Chapter Text
Will Graham is forbidden fruit made flesh; a living, breathing embodiment of pure temptation. No matter what vows Father Lecter has taken, they seem to fly out of the window when he sees the man. He wants to succumb to his previously scorned alpha nature and claim the stunning omega as his own. He needs to sink into him and make a bond when he had already promised to abstain. His was a lifelong pledge and up until very recently it hadn’t been a hard one to keep. He’d never been compelled to break his vow of chastity, bonding just hadn’t been on his radar, it was an easy promise to keep.
It’s often late at night when Will slips in to talk to Hannibal. The first time he’d visited he had looked like he was one step away from a trip to the ER, but he had stayed and poured out worry after worry in the confessional booth until Hannibal could just about see that the last remnants of panic had melted from his face. Now he visits at least once a week—work pending of course.
Will seems to know about every hidden desire Hannibal’s ever had since he had lost his baby sister at such a young age—the ones he had so desperately turned to the church to escape from. Will walks in and talks of bodies broken, split open and made into art. It fills Hannibal’s mind with images of viscera spread against floors and blood-flooded rooms that call to him. And each week Hannibal says his prayers, listens without judgement and sends Will on his way before his precious control is broken.
Shameful nights have been spent working out his shameful urges, clutching at his cock in a facsimile of knotting as he remembers Will’s chocolate and red wine scent and the way it seems to cling to the walls of the church for days after he leaves. The aftermath of shame as he comes down from his release never gets easier, it eats away at him every single time.
Hannibal has been saying extra prayers, a litany of pleas to save him from whatever hell Will Graham was sent from. He rolls the rosary beads in his hands, each finger brushing against the roundness of the glass, counting each one and reciting a silent prayer like a ward of protection. It doesn’t help. The words don’t dampen down his newfound lust, not for Will nor the violence he brings with him. The vivid images that Will conjures spiral in his head, like blood going down a drain that can’t ever be washed away.
Will is back again this evening—his scent signals his arrival before his light footsteps do. Hannibal shoves his hands into his pockets, frantically trying to find the rosary beads that he’s sure he had a moment ago. This is a test, it has to be, God has decided his devotion just isn’t enough and he needs this trial to prove his will.
Hannibal sits waiting for Will to join him on the pew—as he has been doing the past few weeks. It’s both a blessing and curse being able to see Will in the light rather than in the shadows of the confessional box.
Will’s scent is stronger today, the chocolate notes richer than ever. He can almost taste him on his lips. The pew creaks under Will’s weight as he sits down with a sigh. A loose curl drops over his slightly sweat-damp forehead and Hannibal’s hand twitches as it nearly reaches up to brush the hair back. He wants to push his fingers through the dark curls, maybe tug at them, forcing Will to look at him, to see exactly what he does to Hannibal. His cock hardens in his pants at the thought, and the pit of dread within him deepens. He shifts one leg over the other, praying he can hide the growing bulge and inevitable damp spot.
“Good evening, Father Lecter,” he says quietly as he lets himself sink into the pew. Hannibal watches as the familiar expression of relief overcomes Will’s face. He’s glad that this building is as much of a haven for Will as it is for himself.
“Good to see you again, William,” replies Hannibal, letting himself just be alongside Will, pretending like this little bubble would allow what he wanted most. “I missed our conversation last week.”
“I wasn’t in a fit state to leave the house last week, my apologies,” he answers, his voice with a rougher quality than usual. There is something he’s not saying; he can hear its absence in the cadence of his voice. A voice that he misses faster each week, he dreams of it often.
Hannibal lets his eyes drift over Will again, taking in an inventory of his appearance–his eyes are more sunken, his skin fever-slick. “Did Uncle Jack take you away again?”
Will laughs gently, “No not this time, he did try though.”
Hannibal wasn’t lying, he had missed Will, even if his presence was sheer torment. Their conversations give him something, something that he had been desperately missing from his life. He’s been at St Mark’s for ten years now and it’s an aging congregation—lifeless. The weeks go by in the usual monotonous rhythm of funerals, weddings and christenings, the whole gamut of human experiences told through ceremony.
