Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Hannibal begins wearing earrings. First, little golden hoops. Then diamonds. He soon finds himself with a growing collection—not solely because he enjoys different styles—but because of what it results in: being complimented by Father and feeling pretty. He notices the way Father sometimes touches each new earring, almost a caress, to watch it gleam beneath the light. He always notices, but Father doesn't seem to give it any thought—simply tells him "they look nice" every single time. 

There are times, occasionally, when Father starts fiddling with Hannibal's earrings absentmindedly, cradling an earlobe between warm fingers. This new attention makes Hannibal want to melt—makes him almost shudder. Then, ear-kisses are being added into their weekly routine—some mornings, kisses are placed on the shell of Hannibal's ear; quick and fleeting. They don't mean anything more than 'goodbye' before Father slips out the door.

Today, Hannibal's fingers shake, struggling to slide in a brand new pair of earrings. They're medium-sized pearls, ruby-red in color, and shiny. He slips downstairs at dinner time, waiting for Father to take notice. He's nervous, belly twisting. Father doesn't say anything about the new earrings sitting in Hannibal's ears during dinner. But Father stares—and the weight of such a piercing gaze makes Hannibal's cheeks flush. 

Now, they're sitting on the couch, watching a movie. Father inches closer and reaches out to gently grab Hannibal's left earlobe. "Are these new?" He asks, voice soft—always soft when it comes to Hannibal.

Hannibal nods. His earlobe is tingling and warming beneath the attention. He doesn't know what to say, but it feels monumental. He's been waiting for this; dreaming of this; and maybe that's why he bought them; wondering if it is true—that ears are erogenous zones—even his own.

Father inspects the circular earring, caressing it with a work-worn thumb, and it makes Hannibal's breath catch—watching the motion in the mirror. "You look very pretty, sweetheart." He must notice the little shudder rising through Hannibal's chest, but Father doesn't let go. He continues fiddling with the earring, rolling it underneath a thumb—a slow, contemplative swirl. 

Hannibal's mind is on the verge of short-circuiting. He shouldn't be thinking such a thought: that the earring resembles a clitoris—that watching Father touch it and stroke it and swirl it, over and over again, is beginning to make him throb. 

Chapter Text

Hannibal is in the BSHCI. He's been deprived of food and water for the last two days and has been freshly beaten and concussed by some of the guards after his toilet was removed. He's been kicked in the groin—a serious injury. Blood is coming out of his urethra and staining his jumpsuit, so they have to check for structural damage to the bladder—and normally, Hannibal wouldn't be averse to a medical procedure, but being deprived of food and water leaves him in a fragile mental state. He ends up involuntarily regressing. 

Will is annoyed when he finds out his planned visitation's been cancelled so abruptly. He doesn't expect the reason Alana gives him: Hannibal's mentally regressed and is still having such a harrowing procedure done in that mental state. He refuses to leave and eventually, is taken to the medical ward where Hannibal's laying on an examination table—naked and shivering and restrained (wrists and ankles cuffed) and feet placed in stirrups and legs spread apart. 

For little Hannibal, waking up restrained makes him feel like he's back in the cabin with monsters. He doesn't understand what's happening or why he's naked and cold and why his bladder is sore. He just knows it's scary and wants Will. Then, they begin to touch him and that's when he reacts—trying to shy away, writhing and whimpering in distress. He wants Will. He wants the cold, gloved hands to release him. He wants to close his legs. But it's not possible with strong hands holding them open (and having each ankle cuffed). He sees a long tube in the other doctor's hand and shuts both eyes, afraid and on the verge of hyperventilating. But they don't stop, and they aren't gentle. He tries to stop reacting; to be good, because they're scolding him, cussing at him in a language he can barely understand. He wants Will. 

Will's never felt more nauseous in his life. He's let into the room and little Hannibal's squirming doesn't lessen—it only grows more desperate and little Hannibal's resolve crumbles the instant Will is close enough to see. He knows sedation for this procedure is rare, but he'd hoped there would be an exception; that Hannibal obviously needed it under such circumstances, yet was not given it, because someone like Hannibal doesn't deserve such a comfort.

But little Hannibal does—little Hannibal doesn't understand what's going on or why they're touching him—holding him so inappropriately and trying to stick a long tube inside his urethra—making his groin burn like it's on fire, like it's being split apart and probed at with thorns, scraping tender tissue without care. The doctors haven't even begun to insert it more than an inch because little Hannibal keeps moving, trying to squirm away. 

The doctors order Will to hold little Hannibal down. He doesn't understand most of the English words being said, but Will is gentle, laying a firm arm down on his torso, and cupping the base of his skull with a warm palm. He can't see what's happening; what the doctors are doing; all little Hannibal can do is squeeze both eyes shut and rasp out two tearful words: "Tėtis, ką?" 

He listens to Tėtis' voice, gentle and soothing. He focuses on the fingers stroking through his hair. He forgets what is happening for a moment, until the tube is being inserted—making him gasp and whine and wail because it hurts—sliding in and twisting and making every inch of him sting and want to recoil. He can't move. There are still gloved hands holding his knees apart and Tėtis' arm is holding him down. He wants it all to stop. 

Little Hannibal can barely get the word out: "Sustoti." He begs, voice tearful and trembling, but it's not stopping; the pain is only deepening, spreading everywhere like fiery embers. He continuously begs for it to stop in a language no one else understands, restless and wailing. 

Will's voice is wavering, but he keeps speaking; keeps whispering words of comfort even if little Hannibal cannot understand. He kisses little Hannibal's temple and strokes little Hannibal's nape. He's never heard little Hannibal's voice like this; small and watery and trembling, rasping out little whimpers and sobs. He knows the procedure is far from over. He looks up, heart aching, because the tube is now a third of the way in and little Hannibal's distress is only heightening. He needs to add more pressure on little Hannibal's sternum to prevent him from moving any further. He does as told—keeps little Hannibal as still as possible—and after a few more stressful minutes, the insertion is finally complete. 

