I shouldn’t. I need more.

The kiss lingered like static between you, heat and confusion pulling you forward until Will pulled away as if burned. His breath stuttered out, a flash of guilt darting across his face before he turned his back to you. “That—” He stopped, jaw clenched. “That was a mistake.” The words sliced clean, but the tremor in his hands betrayed him. You stood there, still caught in the moment of it, until Will forced himself to move, gathering his papers, muttering something about needing air. He couldn’t look at you. Couldn’t afford to.

When the door shut behind him, the silence was almost cruel.

Later that evening, he sat stiffly in Hannibal Lecter’s office. The amber lamplight painted long shadows across the bookshelves, and the faint smell of smoked meat and polish filled the air. Hannibal’s gaze was calm, surgical like. “You look troubled, Will,” Hannibal said, settling into his chair with the ease of a man who had all the time in the world. Will’s fingers picked at the seam of his sleeve. “I’ve been… distracted. Can’t shake it off.” “Distracted,” Hannibal echoed, with the slightest nod. “By your cases? Or by someone within them?” Will’s head lifted, startled. Hannibal’s mouth curved in that faint, knowing smile, never too much, never enough to seem smug, but sharp enough to feel like a scalpel. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Of course,” Hannibal soothed. “And yet here you are, talking about it.” His voice lowered, almost hypnotic. “The mind clings to what unsettles us. Sometimes the attachment is a defense against loneliness. Sometimes… it is a longing.” Will shifted, feeling uneasy. “You make it sound like I’m weak.”

“I make it sound like you’re human,” Hannibal corrected smoothly. He leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “You’ve always feared connection, but that fear has been your greatest burden. Solitude gives you clarity, yes—but companionship, Will, gives you strength. Without it, the darkness consumes.” The words dug in, caging him. Hannibal’s presence filled the room, watchful and inescapable. Even as Will glanced away, he could feel the weight of Hannibal’s eyes, as though they followed him everywhere like they were guiding, observing, or judging.

By the end of the session, Will felt no lighter. If anything, he carried the unsettling impression that Hannibal hadn’t just understood him, he had marked him.

You hadn’t meant to wait for him outside Hannibal’s office. Not exactly, no. You told yourself it was concern, that the look in his eyes earlier had been too brittle to ignore. But the truth pressed heavier in your chest, you wanted to see where he went when he thought no one was watching.

When he emerged, his expression was flat, his movements precise, like he was holding himself together with a string. He didn’t notice your car idling a few spaces back as he pulled onto the road. You followed, far enough to pretend it wasn’t deliberate. Close enough to feel the thrum of his recklessness. Will’s grip on the wheel was white-knuckled, curled fingers digging back into his palms. The world blurred at the edges, headlights streaking into ribbons of light. And then… There you were. Not in the rearview mirror where you belonged, but beside him in the passenger seat. The ghost of your shoulder brushing his, your breath in the air.

He blinked, and you were gone. In your place, instead, was Hannibal. Ever patient, smiling, and eternal. The hallucinations pressed harder, crawling into his reality. He missed a turn, barely corrected. His chest tightened, his vision tunneling. By the time his senses cleared, his car was rolling to a stop in front of a sagging building on the edge of nowhere—the suspected killer’s lair.

He didn’t remember the drive. Didn’t remember choosing. He sat there, headlights painting the warped wood, the hum of the engine in his ears, and felt watched. Not just by Hannibal’s voice echoing from memory, not just by the shadow of you in his mind, but by something darker, something waiting inside.

Your car rolled to a stop a short distance behind his. The place looked abandoned with black windows, rust clinging to corrugated siding, and the faint stench of rot even from the road. Will’s car sat there with the headlights still burning, but he didn’t move. He was just… sitting.

You grabbed your phone, fingers trembling as you called it in. “Possible location. Send backup now.” You didn’t elaborate—partly because you weren’t sure what you’d say. That Will had driven himself here like he’d been pulled? That you had followed him like a shadow? By the time Jack and the others arrived, sirens tearing through the stillness, Will still hadn’t moved. He stood outside the car, frozen, his eyes fixed on the darkened doorway. Like something inside had tethered him there.

“Will!” Jack barked, moving past you. “What the hell—?” Will didn’t answer. Not until the flood of agents surged forward, crashing through the warped entry. The commotion inside echoed loudly, with sharp shouts, the crash of overturned furniture, and a strangled cry. One of the agents stumbled out minutes later, blood streaking his face from a deep gash.

