#bottom will

yes! absolutely agree here. delicious idea.

i also think mack just likes to take care of will this way sometimes—he knows how good it feels when will is in control, letting mack be brainless and fucked into mattress and that it just helps with resetting a brain.

so every once in a while, after a worse day or worse game, he pins will to the bed, laying on top of him, hand already in will’s pants and just whispers into his ear "let me take care of you tonight, baby. just be good for me" and will goes completely boneless, giving himself into mack’s mercy and takes it.

mack loves to see this side of will—crying from pleasure, legs wide open under him, panting and begging for more.

Tag: strangers to lovers, serial killer hannibal, meet cute, bottom hannibal, bottom Will, top hannibal, top will, happy ending 

Will sighs again as he checks the time. 

7:59 

She was almost an hour late. 

He takes a sip of his wine, scanning the room in hopes that maybe his date was waiting at a different table, and stops when he sees a man sitting alone. Watching him.

He looks away, feeling like he’s been caught doing something wrong, and when he looks again he sees the man smirking. Will rolls his eyes and takes another sip as his waiter comes up looking even more annoyed than he had since he sat Will down. 

“Still waiting, Sir?” He sighs.

 “No. I think I’ll just get the check.”

 “For your wine and….” the waiter, whose name tag says Brent, curls his lip, “Bread?” 

Will blushes. “Yes.”

 “Very good, Sir.” 

Brent leaves and Will finishes his wine, turning to see if the man across the place is still

staring. He finds him gone and feels oddly upset but brushes it off. 

And suddenly needs to use the bathroom. 

Will walks fast, feeling eyes on him, and heads in only to see there’s only one person inside. The Staring Man. 

He thinks about leaving but sucks it up leaving space between them as he sighs, closing his eyes as the only good moment of his night is taking a piss. 

“Were you on a date?” 

Will startles to hear the other man’s accent voice, blushing.

 “I’m not really sure that’s any of your business. If you don’t mind I’m…” 

The man walks over, dangerously and alarmingly close as his breath tickles Will’s ear. “I’m sure you plan to leave but….” He leans in and Will almost drops his cock as he shivers, already more than hard, “I have room at my table if you don’t.” 

He doesn’t give Will a moment to respond, walking over to wash his hands, and Will just stares unsure if he’s somehow fallen into a porno when he sees him leave. “What the fuck?” 

Continued in:

Volume 2. Chapter 4 - In Abscondito

Will’s POV

Two weeks. Two. Fucking. Weeks since that goddamn note. Two weeks of me pacing my apartment like a caged animal, staring at the poem like it’s a curse. Two weeks of pretending I don’t still trace the loops of Hannibal’s Ys in my sleep.

“You are the Spaces In Between.”

Yeah, sure. Now I know why he left me at the altar. Metaphorically. Literally. Whatever.

I’m not the kind of guy who pines. I’m the kind of guy who burns things down. But Jack and Alana have my leash tied short—Jack’s eyes are everywhere, and Alana keeps asking if I’m “processing my trauma.” As if I’m some damn art project.

The file was hiding in plain sight.

Bedelia Du Maurier. Of course. I’d cursed her name so many times in my head, I almost missed the irony. She’d been Hannibal’s physiatrist? What the hell was she thinking, keeping records on a man who could make you dissect your own fears over tea?

Brian had hacked into the system at work, naturally. His file was there, labeled CONFIDENTIAL: LECTER - PATIENT FILE

But there, buried in the notes, was a phone number. My hand instantly got a pen and scribbled it down. Is this a trap? A game? Maybe. But I was past caring.

-----------------------------------

“Dr. Du Maurier,” I said, voice sugar-sweet when she answered. “We need to talk about your discharged patient.”

The pause was everything. Her breath, sharp. “Will Graham. I assumed you’d be looking for him.”

“I’m not. Just… clarifying some details.” My thumb drummed the desk. “How do you know i was talking about him? How do you even know who i am?"

A laugh, brittle. “You’re previous Physiatrist, Dr. Lecter, has told me all about you Will. At this point, I have started to call you Will Lecter instead."

I felt my fists clench. “Dont call me Will Lecter."

Bedelia’s tone of voice changed into something of amusement. "Im not sure if he would be happy to here that. We are both, or was for me, his bride Will. Except you have a choice in this matter. I don't.

"What do you mean by that? We're you married to Frankenstin, Doctor? If so, you know what he's like intimately." My tone matched her's.

"Happily not. He must have been saving that for you. I am quite aware that you are more submissive in bed, Mr. Lecter. Or Mrs. Lecter I should say, as i assume that Dr. Lecter is the Dominant one in this relationship." Her tone had a way of dipping in and out of sarcasm and amusement.

"That stuff doesn't comply with you. Why is he even sharing this?!" I felt my face burning hot with embarrassment. Why would Hannibal even share that!

She sighed. “I can’t tell you that. But if you’re insistent to know about that…” A rustle in the background and a sound like someone handing something to someone.

Then, his voice. Calm. Alive.

“Will.”

I dropped the phone. It skidded across the desk.

Don’t. Don’t do this. Don’t—

“Hannibal.” My voice came out a strangled whisper.

“I warned you not to look for me.”

“You think I had a choice?” I snapped, grabbing the phone. “You left me a fucking poem and vanished. What was I supposed to do? Rot in that penthouse? Pretend I didn’t—”

I stopped.

Pretend I didn’t what?

Hannibal’s laugh was a warm knife. “Pretend you didn’t what, mon ange?”

I closed my eyes. “You think this is a game? You and your fancy Latin and your poetry? You put me in a cage, Lecter. And now you want me to just… smile and nod?”

“Is that what you’re doing, Will? Smiling?”

“I’m doing fine.” Liar. “I don’t need you. I never did.”

“Then why are you calling me?”

I froze.

“Why, mongoose?” His voice dropped, silk and venom. “Do you miss my touch? The way you’d claw at me in Baltimore? Do you miss the promise?”

I wanted to scream. To hit something. To bury my face in my hands and admit he was right.

“I hate you,” I spat, though the words felt flat.

“Good.”

“What?”

“Hate me. It’s… safer.”

I stared at the phone. “You’re full of shit.”

Silence. Then:

“I love you, Will.”

The line went dead.

I sat there for hours, the cold plastic of the phone in my hand. The poem burned in my mind, the lines “You are my Pain, Desire, Hope and Fear” looping like a broken record.

Fuck.

I’d been looking for a way to hate him. But all I’d found was a man who’d carved himself into my brain, like a brand.

And I? I was the spaces in between.

(I LOVE THIS CHAPTER)