But little Hannibal is still shaking—skin sweaty and cheeks flushing—because being seen by adults, being touched by adults, being forced to have something inside him, is more than unsettling—it's agonizing and makes his chest tight with panic—uncertain of what'll occur next. He's not being grasped between his thighs anymore, but that small comfort doesn't ease the anxiety churning inside his belly, because closing his legs is still impossible. He is cold. He is afraid. He is aching. He wants to be taken home—far away from here. He wants to go home with Tėtis. He listens to Tėtis' voice—it sounds stern, but the anger is not being directed at him. For a few minutes everything seems to stop. Fingers continue stroking through his hair, rhythmic and soothing. For a few minutes, he listens to Tėtis' voice—explaining something in English. 

He only understands a few words: "don't," "scared,"  "hold" (punctuated by a hand settling on his sore bladder), "okay," "sweetheart" (framed as a question yet soft and unsteady in its tone). There is another kiss pressing against his temple and it makes him feel safe, reassured that nothing will be worse than what's just taken place. But then something is traveling up towards his bladder—filling it and making it expand—too fast and cold—freezing him from the inside out—putting pressure on the sorest parts of his damaged bladder. He wants to writhe again, but cannot. He wants to beg again, but breathing through ceaseless whimpers and fighting down a rising wail becomes more important. Then, Tėtis' palm comes to rest near his bloating bladder (above it), and Tėtis utters a few familiar words: "Try to hold it, sweetheart." 

Little Hannibal can only cry and strain to hold in the rushing liquid—it feels like too much—it feels like something might tear and split open—it feels like agony. He doesn't want to be punished for not doing so. He wants to be good. He still wants to go home with Tėtis. He wants everything to stop, but it doesn't—there is not much room left—the urge for release is growing—and so is the burning discomfort. He cannot stifle another wail—it comes out frail and wet with tears. He cannot writhe. He cannot move. Doing so, even little involuntary shifts, causes sharp pain to surface—sharp, breath-stealing cramps. He needs to go—badly, but the tube is in the way—making urinating impossible—making his bladder and belly ache so severely. He needs it out. He needs Tėtis to understand.

Little Hannibal is frantic—voice a frail and shaking rasp. Pleading for him. Sobbing for him. 

Will is choking down a wave of bile and blinking back tears. He rubs soothing circles over little Hannibal's stomach, right above a visibly cramping and distending bladder—it looks to be on the verge of bursting—a very real risk. "You're almost done, sweetheart." His voice shakes, soft against little Hannibal's ear.

Will wants to punch someone—the doctor in charge of filling little Hannibal's bladder with the contrast liquid—and everyone else in the room watching this unfold. Anesthesia would've prevented this outcome—little Hannibal is not being difficult, no. But little Hannibal is naturally wanting to expel and writhe in discomfort (which can further exacerbate his bladder injury), because he's in a regressed state of mind—mentally a child. And Will feels partially responsible because little Hannibal wouldn't be here (in such a predicament) if things had gone differently. He glares at the doctor currently in charge of the catheter.

"That's enough," Will snaps, voice rising. "Keep at it—and you'll rupture his damn bladder—and he'll be in even worse shape than he already is."

to be continued...

Chapter Text

Hannibal is in the BSHCI and it's sometime post-episode 3x10 when Will is still angry with him. But obviously Hannibal is heavily pregnant (carrying a random couple's baby) in this AU. He is monitored around the clock to make sure no self-inflicted harm is done to his stomach.

The day Hannibal's water breaks is a blur. He knows pain relief is not being provided. He doesn't think he needs it. He'll be fine. He knows it's only contractions; something natural; something the body is capable of enduring. But after a few hours, the contractions become unbearable. Then there is something being placed against his cunt; a makeshift barricade; not letting him push. They force him to wait for the doctor who is an hour away. They don't mind if he suffers.

He's whimpering and sweating, wanting to cry because the baby is starting to crown yet not able to come out. His cunt is being split apart and stretching too far; it feels agonizing. This lasts for an hour. He stares at the clock on the wall, wondering if they plan to let him die. He doesn't expect Will to come into the room or kneel down beside him and wipe a cloth over his face, removing sweat and tears. He doesn't expect Will to comfort him; stroking over his distended belly and whispering words of comfort; then removing the barrier between his aching cunt; the doctor comes in shortly; the doctor isn't gentle, ordering him to push. He's exhausted; body already tired and sore from instinctually pushing for the last hour; trying to expel the baby yet unable to do so.

He tries though. He pushes and strains and lets out a breathless sob because something is too big (the baby's head) and splitting him apart; it won't come out. He's struggling and wanting it out so badly; wanting the contractions to stop; wanting to be empty and able to rest and able to breathe. He's ordered to push again; a firm command. But Will is still by Hannibal's side, holding his cuffed hand and cradling the back of his head, running fingers through his sweaty hair; telling him he's doing good; calling him baby; telling him it'll be over soon; telling him "I know it hurts, darlin', I know"; kissing his forehead.

He pushes again and wails because it hurts so badly; cunt not wide enough for such a large baby. He's being cut with scissors in the next moment. He sobs against Will's neck, whimpering in agony and unable to breathe. His vulva and perenium are freshly sliced and stinging and bleeding.  There's another demand to push again; more firm; harsher, because he's taking too long. He wants this to be over. He wants to sleep and not feel. He wants to shower. 

"Can't," Hannibal sobs against Will's neck. Exhausted. Hurt. Even scared. He doesn't want to experience childbirth ever again. He most likely will; forced to be a surrogate again and again. The next moments are agonizing; pushing and straining and squeezing out something too big; cunt stretching and tearing because the doctor's fingers are sliding in to grab the baby's head and pulling, making him gasp and wail out a tremulous cry. 

