Archive of Our Own ^beta

Will opened the door, arms wide with anticipatory joy, and froze in his tracks.

"Abi, you're—"

Hannibal was at his heels. It took him a moment longer to understand what had caught his lover so off-guard and halted his welcome. Then, a simultaneous intake of breath; a thought shared without words or so much as a sidelong glance.

The last of the dying sun glinted off the dainty stud through her left nostril as she lifted her head, batting those wide baby-blues. It hit Will like a sudden shock of headlights, the weight of the unexpected change and how parental it made them both look.

Abigail brightened, watching her makeshift fathers stiffen in unison exactly as predicted. Her eyes sparkled with knowing, with mischief, before she carved through the tension with learned expertise and a brilliant grin.

"Something smells great."

Hannibal remained civil, but Will's mask was cracked clean down the center. His hands twitched at his sides, jaw working back and forth. Hannibal sensed it, taking point by drawing her into a hug.

"Darling girl, I should hope so. We've been preparing most of the afternoon."

Abigail could sense them speaking with looks over her shoulder in their private language. She smirked into Hannibal's chest, warm and broad beneath the crisp shirt and waistcoat he'd surely pressed for her visit. She allowed them a moment before drawing away to force Will into an embrace, feigning ignorance.

"Not just for me, I hope."

Will's hands trembled faintly on her back as he forced himself to respond. The hesitation sent a shiver down her spine, a bright trickle of danger that raised the short, fine hairs on the back of her neck.

"Who else?" Hannibal replied, reaching for Will's shoulder before retrieving Abigail's bags from the stoop.

She could hear it in the pressure; be good.

Will softened at the reminder. The hug grew warmer, less stilted. A chill breeze offered him an excuse for the shakes, flimsy as it was.

"He went all out," Will said at last, voice almost-but-not-quite steady as he petted through her auburn hair. She'd cut it; just a few inches, still more than enough to cover her scars, but shockingly grown-up. "I hope you're hungry."

"Starving," she replied, a laugh buried in the word.

He drew her away by the upper arms at that, his obvious panic smoothed over with affection that was clearly for her benefit. A jacket pulled on too quickly, the zipper misaligned.

"Well then," he choked out, "you're in the right place."

He held his arm out, gesturing into the warmly-lit foyer as he offered to help with her backpack.

He was trying. She had to give him that.

"God, that's good. You have no idea what it's like, living on dorm food after this."

Will watched her lounge back in her seat, luxuriating in the soft buzz of good wine and better food. Her lashes fanned low over her the apples of her cheeks, a wide smile as good as any compliments to the chef. The little stud, such a small thing, sparkled with each flicker of candlelight.

It was intentional. It had to be.

"I shudder to think," Hannibal countered, flashing Will a quick look of warning before painting his face with contented admiration. "Had I the wherewithal, I would send you back with lunches enough to last clear through to your winter break."

Her eyes flicked open on the flint of a smirk. She sat up quickly, the animation of her youth still so present as she leaned toward him.

"I bet I could barter your meals for liquor and hard drugs. If the other kids knew how well you could cook…"

She was teasing, openly and pleasantly the way an older child does with parents she enjoys. Hannibal responded appropriately with patient affection; a quirk of his lips, a cheerful yet long-suffering sip of his wine.

"Black-market bouillabaisse?" he prompted, earning a soft snort.

"Contraband caprese," she fired back without missing a beat.

Will, rigid in his seat, knew he should participate. Abigail was only home for the weekend, a quick sojourn from her studies to enjoy a makeshift sort of American Thanksgiving with them in a country that had no interest in such things simply because Will had suggested it. It wasn't fair to guilt her, or make their time awkward. He wanted her stay to be enjoyable.

"Forbidden fruit salad," he murmured to the tablecloth, drawing both his companions' bright stares.

The little stud shone again as she bit her lower lip, too much cleverness in her eyes. Hannibal looked proud. Will felt his cheeks tingle with the attention. He'd almost forgotten how skilled they both were at needling him when they got together.

Almost.

"There he is," she teased, reaching out to nudge his arm with the tips of her nails. They were painted, too, another change — short, a deep purple that matched the brocade Prada scarf carefully knotted around her throat. "Glad to have you back. Food puns are the foundation of this family."

Wine always made her the kind of playful that hides its sharp edges, but keeps them at the ready. A scalpel in her sleeve, the girlish smile a distraction. She was growing, yes, older every time she came home, but she'd honed her skill on the whetstone of wide-eyed adolescence. Some habits were hard to break.

"Abigail," Hannibal said, chastising her lightly at last. "Be kind. I think dear Will, like myself, is still adjusting to the new you."

Her eyes flashed, focus sharpening. She took a slow sip, blinking up at Hannibal pointedly.

"Do you like it?"

"It certainly is a change."

She didn't pout. If anything, she came alive with the threat of disapproval, as if sensing blood in the water.

"I did it safely, if that's what you're wondering. I went to a proper studio. Very highly rated for cleanliness. You would've approved."

Hannibal's brow raised in time with Will's. "Would I have?"

She chewed the inside of her cheek, sitting back. She was speaking to him now, as if Will were the captive audience to this dance.

"Oh, yes. Beautiful space. They were very kind."

"And what, pray tell, is the name of this impressive establishment?"

Will and Abigail knew that tone. She sat up straighter, enjoying this far too much, while Will stiffened in warning.

"Hannibal—"

Abigail's smile was wicked as she fiddled with the stem of her glass. "Why? Thinking of making piercer-pasta al forno?"

Oh, she'd been waiting for this all through dinner; that much was clear. A lure so obvious Will hadn't given any thought to biting, no matter how it tempted him. She had them both now, wriggling on the hook for her entertainment.

"Don't tell him," Will interrupted, forcing himself into a closed-lipped grin that he hoped didn't look as pained as it felt. "He'll find out anyway, but don't make it easy."

Abigail chewed her lower lip then, tracking him with open amusement before sitting back and folding her arms across her chest.

"It's just a piercing," she sighed, clearly enjoying their distaste. "It's not a big deal."

"Of course it isn't," Hannibal agreed facetiously. "You are an adult who suffered many years under someone else's control. Your body is yours to reclaim as you wish."

This was the first thing to rattle her. She wanted a reaction; naturally, Hannibal denied her the pleasure with the utmost grace.

"Exactly," she huffed back, a bit deflated. "Thank you."

Will could see it in her posture, her searching expression. Trauma had torn apart any chance of a normal childhood for her long before their escape. Now, it seemed, she was enjoying her teenage rebellion at the ripe old age of 21.

He wondered if he'd catch her sneaking from the liquor cabinet despite being well over the drinking age in Florence.

"It's cute," Will added, immediately second-guessing the word. He wasn't sure where it came from. "It suits you."

His two companions turned to him with mirrored curiosity. Astonishing, how well they mimicked each other despite not being remotely related.

Her shoulders slumped a little at Will taking Hannibal's approach, her tone almost bratty. "I like it."

Hannibal smiled at her with dark eyes, a predator perched behind a white-picket fence. No rush, no impulsiveness held at bay. Reminding her (and, by extension, Will) that he would never be outplayed. He would allow this, but he would not forget it.

Abigail suppressed a shiver as he stood.

"Now, then," he offered, "who would like dessert?"

They both felt the blade of it pressed to their throats, and knew they'd be asking for seconds.

"I hate it."

"I'm well aware."

"I shouldn't. I don't want to."

"And yet."

"Yeah. Fucking… and yet."

Hannibal's foot bobbed idly as Will paced the bedroom like he planned to dig a path clean through the floorboards. Abigail was downstairs watching television, likely falling asleep on the plush couch the way she'd done so often in the months before she left for school, and he knew Will couldn't stand it.

"Darling," Hannibal sighed, watching him with a mix of pity and understanding. "She is not a child any longer. We cannot control her."

A snort, derisive and thin. "You're implying we ever could?"

Hannibal's face softened; point, Will. "We knew this could happen. She's exploring her independence. Testing her boundaries."

Will ran his hands over his face, tipping his head back in admitted frustration as Hannibal tracked him across the room. It was too delicious, really.

"I know," Will groaned into his palm. "On the surface, I know that. It's just a damn piercing; it's not like she got a face tattoo."

"Certainly not," Hannibal agreed. "Any tattoos she has are likely covered up by her wardrobe. She's always been a fairly modest dresser."

