
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1548833.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Hannibal_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Will_Graham/Hannibal_Lecter
  Character:
      Hannibal_Lecter, Will_Graham, Mentions_of_OC_-_Character
  Additional Tags:
      Underage_-_Freeform, Ephebophilia, Lolita_inspired, I'll_add_tags_as_I_go
      along, Rated_Explicit_for_later_chapters
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-05-01 Chapters: 1/? Words: 1095
****** A Beast in Every Man ******
by noctuua
Summary
     A brief glimpse at Will's back dimples, two soft indents that just
     peek over the band of his shorts, leaves Hannibal reeling, the only
     thought in his head how utterly desperate he is to sink his teeth
     into those marks and make their permanence his own.
Notes
     This work is greatly inspired by Vladimir Nabokov's, Lolita, and also
     by whiskeyandspite's, My_Sin_My_Soul (one of my favorites and I can't
     ever hope to write as well as she does).
See the end of the work for more notes
Saturday morning, bright and early, finds a reluctant Hannibal Lecter standing
on the porch of one Ms. Romilda Graham. He shuffles his feet, leather gleaming
in the sun, and knocks hesitantly—tries to think of an excuse to get him away
from this house and back on the train as soon as possible.
He'd been called by the local hospital just a few days ago in need of a trauma
surgeon and unsure of where to turn. They'd had an opening and some time for
him to visit and inspect; however, on such short notice, Hannibal was forced to
call a colleague of his to help him out.
The house that stands before him is unremarkable and dull. A small two story,
possibly three bedrooms, and he'd be lucky if there were two full bathrooms.
The shingles are painted a steadily fading blue and a half dead tree stands
crookedly in the front yard.
Hannibal is greeted by Romilda Graham herself, a set of lifeless blue eyes
surrounded by sallow skin and an unfashionable hairdo.
The interior of the house is just as lifeless, if not more. Nothing the woman
could do would cure the drabness that seemed to seep from every corner of every
room.
He's led to the second floor, up a nasty set of carpeted stairs, the color
similar to that of concrete.
Romilda drones on about her home, how her husband had built it 17 years ago,
months before their wedding day. Perhaps if Hannibal were a better man, he
might actually care. His position as an emergency room doctor however, allows
him the illusion of listening and he nods along, hums in acquiescence, and
attempts to get through the mind numbing tour without being roped into any sort
of agreement.
Sauntering ahead of him, Romilda swings her hips in an overtly suggestive
manner and Hannibal sighs, thinks of some illness in the family that will take
him from the house.
As they return to the ground floor, the woman's steps are interrupted by a
jingling coming from the sitting room, one she'd failed to show him as of yet,
and she turns on her heel, one patent leather shoe on the wood and the other
still on the step above.
"Oh," she sighs in a woeful tone, and she tilts her chin towards him in a way
Hannibal finds terribly unflattering. "I suppose I failed to mention that I
have a son. You'll have to meet the little philistine eventually so we might as
well get this over with. Be mindful; he's got a terrible attitude, everything
is an argument with him—the whole world is against him."
She turns back around and descends to the floor, the click of her heels against
the dark mahogany is jarring.
They enter a room so bright that Hannibal squints, his vision clouded by light
and he pauses, color slowly seeping back.
Two long legs creep into his line of sight, one extended, knobby knee just
slightly bent, the other almost completely folded, tented and swaying, a steady
swinging in a non-existent breeze. Hazel eyes drift up a lean torso, the faded
white t-shirt riding up to reveal smooth skin, a barely there trail of downy
hair disappearing beneath the band of the boy's shorts. He's got one gangly arm
thrown up to scratch at a dirty mutt lying curved around his head, the other
hung over his face, shading his eyes from the same rays streaming through the
window that had blinded Hannibal only moments ago.
His perusal is interrupted by the raspy clearing of a throat and he realizes
how long he's been staring, realizes how decidedly inappropriate that would
seem and snaps his eyes up to Ms. Graham only to find that her gaze is not
directed at him, but rather at the boy sprawled across the carpet.
"William," and oh, what a beautiful name for such a beautiful boy, "We have a
guest. It would be polite to get up off that dirty rug and shake Dr. Lecter's
hand—properly introduce yourself. And what have I told you about bringing that
filthy thing in the house?"
William lifts his arm enough to peek up at the two adults standing over him
before he covers it once again, rolling onto his stomach to turn his back to
them, other arm still stretched to paw at the dog.
Oh, the insolence, Hannibal thinks, and his mouth waters at how it might feel
to throw the boy over his lap, bring his smooth palm down against the backs of
his tender thighs, have him beg until his wails turns to sobs and oh, would Dr.
Lecter please, please kiss it better?
The man's vision swims and he must look ill because before he knows it, the
Graham woman is leaving to get him a glass of water and he's left to stare at
the boy's lightly toned calves, the supple curve of his bottom. A brief glimpse
at Will's back dimples, two soft indents that just peek over the band of his
shorts, leaves Hannibal reeling, the only thought in his head how utterly
desperate he is to sink his teeth into those marks and make their permanence
his own.
Before Romilda—dear, dear Milda, sweet Milly, Hannibal really can't be bothered
to care—can even nudge the glass into the good doctor's hands, he's accepting
her offer, a great smile locked in place. Oh, how thrilled he would be if she
would allow him to occupy her spare bedroom, if only for the summer.
And what a fantastic summer it would be, the woman all but croons.
He doesn't miss the way she straightens her back, pushes her chest forward in
what some might find to be a very alluring manner. Hannibal himself finds it
tasteless. Bringing one hand up between their bodies, he presents his hand to
be shaken, for a deal to be made. Romilda's hand is at once clammy and doughy,
dry and bony, and Hannibal has to fight to hide his disgust. If a corner of his
lip curls just a bit in a moment of utter revulsion, the wretched woman does
not notice, but hazel eyes meet electric blue and the man works not to stumble
back at the depth and perception wrought through William's gaze. A look of
understanding passes between them, the prey accepting its predator as its one
and only, and then it is over. William blinks and turns his head away from them
once more.
Yes, Hannibal thinks. A fantastic summer indeed.
End Notes
     This is the first time I've written anything in about a year and a
     half (and the first time for Hannibal), so your comments and kudos
     are all very much appreciated! I'm going to try to update regularly,
     but I'm just reaching the end of my semester so I can't promise
     anything until I begin summer break.
     Title comes from Jack Whyte's, The Singing Sword.
     If you'd like another way to reach me, I'm_also_on_tumblr.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