“I hope you are well?” He inquires, knowing exactly how to pry after years of pulling secrets from people, saying just enough to leave a tether for them to pick up and he lets the—unexpectedly real—concern he feels lace his voice.
“Much better now,” Will pauses as he flexes his hand a few times, a nervous habit Hannibal had noticed from the very first time he’d met the man. “You know, you’re the only person who has asked me that in months.”
At that, the urge to reach out and touch Will intensifies, but he can’t. There should always be a line that isn’t crossed. He can use words, maybe a touch on the shoulder, but that’s it. Hannibal can’t sweep Will into his arms. He can’t mouth all over the mating gland that begs to be bitten. Instead he reaches back into his pocket and clutches at the crucifix at the end of his rosary; it’s sharp under his skin, sharp enough to break the flesh there. The pain brings focus, if only for a little while.
Really, he should turn Will away on nights like this. Ones where his usual fortifications start to fail, when bricks crumble and temptation itself starts to climb over the walls. Instead he lets them fall into their usual pattern. They start by swapping stories of their past week, nothing special from Hannibal, and for once very little from Will too. It quickly turns to their usual, more intense conversations. No one has ever challenged Hannibal the way Will does-he’s willing to fight him on any point he thinks Hannibal is wrong about. It’s refreshing and intoxicating in ways that he is unwilling to look at.
The conversation winds down and they sit in companionable silence as the candles start to burn low, casting their shadows along the walls and radiating a comforting warmth. Will is sometimes only here for a few minutes, wanting to get out whatever dark thought has plagued him that week and other times it’s hours. Tonight is a longer one—but Hannibal will stay here for as long as Will wants.
“I had my heat this week,” whispers Will, his throat still sounding strained. “The lack of control never gets easier, but I’m still expected to get up and be at Jack’s beck and call.”
“No wonder you look under the weather, you need to take better care of yourself, say no to Jack more often,” Hannibal says, probably going too far over the line, it's not the placid, neutral statement he’d usually give. It’s more impassioned. He’s being careless and the love he so desperately doesn't want to drip into his words, does.
“I should be going, it’s late,” says Will, hesitating as he starts to get up. He looks straight into Hannibal’s eyes, a more common occurrence these days—he feels blessed, he knows this doesn’t come easily to Will. “I’ll see you soon, as long as Jack doesn’t keep me away. I can’t quite say no, but I’ll keep your words in mind.”
“I shall pray for a peaceful week for you, William,” responds Hannibal, getting up from the pews to follow Will out.
He inhales as Will gets up, his last chance to take in his scent for at least a week. It hits him harder than every other time, the scent deeper, richer. He can taste the chocolate notes on his tongue, the red wine a communion he can’t escape. He swallows gulpfuls of air, trying to rid his mouth of the taste, but if anything it is intensified until all he can feel on him is Will. He knows this is the scent of Will’s slick, a leftover from his heat.
The haze falls over him, his vision is fuzzy at the edges and an unbearable warmth rises from his chest. A familiar but wholly unwelcome sensation as he feels his cock harden unbearably, his knot already starting to swell as his hips cant upwards in a totally involuntary motion.
Rut.
“Will, you must leave now,” heaves Hannibal, his body breaking out in a sweat. He knows this feeling, but it’s too early, he’s not safe.
“Hannibal?” Will looks as disheveled as he feels, his curls looser with sweat almost dripping off them, his scent is only growing stronger by the second. He’s responding to an alpha in rut, his body preparing for the onslaught of the next few days. Hannibal’s last rational thought is that for all the nights he’s spent thinking about knotting Will he doesn’t want it to happen like this; if he has to turn away from everything he's ever believed in he wants it to be a choice he makes for himself. His self-control has long been his refuge and it’s fallen apart at the lingering scent of slick.
He clutches at Will, half holding him, half pushing him away as his vision narrows. “Please, you have to leave.”
Will turns to him, his face with a questioning look, “Why?”
The rut is starting to take over and he knows he won’t be in control for much longer, every desire he’s ever had about Will shall be set free.
"Because if you stay, I will consume you."