Will froze, his pace shattered. He stared at Hannibal open-mouthed, disbelieving. The older man simply smiled back up at him with catlike mirth.

"Don't," Will cut back, walking closer to where his monster sat. "Do not do that."

"Do what, my love?"

Hannibal could smell the panic rolling off him in waves, the scent of something darker, like bitter chocolate, teasing at the edges.

"I don't want to think about that," Will spat, rolling his shoulders like he was trying to shake off an unwelcome urge.

"Are you upset that she didn't ask permission, or that she allowed someone else to mark her?"

Will's eyes were fiery things, roiling with an enchanting mix of anger and self-loathing. He was clearly being pulled apart by guilt at his reaction. Hannibal savored it, committing the tense line of his jaw to memory.

"That's not… fuck, Han, I know I'm being ridiculous, okay?"

Hannibal extended a hand, finding Will's hip to steady him. He turned the boy so they were facing each other, Will shuffling awkwardly between his ankles at the foot of the bed. It always poured calm over Will to be anchored by touch. Not enough to wash this distress away entirely, Hannibal knew, but enough to keep him from spiraling too far from shore.

"Will," he said, voice low and smooth. "We are her fathers, not by blood in the traditional sense, but by trust and circumstance. We must support her, or she will find someone else to fill that role."

Will's eyes betrayed his panic at the thought. "You really think she would? We… we helped her escape the country. Gave her a whole new identity, a second chance—"

"…That she is now taking full advantage of," Hannibal reminded him, thumb stroking Will's palm. "This is what we wanted for her. Freedom. Choice."

A deep, reluctant sigh punched the air from Will's chest. He nodded weakly, sinking to his knees to lay his head on Hannibal's thigh. Clever fingers combed through the roots of his curls, soothing and praising him in turn. It was almost too easy when Will did the work for him.

"You're right," Will grumbled, leaning into the touch. "I won't be a dick about it. It really is… god, I don't know why I said 'cute.'"

He didn't believe the words, that much was obvious, but he was trying. Hannibal had to give him that.

"Fatherhood is a relatively new venture for both of us," Hannibal mused, petting Will into a languid puddle at his feet. "There are bound to be stumbles."

Will hummed against the warmth of his clothed thigh, not entirely convinced, yet happy to be soothed. His hair would be a wild mess after this, but Hannibal knew he didn't care. He was well-versed in the instrument of his beloved.

"Would you like a distraction, darling?"

Will's neck rolled slowly, stubble grazing off wool as he processed the shift in the air. He glanced up with hazy confusion; not at the offer, but the timing.

"Now?"

Hannibal nodded, petting him gently. Drawing him down.

"If you like. I know how it helps calm you."

"Han," Will croaked, voice sinking to a nervous whisper even as his gaze flicked to Hannibal's groin. "She's right downstairs."

"So she is. So she was, in the many months before she left for school, and when she has returned between semesters."

Will made a sound, a strained mewl that tugged at Hannibal's careful restraint. His complexion was a lovely shade of burnished rose, ears coloring to match. He had already agreed, whether he'd allow himself to admit it or not.

"I…"

Hannibal's palm cupped his jaw, traced the line of his neck. Soothing and guiding.

"Allow me to give you this, Will. To clear your mind of all this restless wandering."

Will was sinking already, anger replaced so efficiently with obedience. It had taken time to build these associations, but oh, how it paid off.

"I… okay," Will sighed, drawing his lower lip into his mouth before following Hannibal's hand closer.

He played at reluctance, but Hannibal could smell the piquant fragrance of arousal sparking hot beneath Will's sour, nervous sheen of sweat. They'd been here before, and would return again. It was a relief, he knew, for his lover to let go. To hand over the keys and simply acquiesce.

"Lovely. Lift up a little — that's it. Mouth open, my love. That's a good boy."

He knew Will could hear the zipper parting its jaws, even if through a fog. A murmur of apology, either for his resistance or the thoughts that led them here, passed over his lips before they were occupied.

"Perfect," Hannibal whispered, reveling in what was and what would be in the days to come. In the slick slide of Will's mouth, lax in the wake of his fury.

Downstairs, he hoped Abigail wasn't sleeping at all.

The next morning, it all went to hell.

He wasn't looking. That is, he wasn't intending to look, not even on a subconscious level. Of this, he was reasonably convinced. Ergo, it wasn't his fault. He wasn't some hideous lech, hovering at the door of his would-be daughter's bedroom while she changed. That wasn't him; not how he saw himself, nor how he was.

He loved Abigail. Those things just didn't occur to him.

Until they did.

It was right before breakfast, the scent of cinnamon rousing him as it wafted up from the kitchen. He and Abigail had both slept late — a luxury for her outside of her class schedule, a gift to Will from his other half. He'd thrown one of Hannibal's robes on over his pajamas, padding down the hallway loudly enough that she should've heard him coming.

He isn't reasonably convinced she didn't.

"Abi, what do we think? Is it waffles, or—"

Her door was open. He remembers that clearly, the light spilling over the hardwood from her room like an invitation. He can't be blamed, then, for answering. He was even rubbing sleep from his eyes with the heel of his hand as he announced his presence, giving her an extra moment to react.

"Jesus, dad!"

A flash; the overhead lamp glancing off a fleck of smooth gold once and then twice. A blink, if that. He barely had time to register the sight of daylight haloing her silhouette before she dove for her shirt and chucked a slipper at the already-closing door.

"Abigail, shit, I'm so sorry, I—"

It was an accident. He had to be sure of that, or none of it made sense. She hadn't heard him, or she'd been distracted. She wasn't used to waking up here. One of those things needed to be true.

"Oh my god, go away!" she snapped back from inside, trill with mortification.

Will grimaced with his whole face. He hadn't meant to. He didn't want that, not at all, but there it was already, playing in his mind on a frantic loop.

A blink. Gold, gleaming small and clean like a knife in the dark against the blush pink of... stuck through Abigail's chest, through her—

"I'm sorry," he repeated, hating the word for how weak it sounded. "The door was open!"

"Whatever! God! I'll… be down in a minute!"

The distress in her tone dumped ice water down his spine, a desperate feeling of failure that was nearly intolerable. Abigail had endured so much. She trusted them, he and Hannibal, at least not to cross those wires.

It had never been a challenge. Not until now.

He practically tripped down the stairs in his haste to escape, bounding towards Hannibal as if the man's presence could save him.

"Will?" came the inquiry, Hannibal turning primly in his apron to discover his companion wild-eyed and breathless. He sharpened instantly with concern. "What's the matter?"

Will opened his mouth, but the words wouldn't come. He must have looked insane, frayed at the edges with guilt, but admitting to the last five minutes outpaced his abilities.

"Oh, Han," he managed at last, "I fucked up."

The sight of Will was as caffeinating as the mug waiting on the sideboard. He was all out of sorts, incoherent with nerves.

Gorgeous.

"How did you 'fuck up,' my love?"

Hannibal observed with great interest the way Will took a breath and exhaled to steady himself. One hand on the counter, one fidgeting with the tie of the robe. He hadn't seen his beloved like this in quite some time. It was rather refreshing.

Will's expression was pleading even as he clawed himself back together. Hannibal offered him the cup, steadying his hands in the process.

"I…" he started, brows furrowed so deeply it must have hurt. "She's got—"

"Morning! Oh, wow, what IS that?"

Will nearly jumped out of his skin when Abi came strolling in, casual as you please, to inspect the stove. She was dressed now in sweats with her school's emblem on the hip and a giant sweater she must have pilfered from Hannibal's closet. Covered entirely, save for the fading, angry scar across her throat. Even her shorter hair, which skimmed along her shoulders, did little to disguise it in the absence of her signature scarf.

Hannibal grinned without turning toward her. "That, my dear, needs someone clever to mince garlic for it."

He kept his hold on Will's trembling hands, stroking them with his thumbs as she brightened and leapt for the drawers to seek out the proper tool. Hannibal was tempted, briefly, to let the cup drop and shatter; he dismissed it just as quickly. Burning his beloved would ruin the weekend and, in truth, the metaphor felt a bit too heavy-handed for that early in the day.

So, with a reassuring squint that told Will we'll talk later and a gentle bicep squeeze, he wandered over to his sous chef.