But then, dragged out in cuffs, huffing, was a wild-eyed killer. Mid-thirties, gaunt, hands twitching like he was still holding the blade. His eyes found Will through the chaos, and for a heartbeat, the world narrowed. Two predators recognizing something in each other. The wail of sirens seemed to snap Will awake. He blinked, breath hitching, and the trance shattered. His chest rose and fell too quickly as he finally registered where he was.

You had to go in; regrettably, it was your duty. Inside the building, silence pressed like a weight. The smell hit first. It was like copper and decay, thick enough to cling to your tongue. You lasted only minutes before stepping back out into the cold air, stomach turning. But Will didn’t; he lingered. His flashlight skimmed over the walls, every surface painted with cruelty. Hooks hung empty. Blood streaked the floor in dried, flaking patches. It wasn’t just a crime scene; it was a museum of torment.

His hand shook faintly around the gun. He could almost see it, the killer’s work unfolding in flickers of memory that weren’t his own. The killer’s voice carried from the hallway where agents hauled him away. “They all scream. That’s the only way you get answers.” Will’s head turned sharply. His voice, when it came, was rough and strained, screaming utter nonsense.

“You weren’t just killing them. You were trying to make them tell you something.” The man laughed, a thin, jagged sound. “Some of them talked. Most didn’t.” Will’s grip on the gun tightened, trembling with restraint. It would be so easy. A single twitch of the finger, but the echo of Hannibal’s words held him steady. Companionship gives you strength. You were the one who pulled him back now; your presence just outside the doorway was a quiet anchor for him.

By the time the reports were written and evidence tagged, you found yourself retreating to your car. The flashing lights painted everything in harsh red and blue, agents moving like shadows through the night, eager to get home. You knew you should still be helping, but your gaze was fixed only on the doorway.

And then, there he was. Will stepped out, shoulders bowed, face caught somewhere between exhaustion and the daze of just surviving. Jack clapped him on the back with a gruff, “Good work.” Will flinched, muttering something in reply. He lingered as the scene slowly thinned, agents peeling away one by one. Beverly passed by with a tired smirk, tossing a look at you. “Get him home safe, yeah?” The words landed heavier than they should have. Because you weren’t planning on just getting him home.

The crime scene had bled itself dry. The sirens faded, the chatter of uniforms turned to silence, and the autumn night settled heavy over the lot. You sat in your car, engine off, with the headlights dark. You told yourself you were waiting for the others to clear out—but really, you were waiting for him.

Will hadn’t left either. He lingered by the treeline, as though walking into the dark might undo him. Eventually, his eyes cut to your car, catching you before you could pretend otherwise. For a long beat, he just stood there. Then, against his better judgment, he moved toward you. And against your better judgment, you got out.

“You’re still here,” he said, voice roughened by exhaustion but tainted with something else. “So are you,” you shot back, watching the faint twitch in his mouth like he didn’t know whether to frown or smile. He leaned on the side of your car, folding his arms. His presence carried that same mix of gravity and unease, but it was softened now, almost… familiar. “You should go home.”

“Then lead by example,” you murmured. His jaw worked. He hated how easily you could disarm him, and maybe that was why the next words slipped out with more bite than he intended. “You’re a distraction.” You tilted your head, savoring it. “Maybe. But you’re the one who keeps looking.”

Will’s eyes narrowed, but his pulse betrayed him. So, he tried again. “You’re a nuisance.” You smirked, a strained scoff caused your shoulders to jump. “Funny. You don’t sound like you mind.” The air thickened, words snapping like kindling until sparks caught. His hand curled against the cold metal doorframe, knuckles white like clinging to your car would be of any help. Your pulse thrummed as the distance between you shrank—not with steps, but with inevitability.

“This’ll ruin you,” you whispered. Will’s eyes burned with that restless, fractured light you’d seen in him since the morgue. His reply came quietly, somewhat bitter, but it gutted the night open, “I’m already ruined.”

Silence erupted, so quiet you could hear the wet squelch of your eyelids shutting. …

His mouth found yours in a rush of desperation, the kiss rougher, hungrier than anything tentative. You caught yourself on the car, your back hitting the metal with a thud, his hand braced beside your head. The hood was cold against your body when he pushed you up onto it, his weight closing the gap, grounding and consuming you all at once. Fingers tangled in hair, teeth clashing lips, the taste of copper and breath and need.