Will comforts him, holds his restrained body as much as possible, whispers praise and reassurance; words Hannibal can barely hear over his own sobbing and screaming. The baby is out now; crying; and Hannibal wants to hold it (the little life he's been carrying); but they don't let him; they know it's distressing for omegas to not see or hold their newborn; they don't let him become attached to something that isn't truly his child. Then stitches are being sewn into the split skin underneath his sore vulva without numbing gel. He shudders and whimpers against Will, still wailing and panting for breath. There are still fingers stroking his scalp. There are still words being murmured against his ear.

Gentle. Soft. Warm. Praise.

Hannibal is then wheeled to a bathroom to be cleaned up. He cannot stand. He can barely stand to be awake and in pain. He doesn't want Will to leave him right now. He wants Will to stay. There is speaking behind him, Alana's voice and Will's voice. 

Then, Hannibal is alone—with Will—no one else. Will lifts him, holding him steady when his legs nearly give out, murmuring words of comfort when he whimpers in pain, carries him in strong arms and lowers him into the bath (meant for people with physical limitations). He is gently washed. Hair and body scrubbed free of sweat. The water on his perineum and vulva is warm and soothing. He is in a daze, wanting to be held and Will then lifts him and wraps a towel around him, covering him up and setting him back into the wheelchair. Lips press against his forehead. Tender. Lingering. He is wheeled into his cell and Will stays. Holds him. Guides ice chips into his mouth, and then water and a warm meal; something bought from his favorite restaurant; a restaurant only Will knows he enjoys. 

Chapter Text

This is far from normal. This wanting.

Virginal skin craving Daddy's touch—long and thick, sun-warm, work-worn fingers teasing him, cupping him between trembling thighs where flesh swells into an unbearable ache and wetness seeps out, soaking light blue swim trunks.

He wants it—again. To come from Daddy's affection alone. He needs it, badly. He needs Daddy's fingers this time—not the pressurized stream of warm water from the shower head, angling directly above a small, twitching clit. He needs Daddy's fingers deep inside, curving to match the tight, squeezing contours of an un-breached cunt, stroking a silken, squelching canal meant for something else—a cock.

He'll beg. He'll plead. He'll flutter wisping lashes in Daddy's direction. He'll get what he wants — what he needs. Eventually, Daddy always gives in—makes Hannibal's toes and fingers curl, makes Hannibal's little clitoris strain and twitch, makes Hannibal's chest rise sharply in time with a breath-stealing climax, makes Hannibal's adolescent mind fizzle like static, becoming blank and empty of all cogent thoughts except for one: Daddy.

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France, 1975

Today, there is a note on the bathroom counter—meant to be seen. Hannibal studies each word, mouth curving down into a frown.

'You are growing into a young man now. Sanitary pads are for children.' 

Beside the note is an unopened box of tampons, with applicators and written instructions. Unease roils inside Hannibal's stomach. He's never inserted anything inside himself—not even a single, clumsy finger. He doesn't plan to use these. He won't. But there is a looming problem: only two pads remain underneath the sink. He'll figure something out. He always does. He'll make do by cutting up old, outgrown shirts. He tucks the box of tampons under the sink, behind a stack of towels. 

Two months pass, and Hannibal's solution is successful, though somewhat messy. Pinning cloth onto underwear is tedious and oftentimes results in spillage, seeping over an unraveling edge. Usually, clean up is easy—wiping down a bloody inner thigh. 

Freshly clean, Hannibal wraps a towel around himself and turns down a narrow hallway—but pauses, coming to a standstill. His cheeks scorch with embarrassment. He cannot look away from where a maid continues scrubbing at a stain in the carpet—it is blood. His blood, seeping into ivory fibers. He rushes past on wobbly legs, bare feet still damp. Each frantic footstep leaves a wet impression, a reminder, over a cream-colored rug—quite similar to the way rainfall darkens bright-white snow. He doesn't come downstairs for dinner, remaining in bed, belly twisting through intermittent cramps. Eating is not at all appealing right now. 

Time stretches onward, slowly and surely. The sky, once golden and bright, begins to fade. The stars begin to peak out—small and twinkling, like a million sapphires suspended in shadow.

Tonight, sleep does not come easily. 

Listening is a favorable pastime.

Hannibal's ears pick up every inflectional shift in sound—windows shutting, floorboards creaking, faucets sputtering, a vacuum humming, a door sliding back into place, a car engine rumbling—and then—silence. Loretta, their maid, is finished with today's shift.

Has Loretta told Uncle Robertus and Lady Murasaki about the blood stain? 

Do they already know?

Footsteps are creeping closer, heels heavy and rhythmic. Lady Murasaki—she is right outside Hannibal's bedroom door.

Dread sprouts inside Hannibal's chest—bone-chilling, heart-fluttering. Is feigning sleep the most logical response? Maybe. He burrows underneath the covers, cheek pressing even deeper against the pillow. He braces. He waits—and soon enough, a wooden creaks open with a quiet groan—and soon enough, she is inside Hannibal's bedroom, breathing calm as ever.

Argentina, 2015

He is no longer a boy—unable to stop Lady Murasaki's advances.

He is now a man. He is not alone, with her encroaching presence. Both Chiyoh and Will are near. He is safe, untouched, but even now, locking one knee over another comes with instinct.

There is not a single name for what seeps into Hannibal's chest upon Lady Murasaki's arrival, but it is skin-crawling, it is lung-straining, it is mouth-drying—it is dormant disquietude, peeling from the insides of a shuddering ribcage—it is remnants of a fifteen year-old virgin unable to scream.

Chapter Text

The year is 1702. Will is a fisherman and one day, a mermaid climbs onto the deck of his boat. The mermaid is whining something desperate; a siren in heat; and before he knows what's happening, his cock is hard and he's pushing into her. This lasts for a few hours; because she wants to catch; wants to be bred by a human see what happens. Then, she births a baby merboy; something that can live on land yet she's too protective; she wants Hannibal to remain in the ocean with her where it is safe. 