"Very good. You insist you've been living off cafeteria gruel, but your form has improved."

She tried not to beam, but glowing had always been in her nature.

"One of the guys in the dorms across campus does a dinner club thing," she announced shyly. "I couldn't help showing off a little when it was my turn."

Hannibal's chest rose in response, a swell of pride. He gave a gentle press of his cheek to her temple before swiveling to tend to the burners.

"That's my girl," he praised, allowing himself the delicate satisfaction of refusing to watch her bloom with pink.

He felt Will's stare as it tried to bore into him, pleased that his lover was unaware it warmed him like gentle morning sun.

"She—she pierced them, Han. Both of them."

"Did she tell you that, Will?"

The pit of his stomach had already fallen out, yet it continued to drop. He'd resumed his pacing, babbling once more to a seated Hannibal at the end of the bed.

"No. That's what I tried to tell you. I—I saw it."

He thought he was braced for the disapproval, yet the first note of it sucked all the air from the room. A beast woken from slumber by the snap of a twig, ready to strike.

"Might I ask how that occurred, darling?"

His eyes were pits. Will was pinned by them; the lights of a precinct, a confessional. Raw and unreadable. For a moment, Will wondered if that was how Hannibal looked to his victims right before they lent themselves to an exquisite meal.

"I swear to god, it was an accident. Her door was opened. I knocked."

"Hmm," Hannibal pondered, his metaphorical knives tucked away with a shrug. "Are you positive?"

Will was shocked at the relief he felt in that slouch.

"Hannibal, am I—am I positive? I'm having a nervous breakdown. I know what I saw."

The older man sat back, propping himself up by his wrists on the mattress with one leg folded over the other.

"Well. It seems our Abigail is rather more adventurous than we thought."

"Christ," Will spat, wrenching his eyes closed as if to block out the very idea. "Don't—I did not want to know this."

"Why not?"

Will turned to him, split from his mania by the absurdity of the question.

"Why not? Because she's my— she's our—"

"Indeed," Hannibal nodded, too casually. "Yet she is also her own. This feels like an extension of yesterday's issue, n'est-ce pas?"

"N'est-ce—" Will balked, lips agape. "You can't 'detached-clinical-therapist' your way out of this, Doctor. Don't act like you're above being bothered that our daughter went back to college three months ago and came home with pierced nipples."

He spat out the words as if they left a nasty film on his tongue. He hated himself for how he was acting, but he couldn't seem to stop. Hannibal's nonchalance only served to rile him further.

"Unexpected, I'll admit," Hannibal granted. "Though it makes perfect sense. The scar at her neck represents a moment when her bodily autonomy was stolen from her; the choice to beautify herself through pain she could control must have felt quite empowering."

Will knew he was staring, but he was in genuine awe. How could he and Hannibal be so divided over this? Over her?

"Do you ever hear yourself?"

"My sweet William," Hannibal hummed, reaching for him across the disagreement. "Abigail is going through a phase, so to speak. Let us be grateful she didn't bring home a musician for the weekend. Or, God forbid, an athlete."

They both shuddered. Will allowed himself to be pulled closer against Hannibal's side, the fire inside him dimming even as it hissed and spat. He was being irrational, and he knew it. It had been an accident, one she clearly didn't care enough to bring up again. Hannibal wasn't bothered, so why should he be?

"Feels weird, that's all," he mumbled, already losing steam.

"I know," Hannibal agreed, massaging gently at Will's nape until his eyes fell closed. "But it won't do to fixate."

Will nodded, wanting to believe him. Wanting to believe he could shake off the picture of her, blue eyes so bright even in shadow as the daylight traced her form. Her chin, her shoulders, the pink line of her scar and all it represented. Then, unbidden, her chest; little golden lights, blinking just for him.

"Fuck," Will grunted, sick with himself.

"I know, Will, but denying ourselves the space to process these discomforts makes them a taboo. Taboo, combined with guilt, leads more often than not to associations we might not prefer to make."

Will groaned, low and pained. "I don't want to think about her like that."

"Of course you don't. She's family," Hannibal replied. "What about this has you so disturbed? Not on the surface, but underneath. Below the embarrassment and shame."

"I…" Will started, suddenly aware of creeping shadows in the corners of his mind. He tried to chase them away with a shake of his head. "I don't know. Just feels wrong."

"Wrong, how?"

"Wrong, like, she isn't meant to be… pierced. Damaged."

The second the word left his mouth, he grimaced. He could still taste her embarrassment.

"She is already damaged," Hannibal countered. "Inside and out."

Will bristled. "You know what I fucking mean."

"I do, but I believe you're missing a crucial piece. Why shouldn't she be allowed to modify herself as she sees fit? Has she not earned that right?"

That earned him a twitch of Will's jaw and another look of disbelief.

"Of course she has! That's not what I…"

"I fail to see the issue."

His refusal to engage crept under Will's skin, irritating, an itch that wouldn't settle. Hannibal was right, and that was by far the worst part.

"I don't…"

"Will," Hannibal began, "look at me. You know what I am. You've shared in the darkest parts of my nature. Do you truly think I would sit here and judge you for an errant thought?"

It shattered something below Will's ribs, nicking him from the inside out with tiny splinters of guilt. It shouldn't have. He knew that. Trusting Hannibal Lecter to gauge morality was, and always would be, a fool's errand.

Still, the placid calm of that face stole his anger.

"It's not… fuck, I don't know," he replied after a moment. His shoulders slouched, fury weakened and thin. "She just, she's so…"

"So?"

"Perfect," he exhaled, as rough as if it had been punched from his gut. Hannibal had robbed him of his resistance. The admission shocked him, its gravity dredging up more honesty with it. "So, I don't know. Innocent, despite everything. She didn't even paint her nails before, and now — Christ, I sound like some Bible Belt creep who thinks his daughter's his property."

Hannibal continued to massage his shoulders even as Will shivered and rubbed at his eyes.

"You feel responsible for her. Protective. It is difficult to separate elective body modification from the harm that was done to her."

"I… yeah," Will murmured, eyes darting as he processed the statement, panning it for resonance. The pink slash of her scar cut through his mind's eye; she rarely covered it at home. The one place she didn't have to hide. "Well, I mean — I guess so. That's part of it."

Hannibal hummed in agreement, reaching to rub at Will's wrist. Gentle circles, infinite patience, until his lover sighed into the touch.

When he spoke, he spoke in his most calming tone. "Combined with the undeniably sexual element of what she chose to pierce—"

Will missed his victorious little smirk as he burst up from the bed, casting off the embrace and the entire sentence with a wave of his arms.

"Fuck, no," he denied, tensing bodily. "I'm getting a shower. That's MORE than enough of that."

He may have pulled himself from Hannibal's grip, from the room, but the images plastering themselves across the walls of his imagination held fast even as he begged the shower to rinse them clean.

"It is only as illicit as you make it," Hannibal called, but Will refused to hear him.

If breakfast was bad, lunch was a disaster.

Abigail, seemingly hell-bent on ruining Will's life, was curled up on the couch studying with her hair clipped back when he entered the living room. Her school sweatpants remained, but now she lounged in a pale blue tank top that clung to her in ways that felt pointed.

"Hey, dad," she said without looking up, tapping a pen against her lower lip as she scanned the textbook in her lap. "What's up?"

Will froze in the doorway, shoving his hands in his pockets to keep them from twitching. He'd donned his usual outfit of jeans and a button-up, nothing too nice in preparation for helping Hannibal with dinner.

The house was warm, but according to the tiny, visible shadows on Abigail's chest, not quite warm enough.

Jesus Christ. He shut his eyes and bit the inside of his cheek, searing himself with loathing. When he opened them, she was staring.

"You okay?"

Since their escape from Baltimore, Will's empathy had taken a backseat. He could never turn it off, not entirely, but the relatively secluded life he and Hannibal lived in Florence meant that it wasn't constantly screaming the moods and inclinations of everyone around him.

Abigail was now, as she always had been, an exception to the rule. He could feel her awareness of his panic, a calculation that was cold and many-layered. She had always been terribly clever, something he loved about her, but now it seemed focused entirely on disarming him.

She was doing this on purpose.

"I'm, yeah," he swallowed, processing the information like trying to hold onto a handrail in a storm swell. "Just coming down to, um, check on lunch."