It wasn’t careful, nor was it measured. It was the collapse of every insult, every sidelong glance, every moment you’d both tried to resist. For once, Will didn’t retreat into silence. He pressed harder, like he wanted to memorize the shape of you in the dark before the guilt could drag him back under. And you let him—because you were just as greedy, just as human. The kiss should’ve ended on the first pull of breath, but Will didn’t let you go. His mouth moved with desperation, lips rough, teeth scraping, his stubble dragging heat against your chin until you hissed at the sting. He swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss like he could burn the taste of you into him.

The cold hood pressed through your clothes, biting your back, but the warmth of his body caging you there erased everything else. His hands roamed—hesitant at first, then greedy—fingers skating along your waist, up your sides, pausing as though asking for permission he had no real intention of keeping.

Your breath fogged in the night air, his joining yours in frantic bursts. The sharp autumn chill left your cheeks raw, your lips swollen, your chest rising with every stolen gasp between kisses. He pressed into you, hard and definitely undeniable. The metal beneath your spine vibrated faintly with the tension.

When his hips shifted, you felt it—that thick, insistent, straining bulge against denim. He groaned into your mouth, low and broken, like it embarrassed him to be this worked up. His hand slid to your thigh, squeezing, grounding himself in the feel of you beneath his palm. “Feel that?” His voice was hoarse, words rasped like they’d been dragged out of him. His forehead dropped against yours, nose brushing red from the cold. “That’s how much I want you. Right now. Here.”

The confession was jagged, almost incoherent. Followed by another kiss, sloppy and wet, your teeth clashing his again until he grunted. His other hand tangled in your hair, holding you there, as though he thought you might vanish if he loosened his grip. “I shouldn’t,” he muttered, though his body betrayed him, pressing harder, rocking into you like instinct had won. “But I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop.”

Your fingers found the hem of his jacket, pulling, and his breath caught. For a heartbeat, he seemed to falter—then something cracked in him, and he surged forward, lips crushing yours again. His body and soul were losing control. His tongue traced your mouth with messy urgency, stubble scratching raw patches along your jaw and throat as he marked you with nothing but hunger.

The cold gnawed at any exposed skin, his hands cold on your sides until they warmed from contact. Your body trembled, but whether from the weather or the need, you couldn’t tell. “Yours,” Will murmured against your throat, incoherent between kisses, like a confession and a prayer. “I’m yours. I want to taste you, feel you, bury myself in you.” His voice cracked on the last word, raw and unpracticed, like he hadn’t spoken desire out loud in years.

He pressed harder against you, grinding his clothed arousal into your hip with an unsteady moan. The shape of him was obvious now, thick and straining against the right his jeans, and the sight alone had you clenching your fingers in his shirt, dragging him closer.

Will’s control wavered dangerously. One hand cupped your face, thumb dragging across your flushed cheek, while the other clamped down on your hip, holding you still as though you might dissolve into the night. His kisses grew wilder, wetter, more insistent, trailing from your lips down to the hollow of your throat where he bit lightly—enough to sting, enough to make you gasp.

The cold air made every inch of exposed skin feel electric. Your breath came in broken clouds, his chest pressing your back flat to the hood. He whispered, his voice fractured against your skin. “I need you. Please—”

It was begging, but not the kind of begging that weakened him; rather, it stripped him bare, showed you the hollow need underneath the profiler’s sharp edges. He was equal parts dominant in the way he pressed you down, and submissive in the way he confessed, unraveling for you in a place he should never have touched you. And he didn’t care. Not anymore.

The kiss broke only when oxygen demanded it—both of you gasping, lips swollen, chests pressed tight together. The metal beneath your back was ice cold, but Will’s body had you caged in heat. His hands tugged at your clothes with desperation, like each layer between you was unbearable.

Your jacket slid halfway off your shoulders, your blouse tugged loose from your waistband under his trembling fingers. The night air nipped viciously at every patch of exposed skin, raising goosebumps instantly, but it only made his touch burn hotter. When you reached for him in return, your nails skimmed the hem of his shirt, dragging the fabric up to expose a strip of pale skin. He hissed into your mouth as the cold bit him, then groaned when your palms splayed across the heat of his stomach.