Will understands Hannibal is his offspring; something not entirely human. He sees them on a weekly basis, makes sure they have fish if they're running low on food. He swims with them a few times a week, but Hannibal's mother is distant and falling in love with a merman; someone of her own species. Will doesn't mind at all. He knows they could never be a proper family. He cares for her because she is the mother of his offspring, but he loves Hannibal. Then one day, fifteen years later, blood is dancing along the surface of the water; something's been killed or attacked. 

Will sees Hannibal swimming towards the dock. Afraid. Letting out a screeching cry. He's cut up, scratches on both arms. From defending himself. From something chasing him. Will lifts Hannibal out of the water and carries him home, where he'll be safe. Hannibal's mother is dead. Will understands without being told; can sense a solemn shift inside Hannibal. There are signs. Hannibal cannot speak, but he can make noises; and usually, little trills of contentment and excitement greet Will's ears when reaching the end of the dock; because Hannibal is happy to see Daddy; but now, Hannibal is clearly in distress—grieving; not wanting to eat much, but can be coaxed into eating by being hand-fed. 

Hannibal is staying in the bath—always brimming with water because Will is worried about what'll happen if he dries out. Will learns sitting in the bathtub with him, holding him and offering comfort, is easing Hannibal's distress and separation anxiety—day by day. He is clingy—and Will doesn't tire of being needed because Hannibal is young and must feel lost without a mother. He isn't used to human things. Like being inside a house. Like only being able to shift in water instead of swimming freely. Like needing to sit in a running shower while Daddy cleans the bath where he's needed to use the bathroom (because he's used to expelling in the ocean without care). Like seeing a white light on a ceiling instead of the sun. Like sleeping alone in a bath instead of sleeping near mother. 

But eventually, Will needs to return to work. He thinks Hannibal can understand English. He explains he'll be back soon. To stay in here. I love you. 

Then, Will is gone and Hannibal grows curious and also a bit panicky. He wants Daddy. He soon slips out of the bathtub and realizes moving with a heavy tail is impossible. He stays on the bathroom floor until he's entirely dry. His tail soon transforms into legs. Like Daddy's. 

He crawls across the floor and into the bedroom. He sees a cat sleeping on something large and flat (a bed). The cat looks comfortable. He wants to join it and struggles to make it onto the bed. He starts shivering; something new. He doesn't know what to do because this is all new to him; being in a human's space and body. These plush squares (pillows) smell like Daddy and so does this thick cloth (bed covers). He stays there, marveling at the reality of having legs and feet. He doesn't know what's between his legs; what is covered in soft, spiraling curls; but it makes him feel a bit nervous to look or touch down there.

Like something bad might happen. Like Daddy might get angry at him.

He drifts off to sleep, shivering and wondering if Daddy is returning anytime soon. He wakes up a while later. There is wetness everywhere. He thinks it's water, but it smells strong and sour. Daddy is removing the bed sheets and breathing a little weirdly. Daddy's cheeks are red, too. Daddy isn't looking at him. Soon, Daddy is folding up the thick cloth, disappearing with it and then returning empty-handed moments later. 

Hannibal's stomach drops. Did he do something wrong? He realizes, eventually, what must've happened. He urinated while asleep because holding in urine is not expected when living in the ocean. He doesn't want to make Daddy angry. He doesn't want to lose Daddy, too. 

But Daddy is sweet and reassuring, wiping away the mess on Hannibal's thighs, and hesitating (hand hovering in the air before lowering). Hannibal gasps, startling because a small wad of toilet paper and Daddy's fingers brush against a small pearl comprised of flesh and many tiny nerve-endings; something that twitches and begins to sitffen with steady pulses.

Chapter Text

Will opens Hannibal's bedroom door, immediately realizing there's something in the air: salty-sweetness and desperation. Hannibal is underneath the covers and Will pulls them back, revealing Hannibal's flushed cheeks and fingers curled around the pillow. His eyes are clenched shut. He's breathing heavier than normal—body moving against the mattress; a desperate instinctual thrust—forcing out something close to a whimper. Tears are clinging to Hannibal's lashes: shame and fear and confusion and frustration; because the ache between his hips is building into a ceaseless pulse. 

Will understands what's happening and runs a hand through his son's hair, asking if he's feeling okay. Hannibal lets out a little wail, begging Daddy for help, crying because of the discomfort.

"What hurts, baby?" Will asks, frowning. He slides into bed. Hand stroking down Hannibal's side. 

Hesitating is instinctive for Hannibal. Because this is new and frightening. He turns over eventually—light gray sleep pants splotchy with overwhelming wetness; a sticky warmth beading out from his stiff and aching cock in slick trickles. He's trembling and sweaty. Hips stuttering forward, seeking friction. He's growing more distressed. Telling Daddy something's wrong. Telling Daddy he feels too hot down there. Telling Daddy he doesn't feel good. Squirming in self-consciousness when Daddy's lips press against his forehead and reassurance is pouring into each burning ear.

That Daddy's gonna help him. That Daddy knows how to make him feel better. That it's natural to feel this way now, because he's becoming a man.

He whimpers when a large palm comes to cradle the stiff length of his cock, beginning to massage him through his messy sleep pants—smearing the wetness everywhere—making him drip even more and pulse even faster. He's wailing even louder now. Barely able to breathe. Humping Daddy's palm with unskilled thrusts. Grinding against a firm wall of warmth.

He's clinging onto Daddy. Flushing. Gasping. Moaning. There's something building inside him. A pleasure unknown. Toe-curling. Breath-stealing. Tear-inducing.

There's a wail rising forth, breaking free.

A breathless hiccup of "Daddy."

Because this isn't quite enough. Because the pants are too restrictive.