She shifted, then, and he didn't imagine the way her chest jutted out slightly as she went. He looked away, then cursed himself for being so obvious about it. He dragged his gaze back to the glint of her nose stud, then briefly to the mottled flesh where her ear used to lie. To the left of what remained, her blue eyes were wide with guarded, feline interest.

"I think he's keeping it simple," she mused, head tilting just enough for the light to ghost across her scar. Will's toes curled in his socks. He'd taught her to fish far too well. "Dinner's the formal affair."

Will stamped out the wince before it manifested, but not before it curled sour in his stomach. He looked to the window for a distraction, noting the gray din settling over the lawn. He hummed noncommittally. November was always soaked in Florence; they'd been lucky the day before, but a storm was well on its way.

"I'm gonna see if he needs anything," he said to the wall, rocking on his heels.

"Sounds good," Abigail answered, turning back to her book with a shrug. "Just gotta finish this chapter, then I'm all yours."

Will took a moment, eyes closed, to recenter himself before heading for the kitchen. He was halfway out the door when her voice caught him.

"Oh, Will?"

A pause. "Yeah, Abi?"

When he looked at her, he saw a predator's gleam between blinks of her long, dark lashes.

"Could you grab my sweater from my room? It's chilly in here."

Her smile was a trap, as was the way she absently rubbed the line of her scar with the heel of her pen. Will swallowed again, mirror neurons firing with enough speed to split him apart.

"Y-eah," he replied, furious at the break in his voice. He lowered his head, scratching the back of his neck. "Sure. I'll start a fire, too. Looks like it's gonna rain."

He almost felt like he'd recovered until she beamed at him, nose stud glinting in off the lamplight.

"Thanks, daddy."

Will had never climbed the stairs so fast in his life.

"She's doing it on purpose."

Hannibal watched him from the corner of his eye as he plated the charcuterie and uncorked the white for their 'simple' lunch. Thanksgiving was the excuse for the reunion, and he'd compromised with a slightly homesick Will on the menu, but that didn't mean boiled potatoes and pasta salad. His take on dinner — filling enough to check off Will's nostalgic boxes without leaving them too stuffed to enjoy their brief time together — would eat up most of the afternoon.

"Will. I believe you may be projecting."

He could feel the younger man stiffen in response and enjoyed a warm thrum of satisfaction. They spoke in whispers even though Abigail had retreated upstairs to shower.

"I'm not. I swear, Hannibal. I looked at her and I saw intent."

Hannibal paused, affecting a look of consideration. Showing Will that he wasn't ignoring the concern. Seeding trust.

"You're certain she wasn't simply toying with you?"

Will sank to the counter by his elbows, head in hands. "Oh, she was toying with me, all right." He rose up, pacing again as he gesticulated. "Got me on the hook just to watch me squirm."

Hannibal hummed as he formed the cured meats into lovely rosettes. "Perhaps our young Abigail has developed a taste for pushing boundaries. I wonder what she's been exploring with her classmates... or instructors."

Will's pacing froze again. "What is wrong with you?"

The smile lived entirely in Hannibal's chest, held back for a moment alone. He pulled the soft cheese into petals as he spoke.

"Apologies. I often forget the stringent American sensibilities towards sex."

"Hannibal, she is American."

A gentle raise of brows, a consideration of the display. "Yet here she is, blossoming and experimenting in Europe much like I did as a young man."

He could feel the strangled panic in Will's tone as he dappled pomegranate seeds along the border of the cherry wood.

"Hannibal," he croaked, pleading for belief, "she's flirting with me."

Finally, Hannibal stopped, turning to his counterpart with manicured softness.

"She is testing you," he said, firm as a diagnosis, "in the way young people are wont to with authority. You are her father, yet not. Her guardian, yet a killer who both saved and damned her. Protector and monster alike."

He let that hover in the air while Will began to retreat, examining every piece of the evidence. Wiping his hands, Hannibal moved closer.

"On top of that, you are devilishly handsome."

Will balked at the mischievous grin and sudden proximity. He went beet red in the span of a breath.

"Hannibal."

The doctor didn't flinch. Instead, he raised a hand, tucking an errant curl behind Will's ear. "Were I in her position, I'm sure I would be tempted."

Despite the absurdity, heat flared in the quiet space between them. Embarrassment and arousal spiced the air again. Hannibal drank it in with a peaceful grin.

"Would you tell me to behave?" he asked, voice dropping to a whisper of silk over steel. "To be good for you… daddy?"

Hannibal dropped the last word like a rock in a still pond, sending a horrified, panicked shudder up Will's spine. His beautiful face contorted with disgust as he shut his eyes in protest, knuckles ghastly white where they gripped the countertop.

"Stop it," he begged weakly, jaw set against the deep furrow of his brow.

"What matters," Hannibal continued, tracing the line of tension to Will's throat, "is how you respond."

Will shuddered, lashes fanning across his cheeks before he shook his head violently and stepped out from where he'd been crowded against the counter. The subtle strain of his zipper did not escape Hannibal's notice.

"You're fucked, both of you," he snapped, though the back of his neck was as pink as the rest of him.

"You may inform her that lunch is ready," Hannibal trilled after him, pleased as goddamned punch.

To Abigail, dinner was a triumph.

Hannibal managed to elevate all the trappings of a traditional holiday meal without sacrificing a hint of the flavor or comfort one might expect. She didn't ask who made up the roast — if it was, in fact, a who at all — too distracted by the intricately woven tapestry of spice and sweetness.

Will's fidgety attempt at pleasant conversation was the proverbial cherry on top.

"How is it?" he'd asked after she'd hummed giddily around a forkful of delicate, crumbly apple something. "Good as back home?"

Her eyes flashed his way as she leaned forward on one elbow to collect her wine. The dress she'd chosen for the evening, a lovely, midnight blue gift courtesy of the Lecter estate, sat off her shoulders in a daringly grown-up silhouette. Not sheer enough to expose what she wasn't wearing beneath it; she couldn't be that obvious. The lack of straps did the talking for her.

"Better," she grinned, tracing the lip of the glass with one painted nail before scenting it, as she'd been taught. "Hardly fair to compare anyone's kitchen to Hannibal's, though."

She sipped from the glass with a wink. She was playing fire and she knew it, but she was eager to see how hot it burned. Will mirrored the swallow reflexively, averting his gaze to seek sanctuary in his own cup.

Gorgeous.

"You're too kind," Hannibal preened, civility worn like a crown around his swollen head. "It isn't often I have occasion to cook for three."

She would've laughed, if it weren't such a risk. Instead, she offered a shy smile, dipping her head politely in his direction. The glittering stud at her nostril must've caught the candlelight; she felt Will flinch from across the table. It was that, or the clip she'd worn in her hair that exposed part of her ear and all of her jagged scar.

"Happy to be your excuse to indulge," she grinned, coy as ever. Hannibal's expression shifted by fractions; careful, darling.

She dropped her gaze before shifting it back to Will, lightening her tone.

"How about you? How does it compare to good old down-home Southern cooking?"

He must've been in pain, he was strung up so tight. "I miss the cornbread dressing," he admitted, "but, y'know. Can't complain otherwise."

The attempt at a friendly grin was candy to her. "My great-aunt used to make green bean casserole. Mom hated cleaning the cast-iron."

Will's smile was feeble, though the fondness beneath was genuine. She could see him aching for what he'd taken away. Grateful as she was for this life, she hated the glimpses of pity.

"She died when I was eight," Abigail assured him. "Heart attack on a cruise."

When Will fell short of a response, Hannibal steered the conversation with typical grace.

"Abigail, tell us about your classes. How are you faring with Ancient Greek?"

"I endure," she replied in the language, sitting back with a sigh. "Professore Ruberti seems to have it out for me, though."

As she and Hannibal fell into discussion about her classes and plans for the next semester, dipping into and out of Italian she knew Will could only partly follow, she watched the younger of her guardians from the corner of her eye. He joined in where he could, aware that it would be unkind to sit in silence, but his mind was clearly elsewhere.

On her, she knew. The thought had her buzzing, animated from more than just the wine. Will was struggling through the thorny maze of a complex, torturous, devastating series of moments planted with the sort of care only a killer raised by killers could devise. Across from her, because of her, a man was coming undone.

She wondered if this was how Hannibal felt when his victims realized there was no hope of escape. Under the table, her thighs squeezed gently together.