He muttered, breaking the kiss to pant, his forehead pressing into yours. His voice was guttural, cracking with hunger. “I’ve wanted this… wanted you… couldn’t stop thinking about it.” The confession ended on a groan as your hips lifted against his. He bucked forward instinctively, denim grinding denim, the thick strain of him pressing right where you needed him. His breath shattered. “I thought solitude was your thing, but look at you… clinging.” You could’ve teased more, but every insistent buck cut your air supply.

He gasped, his voice harsh as his lip trembled, his hips rutting again before he could stop himself. He kissed you again, rougher this time, your teeth clashing. His stubble scraped your chin raw, the sting feeding into the frenzy. One of his hands tangled in your hair, yanking your head back enough to drag his mouth down your throat. He sucked, bit, desperate for any reaction, his teeth leaving little shocks of pain that melted into pleasure.

“Do it harder, Will. Don’t hold back.” The words were barely audible beneath the sound of heavy breaths and sharp winds. “God, you feel so good—so fucking solid against me.” You moaned, and he lost himself to the sound—hips grinding harder, the friction crude and perfect. The cold made everything sharper. Your cheeks flushed red, your breath fogging in bursts between kisses, your nipples tightening beneath your shirt until even the brush of fabric was maddening.

His hands were everywhere. One gripped your thigh, yanking it higher against his hip, dragging you into his grind. The other clawed at your shirt until it bunched under your arms, baring you to the night air. His thumb grazed the peak of your breast through your bra, and he swore under his breath, almost reverent. He rasped, pressing his forehead into your jaw, his words muffled against your skin. “I shouldn’t—, I shouldn’t—but I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop. Please don’t make me stop.” he found you beautiful in a way he couldn’t describe. It felt foreign.

Your answer was another grind of your hips into his, and that was all it took. He bit down on the curve of your shoulder, muffling a groan as he shoved his thigh between yours, pressing you open, making your skirt ride high against your hips. The friction built fast, it was sloppy, and all too raw.

He was rutting into you shamelessly, the outline of him thick and straining against his jeans, the rough drag making you whimper. He caught the sound, swallowed it with another kiss, messy and wet, his tongue desperate against yours. His words tumbled between kisses, incoherent but wrecked with sincerity.

“Want to taste you—” “Want to feel you—” “Want to bury myself in you, make you mine—”

Each one punctuated by another thrust of his hips, grinding into you like it was the only way he knew how to survive. His hand slid beneath your bra, fingers clamping around bare skin and fat, and your back arched, offering yourself up even as the cold air stabbed goosebumps into your exposed chest.

Your fingers tangled in his curls, pulling, guiding him back to your lips. His moan was muffled but needy, almost broken, like he was begging you to keep him anchored even as he fell apart. The air was freezing, your bodies were flushed, and every inch of restraint he’d clung to was gone—left scattered across the hood of your car along with the clothes you’d both half-stripped away.

The first pop of fabric had his breath stuttering. He leaned down, bottom lip dragging against your chin, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that was already messy, half-open, all tongue and hunger. His lips parted only long enough to rasp, before your fingers tugged the next button free.

You broke away just to taste the air around him, and he followed like a starving man, hands braced on either side of your hips. The weight of him pressed you back against the cold metal hood of your car. He groaned when you arched up, when the ridge of his cock met the heat between your thighs through too many layers. The sound wasn’t polite. It was guttural and dragged out of him like he was in pain.

His jacket slipped first, shoulders shrugging it down in a clumsy fight not to break contact. You pushed it away, then skimmed your palms under his shirt until your fingers brushed his ribs. Lean muscle trembled beneath your touch—tighter than he looked under the lecture-hall tweed. Will gasped, sounding almost angry. “Don’t—tease me.”

But you did. You caught his lower lip between your teeth, bit just enough for him to jolt, then ground harder against him until the buttons of your slacks caught on his zipper. His whole body rocked with the friction, eyes squeezing shut, breath spilling in hot bursts against your cheek. Silence stretched for a beat, only the sound of fabric slipping, his belt buckle clinking, the wet slide of mouths reconnecting. Then his muttered grunts as your words echoed in his mind, like he was reliving this moment ten-fold. You tilted your hips deliberately, dragging his erection right where you wanted it. It was like he wanted you to acknowledge this moment. How it felt. How he felt. “I feel you.” Your nails pressed into his back through his shirt. “And I’m not stopping.”

His hips snapped forward, he couldn’t control the urge. The hood groaned and dented beneath you, metal biting into your spine, but it didn’t matter. The world had shrunk to Will’s weight, Will’s mouth, Will’s shaking hands finally yanking your shirt open to free the soft mounds of flesh that begged for attention.