The touching stops for only a moment. Long enough for Hannibal's sleep pants to be slid down. Long enough for Hannibal's small cock to strain against his belly. Long enough for Daddy to offer another reassuring forehead kiss. Long enough for Daddy's thick and warm fingers to curl around him with ease—strokes starting slow—smearing the wetness up and down his leaking shaft. He's engulfed by Daddy's entire hand now. Thrusting without thought. Letting out breathless sobs because it feels so good, so foreign to be touched by Daddy's bare hand. He's leaking even more, sliding through Daddy's fist with slick little squelches that make his cheeks burn even deeper. 

Especially when Daddy's asks him: "Does that feel good, baby, making a mess all over Daddy's hand?" 

Hannibal nods, whining and nosing into Daddy's chest, gulping down a strangled breath when Daddy praises him with a kiss on the temple and calls him "my good, messy boy" and tells him he sounds so pretty—making these pretty noises just for Daddy. Letting Daddy make him feel good. Letting Daddy take care of his sweet boy. Letting Daddy help him through his first one. He doesn't understand at first. Mind too clouded in pleasure. But then it clicks; the tingles building in his groin; the twitches; the shudders; the arching; the slow and slack drag of Daddy's fist stroking upward and downward (letting him learn what to do on his own terms; letting his adolescent body adjust and fall into a natural rhythm).

He presses even closer into Daddy's fist—throbbing, leaking, aching. He doesn't need to plead, but it comes out anyway; another wail of "Daddy." That's when Hannibal's world comes crashing down. That's when Daddy's fingers curl even tighter. Enveloping Hannibal's small, twitching cock in overwhelming friction of faster and firmer strokes—making his mouth gape, making his body shake and bend with each motion, making him leak and leak and leak. 

Will is stunned by how much his baby boy is leaking, soaking wet in his hand. 

Daddy's palm and fingers are slick with Hannibal's desperation, sliding up and down with ease. Faster. Firmer. Faster Firmer. Hannibal is wailing into Daddy's sweater. Voice pitching higher and higher into breathless sobs of overwhelm. He can barely hear Daddy over the thrum of his own heart and the world fading out as he experiences his first one; an orgasm; but Daddy's voice is a constant; soft against his ear; offering praise and comfort and love.

I also have an idea of Will waking Hannibal up and helping him dress for school. In the process, Hannibal experiences his first erection and Will helps him through it and lets him stay home, safe in Daddy's arms.

Chapter Text

The bejeweled mask sits over Hannibal's face, covering sharp cheekbones and a strong nose bridge — identifiable features — as always. He's wearing a light pink undergarment, soft curls peeking out. There are no words resting on a quick tongue — not a single one. He is speechless, because these are not a stranger's lips and fingers laying down inauthentic affections. No, these are touches from Daddy. These are Daddy's palms, sliding up and down Hannibal's waist. These are Daddy's fingers, warm and work-worn, squeezing Hannibal's nipples. These are Daddy's lips, pressing against flushing skin, trailing across Hannibal's clenching jawline. This is Daddy's voice, slowed down by whiskey, yet as sweet and soft as syrup-steeped-cinnamon, praising Hannibal's figure and soft skin — uttering the words beautiful, darlin'.

Usually, Hannibal follows a method: sinks down to both knees, stares up at the waiting client with batting lashes, parts sweet, pink lips — and devours, cheeks hollowing and eyes watering. Today's process — becoming wet by want of a client's wishes, given attention, given praise is entirely new. He's taken countless men before, but never this way — never been doted on — only ever been instructed to be wet enough when the client steps into the room and undresses and slides in without so much as sparing a glance, or thought to Hannibal's own pleasure. Usually, fucking is quick and rough and dirty — over within a few unsatisfying minutes. But this... scorching kisses, prickling scruff, being adored... makes Hannibal's young heart flutter in overwhelm. There is a mouth latching onto Hannibal's earlobe, suctioning and nipping. He moans, breathless and reedy, body thrusting forward — against nothing. 

"No one's ever treated you right, have they?" Will asks, cradling Hannibal's chest and stroking a thumb over a sensitive nipple. He's naked, cock thickening, branding Hannibal's spine. He resists the urge to grind — not yet. "I make sure to take care of my boys, every single one. Don't worry, doll, I'll get you good and wet."

Hannibal's clit, rarely ever given attention by a client — throbs. 

'Please,' almost rushes out, until teeth clamp down, keeping any and all words buried. Daddy would recognize Hannibal's voice, surely, even when drunk. He's soaking wet, warm to the very core. If he looks down, he knows he'll see ruin, begging for a touch. He'll see swollen folds straining against cloth, begging to be bared, begging to be parted. Directly above, he'll see a small, erect clit, begging to be stroked. He's being ruined by his own father — and there is no voice in his racing mind, screaming to stop it — to walk out and run home. 

Touches begin to slow, and then  retreat. Daddy steps back, leaving Hannibal to ponder on what could be occurring behind him. Looking over his shoulder would be breaking a rule. He cannot look back. He can simply look forward and take in the scenery below the balcony, soft yellows and vivid greens. Flowers. Trees. Grass. Behind, something settles with a heavy thud.

"Come sit." Hannibal is beckoned by large hands encircling his waist, gently guided backwards. Looking down in this instance is allowed, and in the next few seconds, Hannibal's mind ceases to function. There is a saddle resting on Daddy's right upper thigh. He feels his belly churn, legs beginning to tremble. Daddy's lips press against Hannibal's hip bone, where the flesh is soft. "Use it like you would my mouth or my hands or fingers." He gasps, shocked by those words coming from Daddy's mouth. "Show me how good it feels — grinding that little cunt against something." 

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Hannibal is sitting in Daddy's lap, starting to squirm because pressure is building inside his bladder. But there is not a bathroom nearby because they're camping in the woods. Daddy's watching the fishing poll on the rail periodically and reading a book out loud to Hannibal. 