"Dad," she said suddenly, the word directed at Will causing him to sit up with a start. "Help me with the dishes?"

Hannibal, the bastard, didn't even protest. He simply turned to his partner and grinned blankly in wait. Will gave him a look, a hopeless clutch for mercy. He found nothing but patient expectation.

Will clicked his tongue and sighed. Abigail's head swam with excitement.

"Yeah," he sighed, realizing he was outmatched. "Sure."

"Very gracious of you," Hannibal smiled, enjoying Will's begrudging rise to his feet.

Abigail could've kicked or kissed him.

She still had time to decide.

"You can ask about it, you know."

Will tensed from neck to ankle as she passed him a plate to dry, nearly dropping it in the process.

"Ask… what?" he stumbled, cursing himself for the hundredth time that day.

His shirt was too warm, his mouth too dry. He'd dressed nicely for dinner, in jeans but one of the button-ups Hannibal had gifted him. Now, the tailored fit was claustrophobic.

The elbow-length gloves Abigail wore for washing up squeaked as she scrubbed carefully at a goblet. "The nose ring. You keep staring at it."

Will's exhale was too relieved, and he knew it. "I'm… it's not a big deal," he lied.

Her chest rose and fell quickly with the smallest huff of laughter. "Come on. I know you, Will. I know your tells."

His posture tightened again as he took the glass, all his focus on banishing any streaks from it. "…I was surprised, that's all."

He could feel her watching him like a heat lamp at his side, but couldn't face it. It prickled all the fine hairs on his neck and sent goosebumps up his arms.

"Why does it bother you?"

His grip on the fork he was drying tightened. "It's fine."

"You're a bad liar."

Will's teeth found the inside of his lower lip and sunk in to maintain composure.

"It was unexpected, I guess. But you're right, you're allowed to do what you want with your... You're an adult. Sometimes I forget that."

She hummed thoughtfully. "Is that you talking, or Dr. Lecter?"

His throat clenched as he caught a glimpse of himself in one of the knives. "Either way, he's right."

"Of course he is," Abigail smirked, rinsing a set of salad forks and setting them on Will's side. Her arm brushed his in the process, too close to be accidental. "He's a professional."

The heat of her against his side was excruciating. He wanted this to be done with, to escape to the quiet of their bedroom and pace frantically until Hannibal came up and… helped calm him down.

The goosebumps returned. No. He did not need to think about that right now. He screwed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to re-center, but all he could see was pale skin and tiny sparks of gold and—

"Abigail," he shuddered, her name a quiet plea. "You have to stop."

The squeak of her gloves and soft rhythm of water paused. His eyes stayed closed as his hands found the edge of the counter. She was watching, burning him with attention. Close enough that he could smell her lilac shampoo over the faint lemon of dish soap.

"Stop what, dad?"

He inhaled between clenched teeth, stuck in fight or flight. The sound of her snapping off her gloves rattled around his skull and sent him shivering.

"This… whatever you're doing," he gritted out. "It's enough."

The air in the kitchen grew still enough that the drip of the tap echoed in his pulse. When Abigail didn't respond right away, he let his eyes drift open just enough to see his own hands trembling.

And then, she pressed herself against his arm. Not much, but enough to feel the pebbled rise of her nipple and a hint of the metal bracketing it. His chest rose sharply; he should move, he needed to move, but he couldn't even breathe.

Pressing closer, lifting slowly onto her tiptoes so she could hook her chin over his rigid shoulder, she spoke with the same controlled evenness as Hannibal did when trying to draw Will down into that languid, suggestible state.

"What is it that I'm doing, daddy?"

The word was deployed with the same precise violence as it had been from Hannibal earlier that day. Will's response was instinctive, uncontrollable. He lurched in place, knees nearly buckling with the force of it.

"F-fuck, Abi—"

He felt tight enough to shatter, sweat gathering under his arms, beneath his palms. He trembled with the effort of trying to bolt, to stop this before it worsened. Hannibal was in the next room. Abigail was his— this couldn't—

"You're so tense," she purred, snaking one manicured arm around to squeeze at his bicep just as Hannibal had done on the porch the day before. "Don't you ever relax? Let go?"

She shifted, and the swell of her breasts dragged the unseen piercings along his side, up his back. It didn't matter that they were both clothed; her nipples were hard, so hard, and the darkest part of him ached to catch them between his teeth and punish them for torturing him so cruelly.

"Abigail—"

"Hush," she murmured, lips close enough to brush his neck. "Hannibal knows how to quiet all those racing thoughts, doesn't he?"

A strangled, grotesque noise rose in Will's throat. Panic. This wasn't happening. It couldn't be. Why couldn't he move?

"I could hear you, you know," she grinned, both hands sliding up his chest to frame his pecs. He was taller than her; the grip helped her stay up on her toes. "Last night. You were so upset."

"Please," was all he could say, voice painfully small.

She ignored it. Instead, she gripped the swell of muscle, middle fingers too-expertly finding his own nipples through the fabric as hers pressed into his back. He gasped, teeth clenched as his cock lurched in his jeans. No. He had to stop this, had to—

"It helps, doesn't it? When he tells you what to do?"

More pained noises tore their way from his lips as his cock continued to fill out against the counter. She was crowding him in, overpowering him despite her smaller stature and the scraps of morality left in Will screaming for him to end it.

"I can't… Abigail, this isn't…"

The hatred he felt for himself was a wildfire, roaring out of control, consuming him where he stood. Despite it, or because of it, he felt himself arching into the touch. Her index and middle finger teased the hardening peaks, rolling in tight circles until he was panting.

"It helps me," she whispered against his neck, drawing her nose softly up the line of his jaw, "when someone does what they're told."

Something in that broke the spell. Shaking, nearly seizing, he jerked himself free from her hold and began retreating backwards.

"No. Stop," he snapped, waving his arms shakily as he backed towards the door. "Whatever it is you want from me, I can't—"

"Can't what, daddy?"

The sight of her was devastating; he'd rarely seen her so alive and present. No longer a girl drifting in the current of her fate, but a young woman in control of it. Her lips and cheeks were pink, her dress slightly rumpled from where she'd drawn herself against him, but her hawk-like focus would not be deterred. She'd folded her arms behind her back in a mockery of manners, and all that exposed decolletage was somehow less seductive than her faint, knowing smirk.

He couldn't see them through the dress, but there was no forgetting them, either.

Her scar. Her ear. Her malice.

Then—

"It seems our dear Will is having a crisis of faith," came a voice at his back, and then, like the final piece clicking into place, it all made sense.

Of course. Of course.

"You… oh, fuck you both," Will groaned, overcome with exhausted, aching disbelief. He slumped in place, mouth agape at the wretched understanding.

"There it is," Hannibal smirked, arriving behind Will like a ghost. "Clever boy. You've found us out."

Abigail's brutal gaze sparkled as it met Hannibal's over Will's shoulder. The corner of her mouth tilted up conspiratorially. She gave him a nod without looking away. Hannibal, at her behest, wrapped his arms firmly around Will's torso before the younger man could dash away and hide.

He wasn't, though. Wasn't even trying. Why wasn't he trying?

"I hope you'll forgive us our little game," Hannibal said, low and hypnotic. "When I noticed the facial piercing in one of her photos earlier this fall, I couldn't help inquiring."

He was watching Abigail; Will could feel their shared excitement at his distress. Two predators working in tandem for the kill. He'd seen the trap, but not how well it was laid.

"He was so helpful," Abigail smirked, nearly bouncing on her heels. "Gave me all kinds of advice about the healing process, didn't you?"

Will felt the world was breaking apart beneath him. He was nearly limp in Hannibal's arms, undone by the betrayal. Arms were locked in place, he was unable to do anything but twitch and claw at air.

His cock, however, had not softened in the least.

"Couldn't let our darling girl risk infection," Hannibal agreed. His voice at Will's nape was a drug, more potent from all the nights spent conditioning his beloved to sink into it. "Once we got to talking about the various ways one reclaims their autonomy…"

"Never would've considered it," Abigail shrugged, hideously pleased. "He can be very persuasive, can't he?"

The words jogged something in Will, and he stiffened.

"He made you do that?"

Abigail paused for a second, eyes wide, until she burst into a fit of giggles and shook her head.