His muscles flexed under your touch, lean lines shifting as he fought for rhythm, fought not to collapse into you. He tasted like sweat and salt when you kissed him again, and when you pulled back you watched him lick his lips like he needed to savor every trace of you he could steal.

The grind turned filthy, his cock straining hard against his jeans, dragging through the damp heat at your pussy. Each thrust had him groaning, breath catching, muttering fractured things against your neck. He didn’t finish the thoughts. He didn’t need to.

His hands were freezing, shaking, but the sound he made when he felt your body respond had you gasping harder than the touch itself. You tugged at his belt then, fumbling, the metal biting your fingers. He cursed when you freed it, when the jeans loosened and you pushed them just low enough to grind more directly against him. Now it was only thin fabric between you—your underwear and the damp front of his boxers, nothing else.

He shuddered at the contact, forehead pressed to yours, sweat beading despite the cold. His voice broke on the edge of a moan, he cut himself off with a whimper he tried to swallow in your mouth. Your own sounds richoeting across the valley’s ever winding tree’s. The last shred of control snapped when your fingers tugged his waistband down. His jeans shoved awkwardly to mid-thigh, boxers following, and there he was—long, flushed, the base shadowed with curls that mirrored the unruly mess of his hair. It wasn’t neat, like him. The sight of him straining hard, already slick at the tip, had you dragging your nails into the hood of the car just to keep steady.

Will groaned low in his throat as the cold air hit him, hips jerking reflexively toward your cunt. “God—” His hand shot out, clamping your thigh and forcing your legs wider. The metal hood burned through your spine, and then he was grinding bare against you, no barriers left.

He didn’t ease in. He thrust hard, rutting, cock sliding over your soaked underwear until the friction made both of you whimper. The wet sound of it filled the silence, broken only by the scrape of his teeth against your jaw and the ragged drag of breath.

You tore your panties aside, fingers trembling, and his cockhead immediately caught at your entrance. The stretch of him even just there made you gasp aloud.

He pushed—slow at first, trembling with restraint—and then you pulled back. Just the tip. His groan was guttural, frustrated, chest heaving against yours. “Don’t—fuck, don’t do that—” His voice cracked, sharp with need. He tried again, hips rocking, only for you to hold him at the brink. Your lips brushed his ear. “Say you want me.”

He cursed, hips bucking helplessly against your grip. “I—Christ, I want—want all of you—please.” The word please sounded foreign in his mouth, desperate, torn out of him.

You let him slide deeper, inch by inch. His head dropped to your shoulder, a hoarse groan muffled against your skin as he sank into the heat of you. Every twitch of his cock made your walls flutter, clenching greedily around him. He bottomed out with a shudder that wracked his whole frame, then stilled, breath coming in harsh bursts of condensation in the frigid air.

He went silent, you could feel his jaw clenching against your skin. Then he moved and he wasnt gentle. He snapped his hips, grinding deep, dragging back only to slam in again until the hood beneath you squealed against its bolts. Every thrust knocked your lungs empty, moans spilling with the rhythm of his body claiming yours. His lips were firm when he kissed you again, open and wet, saliva smeared between both mouths as he licked at your lips. The sound of his hips slapping against yours was drowned only by his guttural moans, deep and primal, as though sex was dragging words from a man who never spoke them. Your bodies steamed against the cold night, breath fogging and breaking with every frantic thrust. Each thrust smeared wet heat between you, slippery and obscene, your slick dripping down his thighs. The faint clank of his belt buckle against the car's front bumper echoed every time he punched upwards. His cock dragged raw against you, every vein, every ridge forcing your body to mold around him.

Your thighs tightened around him. “You like using me as your little escape, don’t you?” you asked, voice losing its power. He groaned in response, thrusting harder, the creamy precum coating your lips, were vivid fluorescent pearls in the quiet night. His dominance peeked through now—his hand pinning your wrists above your head, his body caging you, the grind of his cock ruthless. But his eyes were wild and glassy, they gave him away. He wasn’t in control. He was begging your body to anchor him. Your body began sliding up the hood of the car, its vibrating metal loud from the friction. His breath stilled, the tight clench of your pussy ripping each regretted groan from his throat. His body trembled against yours, every shallow thrust cut short as you refused to take him fully, keeping him buried only at the tip. “Don’t run from me. You wanted this, now you take it.” Each drag of his cock along your entrance sent shocks of overstimulation through him, his hips jerking forward on instinct, his thighs quivering as though his restraint were fraying with every pass. The blunt head pressed just inside, slick and swollen, dragging through your wetness before slipping free again, teasing both of you to the edge of madness. He could barely meet your eyes, but the sight of you falling apart made him gnaw on his lip. You felt so good that he'd beg if you truly dared to stop.