Will's arm is around Hannibal's waist. Natural. Normal. Daddy's forearm is resting over Hannibal's bladder (which is beginning to strain and bloat with urine). Pressure is building inside Hannibal's bladder—putting pressure on his clitoris. He's never held his urine this long, so the sensation is new and foreign—it feels good—makes his top teeth dig into his bottom lip—makes him pulse between his legs—makes him want to thrust against Daddy's leg. He tries to remain still. He tries to ignore the wetness seeping into his underwear. He tries. He's scared because this has never happened before. He wonders if Daddy can feel the rapid pulse of his cunt and clitoris. He tries to remain still, but a little thrust occurs on accident and it feels too good to stop, grinding against Daddy's thigh with a whimper. He tries to regain control when Daddy stops reading, eyes closing in expectation of a scolding, but stopping is impossible. His own small legs are clamping around Daddy's large thigh. He's starting to cry. From pleasure. From shame. From fear. Daddy doesn't scold him or express a hint of disgust. No, Daddy is gentle with him, kissing his temple, telling him it's okay, telling him: "you can use me, baby, it's all right. do what feels good." 

Hannibal's bladder is so full it aches and starts cramping up—making the process too painful to continue—but he's still throbbing and so wet, clitoris desperate for friction. "Daddy," is the only word Hannibal can utter. He's afraid of moving too much; afraid it'll make a droplet of urine trickle out; then he won't be able to stop. He doesn't know what to say; what to ask. But Daddy's looking down; sees the bloat of Hannibal's bladder and slips a hand underneath his shirt to lay a warm palm over his distended bladder. 

The pressure is so light, but it makes Hannibal whine and turn even redder when Daddy asks: "Is that what brought this on? Being so full?" 

Hannibal nods, wanting to squirm and whine when Daddy's hand moves upward to caress his sweaty stomach, stroking inside his belly button (like how someone strokes a clitoris)—and the teasing makes him even wetter, makes him want to grind against Daddy's thigh even more despite the crippling cramps, makes him beg to be touched right there (on his clitoris), where he needs it so badly. He's trembling as Daddy's hand slips into his panties. He flushes even more as Daddy's fingers touch his pubic bone. He didn't shave down there, and worries Daddy may find it gross; untidy. But Daddy can sense the turmoil inside his son and presses a kiss against his sweaty temple again, saying: "don't worry, baby, Daddy can find it just fine," before stroking through the thick curls to find Hannibal's stiff clitoris, rubbing soft circles into the bundle of nerves and praising his shy boy. 

Hannibal is mewling, bladder struggling to retain the fluid inside it, because he feels like he's on fire—from Daddy's fingers swirling friction into his clitoris, and the overwhelming pressure making his clitoris throb and ache even more. He's spasming beneath Daddy's touch, moaning out breathless little cries as each swirl makes him shudder and thrust up, worsening the cramps in his belly. He can't stop the inevitable; the fluid wanting to leak out. He can't speak; moaning and gasping as Daddy's strokes reach a faster pace, swirling harder and harder—making him wail and flinch because there's so much pressure on his little clitoris right now. He doesn't want it to stop—not when it feels this good. But he doesn't want to lose control of his bladder either. 

Daddy seems to catch on. Tells him it's okay. Let it happen, baby. 

The fingers on Hannibal's clitoris start to slow. Letting him catch his breath, but he can barely breathe when urine gushes from his urethra because it's making him tingle and writhe in ways he doesn't expect—it feels like he's coming—then Daddy's fingers begin teasing over the tender space between clitoris and cunt, rubbing faster and faster as urine spills onto the dock. He nearly passes out, sobbing and writhing in Daddy's lap until it's over.

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this is a similar starting point like in my other mermay fic idea. Hannibal is Will's merboy son and only ever stays in the ocean with mother. but Will visits often and even swims with them. even though Hannibal's mother is with a merman. someone of her own species. Hannibal loves swimming with Daddy. loves sunbathing on the boat deck with Daddy, too. although it doesn't happen often because Daddy worries about Hannibal's skin and tail drying out. but today is a peaceful day. warm. the air smells of sea salt. Hannibal is eating a fresh caught fish on deck and ends up curling against Daddy's side. Hannibal is a bit heavy to hold due to his tail. yet small enough to fit in Will's lap. small enough to be held in Will's arms. and Will knows his boy loves to cuddle. to nuzzle against Will's neck and sometimes seek shelter from the sun beating down on his face. today is no different. but Hannibal's an adult now—with bodily changes—with raging hormones and animal instinct. 

Will is stroking the soft strands right above Hannibal's nape as usual. listening to Hannibal's content trill—a sweet sound. almost a purr. then something catches Will's attention. something to do with the front of Hannibal's tail. something Will's never seen before. a small opening. a shallow slit beginning to swell and widen and glisten. reddening. taking on the sheen of a polished ruby. Hannibal starts shifting in small motions. tail flicking up as if wanting to thrust. but gravity makes it impossible. a movement done far more easily in water. Will knows what this is—saw it briefly in the same area when thrusting inside Hannibal's mother. a cunt. meant for filling. 

Will's read up on mer-creatures and knows their kind don't touch themselves. it's normal to seek out another. to mate. but Will can't imagine doing such a thing—not to his own boy. his untouched boy who is still trying to thrust upward against something. his leaking boy who is beginning to whine and sink claws into Will's shoulders. begging without words. 

begging for Daddy's help. for this new sensation—this new bodily ache to be stemmed. Will makes a soothing sound against Hannibal's ear. saying "it's all right, baby. let Daddy help you." 

Hannibal's wrist is guided by Will's. lower and lower. now at rest against Hannibal's swollen cunt. Hannibal doesn't pull back. but doesn't move either. Will realizes Hannibal doesn't know what to do. Hannibal's whines are turning frantic. desperate little screeches that burrow straight into Will's heart. "use your fingers, baby." 