"Oh, no. It was my idea, he just helped me find a decent place to do it. Talked me through the aftermath. Once they'd healed up, he—" she bit her lip, giving Hannibal a look that managed to be both childlike and deeply twisted. "Can I show him?"

Hannibal nodded over Will's shoulder. He repositioned himself with ease, one arm still holding the younger man firm while his other hand began stroking through dampening, tangled curls. Will whimpered, knowing the sensation would only undo him further.

It would, because Hannibal had trained him.

"Of course, sweetheart. He barely caught a glimpse this morning; it seems only fair."

"No, no," Will heard himself mumbling, head beginning to shake even as he tracked Abigail stepping toward him with a rush of heat. "No. Don't—"

Her head tilted as she watched him shiver and sweat. There was no mercy in her; mild concern, maybe, but not enough to stop the inevitable.

"Please, Abi. This isn't… I love you," he begged, even as he felt the unmistakable shock of wetness leaking from him, soaking into his boxers. "Don't make me a monster."

Then she was right in front of him, looking up with those big baby blues and a small, deceptively innocent smile. No longer the lure, but a dagger, sharp and ready.

"I love you too," she blinked, and she meant it. Affection shone through her scheming, but it offered no hope. His heart sank as she raised a hand to stroke the other side of his jaw. "But, you were already a monster. Before me. After me. Still."

He whined again, pitch raising as he felt the unmistakable line of Hannibal's arousal swelling against him. When he spoke, it was a broken plea.

"I don't want to be that kind of monster."

Her brows knit in mock offense, stepping back just enough that he could see her entirely. Lip pouted, she began to peel the thin sleeves down from where they sat at her deceptively toned biceps.

"But what if I want you to be that kind of monster?"

Will's inhale rattled, his nostrils flaring. Slowly, so slowly, Abigail began to inch down the top of her dress. He keened, shooting Hannibal a begging glance over his shoulder. It was met with pleasant, merciless delight.

Will hated how good it felt. He hated that they knew.

"Please," he tried.

In lieu of a response, Hannibal's free hand slid from Will's hair down his chest to his belt — then lower, and lower still, until he was cupping the hard heat beneath all that denim. Will cried out, pitiful and hot with shame as he bucked into the grip. Tears began to form at the corners of his eyes.

"Look at her," Hannibal instructed, causing Will's body to hitch. He stroked up and down the line of Will's cock, toying with the button. "She wants you to see."

He didn't want to. He would've sworn he didn't want to on any text, any god, but Hannibal rose above their jurisdiction. His voice at Will's ear was gospel.

"Please, daddy," Abigail whispered, and Will could do nothing but hiss as he rutted against Hannibal's hand.

Hiss, and then look.

"Oh, god."

The low, warm light of the kitchen limned her in gold as she drew the neckline of her dress down, letting it catch on her nipples before revealing them to her captive audience. Will's breath caught in his throat, mouth going dry. She looked down at them, then up at him, waiting.

"Well?" she asked, demure as a wolf in the night. "Do you like them?"

He'd been right that they were gold, but the details were what unmade him. The bars through each nipple were shaped like tiny, delicate bows, one loop per side, as if the peaks themselves were a gift just for him.

He groaned. When that wasn't answer enough, Hannibal's grip tightened.

"Ff-fuck," he gasped out, shoulders jutting forwards before he fell back against Hannibal's chest. "They're… fuck, Abi…"

Her name was almost a whine. The sound, and Will's surely pathetic expression, brightened her grin nearly to bursting. Sadist, he thought, though it wasn't a firm enough critique. There was a sick twist of pride in it, too.

She licked her lower lip, looking at him from under her lashes. Her cheeks were pink.

"Hannibal got them for me," she preened, lifting her fingers to tease at them. Will's cock throbbed with it, mind melting down into something animal with each touch. "Bit girly, I suppose, but he thought you'd like them."

Will whimpered in protest, feverish with want and shame. Hannibal never stopped touching, stroking, nuzzling against his neck. He locked up as Abigail stepped closer, but he knew, at his core, that he wouldn't try to escape.

Blinking her doll lashes, her predator's camouflage, she offered him a wicked little smile.

"Do you want to touch them?"

The sound that grew from his chest was obscene. Needy, sick, hungry. Desperate. He tried to speak, but could only shiver. His hands were going numb from the vice-grip around his middle.

"Use your words, Will," came Hannibal's voice at his ear. "Don't leave our girl waiting."

Will's lips parted, language a distant hope. He heard himself trying, but nothing came. She gave him an exaggerated pout, then reached for one of his hands. A silent agreement between her and Hannibal as he released it; sharp tingles rushed back to his fingers as she drew them to her chest.

As she went, Hannibal finally loosed the button and unzipped Will's jeans. He made pathetic, utterly overwhelmed sounds of protest that even he couldn't begin to believe as she placed his fingertips against her flesh. At the same moment, Hannibal's broad, strong hand slipped beneath his waistband and circled his cock.

"Oh, fuck—" he gasped, the hesitant, whisper-soft touch of his fingers evolving into a possessive, greedy squeeze of Abigail's chest. Her sharp sound of delight and surprise did nothing to ease the oppressive weight of Will's need.

He looked up at her through shiny, watery eyes, ready to beg forgiveness.

But he hadn't let go, and her face was glittering with anticipation.

He hadn't let go, and he didn't want to.

"Abigail," he breathed, a plea for permission clawing its way up through mountains of guilt. A question that already had an answer.

"Yes," she answered, small and sweet, nearly innocent.

She wrapped her hand around his, nodding with encouragement, guiding him to squeeze tighter. In unison, Hannibal stroked him, thumbing through Will's slit to gather wetness and ease the way.

"Oh, Christ," Will babbled, rocking his ass back against the older of his tormentors. When he lifted his head, his eyes had gone dark.

"Abi," he growled.

Something had changed.

She bit down a shriek as he yanked her to him, tongue and teeth finding a peaked nipple before he even noticed his other hand had been freed. Hannibal still held him around the middle, working his cock, but now Will had ten fingers to grip Abigail's perfect soft skin and direct it where it needed to go.

Around her hips. Circling her small, pert breasts. Playing with those torturous, perfect little bows until she gasped.

"Oh, god, yes, yes—" Abigail sighed, giddy and buzzing with pleasure as finally, finally, Will broke. Hannibal make something like a moan, as if he felt the exact moment all resistance dropped away.

"Fucking, evil," Will hissed, but otherwise his mouth was occupied. "Both of you."

"Yes, yes," Abigail moaned, her disbelief only spurring him on.

"And isn't it glorious," Hannibal mouthed at his neck, sucking a bruise into his shoulder that made him throb.

Will's hands were everywhere — mapping Abigail, pressing color into her hips. The hand pumping his cock had destabilized him. He was a creature of need, of their making. He didn't ask if it was safe for him to bite at her nipples or pull the jewelry with his teeth. She'd stop him, if she had to. Until then, she and Hannibal had unleashed a hunger he no longer cared to control.

You want this? he thought. Then take it.

It was Will who spun them, lifting Abigail onto the counter like she weighed nothing. Will, who pinched one swollen bud while he sucked at the other until her head fell back and her legs spread around him. Will, who lifted her dress up around her waist and groaned when he found her bare, wet, and wanting.

"Fuck, baby girl," he groaned into her neck. "Can I taste you?"

The hope in his voice was only outmatched by the desperation. He was holding back from her scar, his breath trickling over it. It made Abigail whine and nod, so very eager.

"Yes. Yes, please."

Hannibal was still at his back when Will sank to his knees. It must've forced them to lock eyes; Will heard a shared intake of breath as his palms gripped Abigail's thighs and parted them. He felt, for the first time that night, powerful.

He tried to say something about how beautiful she was, he really did. So wet, so trusting, so needy. Instead, he inhaled her greedily and pressed his tongue right where she needed it.

"Oh, god—!"

Will lapped at her like a man dying of thirst. The second he tasted her, he forgot dinner entirely. It had been years since he'd done this to a woman, but it had never been like this. She was so painfully, perfectly sweet.

"How is it, my love?" Hannibal asked from somewhere above and behind him. He couldn't tell who the question was for, so he ignored it.

"So, oh my god, you were right," she gasped out. "He's so good."

Hannibal had stopped stroking Will when he'd switched tracks. Between breaths, Will's ear caught a zipper opening, and the familiar slick sound of his other half stroking himself to the sight.