Your arousal gushed down his length, coating him until the movement became obscene, each rut of his hips splashing wet heat between you. He groaned against your neck, but you held him there, forcing him to feel everything—the way your walls clenched around nothing, the way his own cock throbbed violently at the denial of deeper friction.

The torment made you gush harder, a sudden rush soaking the base of his stomach as your body shuddered with an unexpected spasm of release. The gush only made the glide messier, louder, until it was all slick squelches and the slap of his hips against your thighs. He nearly lost himself in that moment, his cock twitching, desperate to bury itself fully, but you kept pulling away just as the head slipped inside, dragging out the sharp, unbearable edge of his need.

Every withdrawal left him more wrecked, precum mixing with the flood between your thighs, smearing against your skin. He was pulsing against you, the head of his cock so swollen it looked painful, his body begging for more even as you guided the rhythm with cruel precision. Your restraint unraveled him, turned him inside out—until the line between your arousal and his own slick need blurred together, dripping freely onto the hood beneath you.

“You think you can torment me like that and not pay for it?” he panted, hips snapping. ““You don’t get to tease me like that and walk away unscathed. You’re—driving me—fuck—” You clenched around him, dragging your nails down his back, pulling him closer every time he tried to slow. He broke with it, groaning your name like curse. His body trembled, cock twitching deep inside you, and when you squeezed tighter, his whole frame jerked.

He came hard, spilling hot and messy, burying himself so deep you gasped at the fullness. His forehead slammed into your collarbone, muffled cries breaking from his throat as his release pulsed inside you, relentless, like he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. Your own climax followed, ripping through you sharp and sudden, every muscle locking tight around him. You choked out his name, legs quivering around his hips, fingernails biting crescents into his shoulder blades.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just panting and gasping, with the smell of sex heavy in the cold night air. It’s like it hit you all at once. There was the faint musk of clean dog hair and pine from him. That impure smell of copper from either building or the whispers of the morgue he couldn’t seem to wash away—wafted in the air. It was a scent that made this feel more feral than a human. His cock twitched weakly inside you as he collapsed against your chest, sweat chilling fast against your skin. Finally, he lifted his head, eyes blown wide, lips red and raw. His voice was a hoarse whisper: “You’re going to ruin me.”

But he didn’t pull out. He stayed buried, shuddering breaths fanning your throat, clinging like he needed to keep you there to survive the aftermath.

When he finally eased back, it was with reluctance, his hands gentle for the first time as he smoothed your blouse back into place, tugged your coat up to shield you from the cold. He looked like a man broken open, dazed, not ready to face what just happened. Silence settled between the two of you, cold arousal fluids sending waves of chills down your spine. “If you regret this, tell me now. Otherwise, I’m not letting you go.” your voice was soft, conflicted.

Instead of receiving a concrete answer, he whispered, “You’re freezing. Stay with me. Just for a little while longer.” Before stepping away, he pressed one last kiss to the corner of your mouth. Then silence, before eyeing his surroundings. The slaughterhouse may have emptied, but the true carnage was here—on the hood of your car, in the ruin of Will Graham’s restraint. And in that moment, you weren’t sure if you were saving him, or sinking with him

It didn’t matter, not even as he stumbled away towards his car after wishing you a goodnight. Leaving you wiith the weight of him inside you, even in absence and the warmth of your love heavy against his shoulders. You realized then—if you were going to eat him alive, he’d let you.

While driving home you wondered to yourself if this would be mentioned in Will’s next encounter with Hannibal. Though, you shouldn’t expect too much. But it had you thinking…

“If Hannibal had been watching, I think Will would’ve let him.” A/N: This is incredibly long-winded (because I couldn't stop typing without suddenly having something else come to mind and needing to be added.) But hopefully, anyone who reads it will enjoy it. This will probably be my first and last Hannibal related post. (I love the series but I have no fanbase for it, unfortunately, and I don’t think I did it justice so!)

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