Will positions Hannibal's index finger into a curved knuckle over his cunt, dragging it over the tender flesh. slow and tentative. Hannibal trembles. and so does Hannibal's cunt. gushing and rippling with a responsive spasm. Will does the motion again. firmer. a little deeper. barely pushing inside. nails sink into Will's back. scales glint beneath the sky as Hannibal jolts up into the sensation. rocking up against his own fingers (knuckles curved inward against a palm because of the claws). wanting them deeper. Will doesn't press deeper. not yet. maintains this pace. this motion. watching his son's fingers tease himself over and over again. Hannibal's arm is flexing now. wanting to wrench free from Daddy's grasp. to sink those knuckles even deeper. to increase the pace. but Daddy remains in control. only for a few more minutes. telling him to be patient. telling him he's doing so good. telling him he's not ready yet. not wet enough. that it would hurt. that Daddy's here. Daddy's always here. 

Hannibal is panting now. breathless gasps against Will's neck. there's wetness, too. either tears or sweat or residual ocean water. Will kisses Hannibal's cheekbone. offering more reassurance. the skin is almost as red as Hannibal's entrance. Will remembers the books and endless knowledge acquired throughout the years. Will knows Hannibal's clitoris must be larger than a human's. tucked deeper between the flesh. hidden further back. but even more sensitive. even more tender when engorged with blood and arousal. Will knows Hannibal doesn't know where it is yet. or even what it must be. but his trembling boy must be throbbing. desperate for pressure right there. Hannibal's knuckles are moving slowly. learning how to slacken a bit and rub and glide through a dilating slit. opening up because of Daddy. wanting something to press through and settle with a weight. wanting his own fist inside himself. wanting to learn the path of his own insides. wanting to learn how to make this ache stop. 

Will's grasp on Hannibal's wrist remains steady. controlling. shifting back a little.  but Hannibal's growing frustrated. moving too fast so that his nails end up catching on something. a gasp puffs against Will's neck. Hannibal jolts. breath quivering. Will's eyes zero in on the sight of Hannibal's nails caught on the raised flesh of Hannibal's clitoral prepupice. the skin's been pulled back on accident in Hannibal's motions. exposing the ruby-red clitoris to the warm air and Will's gaze—it's throbbing. frantic pulses visible to the naked eye. Hannibal can't touch it—not without risk of tearing through the fragile skin with too-sharp-nails. Hannibal is frozen in Will's arms. whining. afraid to move. trembling even more as the breeze picks up. tail twitching in response. Hannibal's nails are coming close to pressing inward. creeping toward the straining bundle of nerves. Will can't let this happen. Will can't let his sweet boy hurt himself. 

Will moves without thought. patting Hannibal's wrist. telling him to stay put. telling him Daddy's gonna take care of him. Will's fingers settle and Hannibal's breath comes out strangled. a high-pitched and animalistic moan in wake of the first slow-moving swirl. close to a sob. soon Hannibal starts writhing, pressing against Daddy's fingers with small and unpracticed yet rapid thrusts. making noises Will's never heard before. rising cries building up inside Hannibal's shuddering chest. Hannibal's clitoris is sun-warm and bigger than Will's fingers. easy to stroke and watch in response. Will doesn't rush the process. watching Hannibal's glistening slit widen even further, offering endless gushes of arousal. watching Hannibal's cunt clench around nothing. watching Hannibal's clitoris turn even redder. feeling the organ stiffen even more and pulse even faster. beat after beat. mirroring Hannibal's breathless panting. Will knows Hannibal is close. his fingers are growing slippery. almost too wet to retain a consistent rhythm. so are Hannibal's. almost letting go of the clitoral prepucice. but his boy is trying to be obedient and listen to Daddy's instructions. keeping that skin pulled back to let Daddy touch him where he needs it the most. where he's throbbing and so swollen the ache is never ending.  

Will reassures Hannibal with another kiss to the cheek. tells him to relax. eventually, Hannibal's fingers curl into a fist again. a learned shape taught by Daddy only minutes ago. Hannibal's fist knocks into Daddy's moving fingers on accident. and the urge to cry—to let out a wail—arises because everything is overwhelming. everything is new and tender and aching. and the pleasure is dizzying. knocking the breath from Hannibal's lungs. forcing out a sob because angering Daddy is something Hannibal dreads. but Daddy is gentle. always gentle. positioning Hannibal's fist far away. sinking long and thick fingers inside. slowly. blunt-ended nails don't pierce Hannibal's insides. but they drag against squelching walls in the most breath-stealing way. they stroke every inch of Hannibal's soul. make Hannibal's tail want to curl into itself from such overwhelming pleasure. make Hannibal's voice rise into a broken sob. make the world come to a halt. make Hannibal's burning ears ring with sounds of wetness. the slick repetitive plunge of Daddy's fingers conforming to the shape of the wanting cunt inside him. Daddy holds Hannibal steady when it becomes too much. when Hannibal feels something otherworldly creeping up on him. something scary. something foreign. something desperately desired. something necessary. Daddy praises him. tells him he's making Daddy so proud. tells him he's almost there. calling him "darlin'" with a soft southern drawl. pressing another kiss to his face. this time—his temple—damp with sweat and sea salt. 

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Post-Episode 3x11. Hannibal is alone in his cell after Will visited (angry at him for what happened to Molly). He ends up slipping on the tile and bashes his head and passes out; waking up in an alternate universe where he is Will's son. He is alone right now—in their house. There are pictures of Will holding him when he was a baby, a toddler, a child. But Hannibal is too big for that now. In framed photos, he's standing next to Will. Daddy. He's no older than sixteen. 

He uses the bathroom and gasps; staring down in shock at a cunt between his legs instead of a cock. Hair is overgrown down there. Like he never learned how to shave. He leaves the bathroom on wobbly legs, coming face to face with Will, who's just come home. Will. Who smiles at him with fondness and love. Will. Who says "Hey," sweetheart" in greeting and presses a kisses into his hair. Will. Who loves him and shows it. Who lets him initiate a hug—lets him cling onto Will's waist and doesn't push him away. 