He grinned into Abigail's cunt, then drew her clit into his mouth and sucked.

"Oh, oh, Hannibal, I—"

"Not yet, darling. Savor it. You mustn't reward him too quickly."

"But, he's, I'm—"

"Let's see if we can't make it a bit more challenging for him, mm?"

Will almost broke away to ask what that meant, but then Hannibal was pulling him up by the hips until he was bent in half, and the answer was obvious.

He groaned against her wetness as his jeans and boxers were peeled down to his thighs. Two could play at that game; he shoved Abigail backward so he could brace his elbows on the counter, lifting her thighs to spread her wider as she fell back across the island.

"Good boy," Hannibal praised.

Will's forgotten cock pulsed against his stomach. He stepped out of his jeans at a tap to his calf, letting Hannibal do the work. He brought two fingers to Abigail's entrance, teasing until she bucked before slipping inside. She was writhing in seconds, so slippery against him, so tight, her hands finding his curls just for something to hold onto.

He might've lost himself in it completely if not for Hannibal's hands spreading him apart, using his tongue without mercy to work Will open.

"Oh, fuck—!" he heard Abigail gasp.

He didn't know if it was the sight, or the feeling, or simply knowing what was coming, but he couldn't disagree with the sentiment. His muffled sounds against her clit were all he could manage as two slick fingers began to stretch him wide. Soon, he and Abigail were keening, begging in unison.

"Are you g-going to fuck him?" she asked, and Will allowed a moment of pride for her struggle.

"Yes," Hannibal answered simply, though his voice was rough with desire. "And he, in turn, is going to see how much you can take."

When that clicked into place in Will's head, he could've fainted. He didn't, though — not even when Hannibal withdrew his fingers and his heavy, thick cock finally pushed inside.

"There," he cooed, sighing with relief at the ragged groan and finally being seated inside Will. "Isn't that better, love? Doesn't she deserve to know how it feels to be stretched wide, filled until there's nothing left that isn't you?"

Will had slowed down; not entirely, but Hannibal's girth always pulled a bit of focus. Now, he moaned open-mouthed and imprecise at Abigail's cunt, lost to the overwhelm. He was going fuzzy, his untouched cock leaking freely, and that just wouldn't do.

"Up," Hannibal directed, and then Will was pressed flat against Hannibal's bared chest.

When had he stripped? Oh, well. Hannibal unbuttoned and peeled Will's shirt off with brisk expertise, likely enjoying the glazed look of confusion on his lover's face. Just as efficiently, the older man maneuvered them both closer to the counter. He drew Abigail to Will by the knees, tucking them to either side of his hips.

"Oh," she gasped, flushed and pink and perfect as she sat up on her elbows to face them.

She was stunning. Blinking rapidly, breath shallow, her hair fell back from her shoulders in soft curtains that exposed all that pale, lovely skin Will had, until yesterday, never needed to promise himself not to think about.

But her scar; oh, her scar. That, he had built steel walls around in his mind. His lips parted as the rise of it caught the light; that violent slash, still pink despite the years and distance. He'd held it when it was a newly opened mouth, too hungry to close. The sense memory of that endless gush of warmth spilling between his fingers made them twitch.

Wet. Sticky. The way she'd convulsed, the way he thought he'd lost her. The way she arched now, too like that day.

They were talking over his shoulder; are you really inside him? Yes. How does it feel? Like absolution.

Will couldn't move other than to jolt with each thrust. His lips and chin were shining, his eyes distant.

He needed direction. Abigail and Hannibal seemed to realize this at the same moment, exchanging wordless notes.

Granting permission.

"Come here," Abigail said shyly, and pulled him into a kiss.

Before Will could protest or process, her tongue flicked into his mouth and Hannibal began to move. Everything that had stilled came alive again, the kiss growing messier and more desperate as Hannibal began to take Will apart. His cock ached, hard and red and dripping, so desperate that he cried out against Abigail's mouth when she took it in hand.

"Abi—!"

"It's okay," she whispered, peppering a trail of soft kisses along his jaw as he shook. "Show me how it feels. Teach me."

She inched closer, sandwiching Will between them as Hannibal buried himself over and over, never letting Will grow used to the pace. Slow, fast, shallow, deep.

"I want it," she promised, teasing him, using her fingers to gently lead his cock toward her wet, waiting heat. "Can I have it? Please?"

He shivered, nodding feverishly into her shoulder as the head of his cock made contact. Even to slip his length along the honeyed sweetness of her was torture; he had no idea how he was meant to last once he drove home.

Hannibal slowed just enough for her to enjoy the last few seconds before consummation. Will nuzzled at her neck, forgetting himself in the dreamlike fog. Her chin tipped away in invitation. He trembled, breath lost as his lips found the line of her scar. It felt too sacred, too holy to touch her there. He wasn't allowed.

"It's okay," she purred into his curls, forgiveness and temptation intertwined. "I won't break."

He inhaled, deep and pained and raw and so hard he couldn't think straight as her nails found the nape of his neck. She pulled him to her, lips to scar and thighs to hips, enveloping him. He didn't know where the tears ended and her sweat began, but he mouthed at the hardened scar tissue like it could save him.

Abigail moaned at Will's tongue mapping her throat, at the sick tableau they made together.

Hannibal thrust forward the moment Will dipped inside.

They groaned in unison, a chorus of pleasure and want so powerful it was all-consuming. Will ground into the impossible tightness and warmth of Abigail, painfully close in seconds. She was so soft, so tight, so different. Her hands were in his hair; his wrapped around her in a fierce embrace, pressing them as close as he could get. The little jewels on her chest, hard and sharp, scratched against him as they rocked.

I could die like this, he thought. I deserve to.

"Will," one of them said. It didn't matter which. He was the connective tissue, the bridge between them. Taking, giving; filling and filled alike. Hannibal rocking forward stretched him and drove him deeper into Abigail. His retreat forced Will to feel every nerve. Her lips, his teeth. Will's hands, slipping over sweat and skin and open wet need as he reached between them to give her more friction.

They were everything. His salvation and his screaming, bloody end.

"I love you," he choked, and they both knew it.

"Give her what she needs," Hannibal grunted, holding Will around the waist, shoving their bodies together with all that hidden strength. "What you'd want, if it were you."

Without a single thought past that instruction, as if a switch had been flipped, Will sank his jaws into her neck. She cried out as his free hand twisted the pretty jewels at one reddened nipple; she shivered as the other worked her to her own edge with tireless fingers.

"Oh, god," she gasped, clenching around him. "I'm going to—"

"Please, please," he murmured against the indents of his teeth. His tongue laved at the scar as if he could tease it open like he did to her cunt. As if he could wipe it away and undo what he'd done the day she got it. As if he could fix this, and taste it, and do it all over again. "Do it. Come for me. Please, baby girl."

"Daddy," she gasped against him, grip tightening as her hips crashed into his. Saying the word brought her close; feeling Will swell in response shattered her. "I'm—"

Her entire body tensed as it hit, crushing Will so powerfully inside her that he couldn't help following.

"Oh god, fuck, Han, Abi—!"

She began to convulse, petting all over Will, clawing and kissing and shivering in his arms until her eyes rolled back. He spilled hot inside her, shoved impossibly close when Hannibal drew them all together in his arms. He fucked them through it, the last to break. Will had barely begun to soften, still wrapped up in her, when he felt Hannibal tense, groan, and flood him with warmth.

"Jesus, fuck…" he half-sobbed, holding himself up with trembling arms on the counter's edge.

The world went liquid, indistinct. Will bowed his head forward, eyes clenched shut against the inevitable crush of reality. Abigail pulled him close, petting through his hair weakly. Three chests heaved, heartbeats hammering in time. Hannibal pressed worshipful kisses over his shoulders and down his spine. Hot breath pooled and feathered over sweat-damp skin.

"I… I can't…" Will tried, bleeding guilt from every pore. "I'm sorry…"

He choked on a whine as Hannibal slipped free, then helped him do the same. Salty tears cut furrows down his cheeks as they gathered him between them, holding him, keeping him from dissolving.

He would never forgive himself. He would never—

"Will," Hannibal soothed against the curve of his neck, "there is nothing to forgive."

A violent shudder of protest wracked him, head shaking furiously even as Abigail took it between her palms. They were wrong. He couldn't—

"Look at me," she insisted, tilting his chin until he had no choice but to obey.