The word enters Hannibal's mind without forethought. Daddy. He is loved by Will in this universe—without barriers. He is loved in an unimaginable way—with ease—and another tender kiss pressing against his scalp when he starts to cry—because Will is hugging him in return, holding him close, smoothing a hand up and down his spine, running fingers through his hair, and cradling the back of his head, asking him in a gentle voice: "What's the matter, sweetheart?"

Daddy holds him even tighter when a sob unlatches from his too-dry-throat. 

"I missed you," Hannibal whispers. He wonders if this is real, listening to Daddy huff in response; a sound warm with fondness. He is not used to being touched after being isolated for the last three years. He is melting against Daddy's chest, wanting to press even closer because a warmth is growing in his belly—and something is far too sensitive—beginning to throb right against Daddy's jeans. He knows what this part of himself is: a clitoris—that it's reacting to the stimuli of warm denim pressing directly against it. He fights to reign in the little thrust on the brink of occurring, wanting to rock against Daddy's leg and whine because this sensation is new and dizzying. He manages to take a small step back, cheeks red and lashes fluttering to blink back tears. He shouldn't feel shame, but in this universe it happens easily, because he's only a boy aware of one's body for the first time. He wonders if Daddy could feel it, that faint pulse, that faint warmth between his legs. He ignores it while they eat dinner together, and it fades. That distant throbbing.

But at night, Hannibal doesn't want to sleep alone. He doesn't ask to sleep in Daddy's bed, but Daddy brings him into the room without prompting, inviting him in without words. Showing him it's okay to need to be close tonight, to need Daddy's reassurance. Daddy's fingers are running through his hair again. Soon Daddy is pulling him closer and the motion makes Hannibal's lungs shudder because a large thigh is suddenly pressing against him—accidental. There it is again. That resurfacing ache. That increasing pulse. 

He cannot stop the instinct to rut against Daddy's thigh with a strangled breath—gasping because it feels foreign and good. Too good. Too right. He's barely breathing now. Trying to stop because wetness is seeping into his panties. Making him feel so swollen and tender and empty, each pulse of his clitoris coming even faster now, even more unbearable than the last. And the fingers have paused from stroking against his scalp. They smooth down his back, gentle and reassuring. Daddy presses a kiss against his temple, telling him it's okay to feel this way—to need Daddy to help him through the discomfort—to not be ashamed. 

Hannibal lets out a little moan—a fragile sound, because Daddy's thigh is creeping closer. More insistent. Moving. Up. Down. Pressing forward. He cannot stop thrusting against Daddy's thigh, clitoris so stiff and tender a sob is about to burst free. He's becoming dizzy and sweaty, panties clinging to his soaking wet cunt, making each thrust messy and loud and slick-sounding. 

Daddy is whispering in Hannibal's ear. Telling him it's all right. That he's Daddy's good boy. So beautiful. So perfect like this. Letting himself do what feels right. A moment later, Daddy's fingers are slipping into the waistband of Hannibal's sleep pants and panties, pulling them down, telling him it'll feel better this way—and it does—bare cunt and clitoris grinding against the coarse fabric of Daddy's own pants. He's making even more of a mess, letting out frantic little whimpers because Daddy is so gentle with him, helping him feel good, curling warm hands around his waist and directing each ensuing thrust, helping him maintain a consistent rhythm when his entire body starts to shake and stutter, when the pleasure begins to feel overpowering, making breathing even harder, making him even wetter, making his clitoris and cunt pulse even faster, even more intensely, making him feel raw in the best, most breath-stealing way, rubbing against Daddy until something inside him clenches and unclenches—again and again. He's sobbing now, letting out a wail because this is too much, too good, too fast. 

But Daddy is still murmuring reassurance and love inside Hannibal's ringing ears, helping his shaking body slow down and begin to settle, offering more reassurance when he cannot stop a sporadic grind against Daddy's thigh one last time—entire body jolting. Daddy kisses Hannibal's temple, pulls back to wipe him down and carrie's him into the bathroom for a warm bath, holds him while he comes down from his climax, kisses away his tears of overwhelm, cleans the mess from between his legs with gentle soap-slick fingers, tells him it's okay when his sensitive clitoris pulses in response right against Daddy's wrist. He falls asleep that way—with Daddy shampooing his hair and cleaning the sweat from his tired body. 

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Throughout the past fourteen years, Hannibal's acquainted herself with various deliveries of the word <i>Mommy</i> — but this version spilling from her daughter's sweet, cherry-red lips — pitched higher than usual, scaling into breathless overwhelm, twisting each syllable into a tremulous exhale — is quickly becoming Hannibal's favorite version.

"My wet little darling," she coos, rubbing circles into Will's silk-soft clitoris, over and over again. Her ears are being blessed by the most beautiful sounds: small, cut-off whimpers evolving into breathless, rising moans. "Does that feel nice?"

Will barely manages a nod, damp lashes casting shadows over reddening cheeks. Her erect clitoris is throbbing — she is growing wetter and wetter — because of Mother — because of the way each swirl of a fingertip molds to her like a second skin. Never retreating. Lingering. Pressing more firmly. Will is bound, though not in a physical sense. This where she is destined to lay, with sweaty, trembling thighs spread for Mother... because being fondled... feels good.

For once, she doesn't have to work herself towards orgasm. Tonight, Mommy is doing the wrist-aching effort for her.

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He wakes up from a restless sleep. He wakes up wet. He wakes up throbbing.

He wakes up with a stiffness between two rocking hips, and a frazzled mind unraveling in the span of one uneven breath: releasing something close to a keen, something close to a breathless state of being, with lungs shuddering.

He wakes up thinking of Daddy — wanting to cry out, because something is terribly wrong — with his mind — with his body. Most alarming of all, the soul-deep-pulsations thrumming through his cock — it is leaking now, in steady drips, leaving a mess on both inner thighs — sticky, warm, wretched.