Like before, on the couch, her emotions overtook him. This time, though, what struck him was the incalculable giddiness. The love. The appreciation radiating from her sleepy, almost shy smile. A fragment of guilt, yes, but only for the machinations it had taken to get him here. Questions, too — a need for approval. To know he wouldn't run.

"Abi," he whimpered, reaching for her.

She nodded. Encouragement. Permission. He cupped her jaw, brow twitching with both concern and something darker that twinged deep in his gut as he traced the wreckage his teeth had left on her throat. Her scar, her brand, was ringed with purpling bruises.

His bruises. His claim.

"It's okay," she repeated, eyes soft as he met them. The little gold stud glinted as her nose crinkled with admission. "I wanted this, Will. I've wanted this for…"

She trailed off, looking up to meet Hannibal's gaze over Will's shoulder. He was still there, holding Will close, keeping him grounded with touch.

"Abigail has been very patient," he murmured into Will's shoulder before hooking his chin over it. "I promised her that if she could lure you, I would share."

One broad, corded hand reached around Will to smooth over Abigail's side, up to the bows stuck through her nipples. When his thumb flicked one, she giggled.

"We picked them out together," she blushed, a curious palm seeking Will's heartbeat through his chest. "Forgive us?"

Will groaned. Despite himself, he stared at Hannibal's thumb teasing her, making her catch her lower lip between her teeth. He was spent, entirely, but it still made his mouth water.

Damn them, he thought. Then again, aren't all of us damned already?

"There's nothing to forgive," he replied, the words barely more than a sigh.

Her face lit up like Christmas morning. She hugged him, kissing his temples, squeezing his arms. Behind Will, Hannibal stroked beneath his curls, rewarding him for pleasing her.

"Thank you," she grinned. "It was… you were perfect. I can't believe… you're so good, daddy."

"Ffff—" Will huffed through a clenched jaw, shoulders hunching at the end with a laugh he couldn't control. They were both so fucking ridiculous. For the first time since he'd come, his shoulders relaxed. "You can not keep doing that."

His dissolution was contagious. She sat up straighter, grin broad and full of teeth. Her freckles sat like perfect blooms on a field of rosy pink.

"I promise," she beamed, tongue darting out mischievously. "Never in public."

"Christ," Will huffed, staring at her with a baffled mix of exhaustion and bone-deep affection. He turned back over his shoulder to see Hannibal as irritatingly pleased as expected. "I should turn both of you in."

Hannibal kissed the base of his skull, warm and playful. "You'd miss us too much."

Will sighed, shrugging. They were right, and the fight had left him with nothing but reluctant, vicious understanding.

He hated them. He couldn't stand them, but god, did it feel good being theirs. Even trying to imagine, for a split second, their mouths sharing someone else — he'd tear them apart with his jaws.

That was what love was for them, he guessed. Violent. Animal. Possessive, unhealthy; he'd die to protect it without a second thought.

It didn't mean that, once he recovered, he wouldn't enact his revenge.

"Yeah," he answered at last, halfway between disbelief and surrender. "Fuck me, but I think I would."

Breakfast the next morning was a lazy, casual afterglow.

They'd cleaned him up after the kitchen, Hannibal and Abigail caring for Will as if he'd been through the trenches. Hannibal bathed him, slipping in behind him to wash his hair and catalogue the marks they'd both left. Abigail sat beside the bath with a glass of white, outlining her plan, teasing Will for how easily he'd fallen into her trap.

He'd rolled his eyes, skin pink from the heat and humiliation, biting down a grin with middling success.

She'd slept in her room to give them privacy to decompress. Hannibal, for the first time that weekend, didn't have to twist Will into doubting himself. He listened, touched, reassured. For that, Will was grateful.

Then, some time around midnight, they'd woken to a low, rhythmic buzzing through the walls.

Rebellious phase, indeed.

So, at breakfast, Abigail was still flushed with the sort of chemical buzz that could only come from being railed within an inch of her life as she passed Will the brioche buns across the table. Limbs lax, smile easy, eyes bright when she flicked them devilishly toward Hannibal; the smug delight of victory.

Every time her hair brushed across the blossoming marks at her neck, Will felt himself twitch.

"One day left," she sang as they tidied up, still bubbling with the fresh energy of a successful hunt. "Whatever shall we do?"

Will, who was folding the tea towels at her side, flushed hot as a series of wildly indecent images coursed through his head. He could still feel her nail marks in his back and thighs, the echo of her mouth around him, the soft whisper of Hannibal teaching her how to relax her throat.

"Whatever you want, sweetheart," he answered, surprised at how evenly it came out.

He turned to see the corner of her mouth quirking up; ah, the insatiability of youth.

"Dangerous words," she countered, fiddling with the sleeve of her sweater.

Will couldn't help adoring it, this effervescence she wore like jewels, but something in it invited teeth. Abigail, he knew, would never be satisfied winning every game. He thought of how she'd looked the night before when he finally broke and dove for her.

Reckless need coiled hot in his gut. It steadied his hands as he grabbed her by the waist, dropped her on the counter, and flicked her thighs apart.

"Will—!" she gasped, shocked and gleeful.

He stepped into the space he'd made for himself, pressed two fingers against the already-growing wetness through her thin cotton sleep pants, and let himself be her monster.

"I'm a dangerous man," he grinned, flashing his eyeteeth.

Maybe it was silly. Maybe it was a little too playful for the way his blood boiled, but it got exactly the reaction he'd wanted.

"Yeah," she giggled, face already pink, rocking closer. "I should probably stay away."

He watched her, eyes dark, absorbing the thrill she felt at him taking control. His fingers pressed harder, working the slippery wetness around until the fabric was soaked, until she squirmed. Until it was embarrassing.

"You probably should," he agreed, already hard in his low-slung sweats. "But that's not the kind of girl you are, is it?"

Her breath caught, that brilliant smirk finally faltering. Gorgeous. Her hands wrapped around his shoulders as he made a mess of her, pulling her apart like petals until she started to moan in earnest.

"No," she answered, eyes fluttering as he coaxed out the confession.

"No," he agreed, pushing the wet fabric against her, inside her. Crude and relentless. "You need a bit of danger, don't you?"

She nodded, eyes glassy with need. Her nails dug into his neck, his shoulders.

"Yeah," he smirked, thumb circling her clit through the near-transparent cotton. "No fun when your prey doesn't fight back, is it?"

She gasped, already lost to the rhythm, to the want for more. For him, hard against her thigh, so close.

"Please—" she gulped, lips parting. "Daddy—"

He swallowed the instinctive shiver, unwilling to let go of his control.

"No," he growled, close enough to her neck that she arched into him. "Not this time, baby girl. This time, you have to be good."

"Oh, god—"

"It's only fair, Abigail," came a voice from the doorway. "You had your way with him. Let him return the favor."

Will rolled his eyes until they found Hannibal, standing prim and pleased in the doorway. He made no move to intervene — just hovered there, a phantom, waiting to see what Will might do.

"Hannibal—" she gasped, seeking, expecting him to come to her aid.

He did no such thing.

"Just desserts, my love," Hannibal replied, folding his arms and getting comfortable. "Quid pro quo."

Will couldn't help smirking back at him, hating him, devouring him with his eyes.

"Listen to him, Abi," he said, peeling up her sweater with his free hand to seize and twist one pierced nipple. "Daddy knows what you need."

She cried out, burying her face in his shoulder as she rocked against his hand, her own weapon used against her. She was close, but he'd draw this out all day if he had to. Get her begging until language escaped her. Until she knew what he was capable of.

"Will," she choked out, close to mewling already.

"Little killer," he answered, voice dark and rough as his beast rose to meet hers. "You're mine, you know that? You belong to me. To us."

She clenched around him, nodding, little mm-hmms pressed to his skin.

"Say it," he growled, nipping at her bruised, bright scar.

Behind him, he heard Hannibal shift. He paid it no mind.

"I'm yours," she groaned, hot and fractured and so, so hungry.

"That's right," Will grinned, grinding his cock against her thigh just to hear her whine. "Good girl."

From the doorway, loosening his top button and cuffing his sleeves, Hannibal decided that a late lunch was a fair price to pay to see his family enjoy themselves so thoroughly.

At the very least, they'd work up an appetite.

*