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Wolves

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The first time Willow calls Francis ‘dolly’ is with careful consideration.

Frank did not like to talk about his time before he killed his grandmother, did not like to divulge what physical and mental horrors he went through before finally snapping. But Will knew enough. She knew that pet names were usually trigger words. That they hurt far more than they could ever feel good.

Will stepped into his shoes and felt the words as he did. ‘Baby’, ‘honey’, ‘sweetheart’--they stung like salt to an open sore. But Will could also see how Francis looked at other couples; at their easy intimacy and their casual banter. He wanted it; yearned for it. And Willow was determined to make their relationship ‘normal’, or as much as it could be, one step at a time.

It is their one year anniversary. Francis made dinner while Willow gave a more intimate gift. They held each other in a loose embrace while they caught their breath, sharing a pillow; spooning.

“I love you, Willow,” Frank breathed into her neck.

Will waited a beat, and then--

“I love you too, Dolly.”

There was a moment where Francis did not breathe. Where he processed her response and tried to determine if he was hurt, if he was angry--waiting for a flashback to when he was younger and his life was spiraling out of control. To when he was alone in the world, with no one who cared enough to protect him from the one person that was supposed to love him.

It didn’t come. Not while he was holding Will against his chest, still inside Will. Breathing in only her scent, and the smell of what they had just done permeating the air of their stuffy bedroom.

Francis lavished kisses to the back of her neck, and Will pretended she didn’t feel the dampness of tears against her skin.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The next morning is hard. Will wakes up and draws a line in the sand. Stop seeing Lecter or stop seeing her. Francis knows he has made a mistake, and she can see in his eyes that he takes her threat seriously. He tells her he’ll find a new psychiatrist and that's that. 

But things are still tense around the house. A month later and Will still feels the sting of betrayal like the wound was only hours old. She is short tempered, her moods mercurial. Will can tell that the constant chafing between them is beginning to take its toll. 

They've never had a fight before. Neither know how to put the conflict to rest. 

Along with the feelings of betrayal, Willow feels incredibly paranoid. There is a murderer on the loose that knows their secret. She cannot help but feel like every day could be her last without law enforcement breathing down her neck. Or that Lecter may have the same paranoia and try to get rid of any witnesses. 

It is a month since the disastrous dinner party, and Willow Graham admits to her building paranoia in the midst of a screaming match.

Lungs sore, throat raw; face red. This is the third time Francis and Will have devolved into yelling at one another. It is the first time Willow has revealed what has been eating at her since the doctor declared he was privy to their crimes. 

“Is that what all of this is about?” Francis breathes like he’s blowing smoke from his lungs, his fury runs so hot. “Is this why we have been fighting? You’re scared of the police?”

“It’s at the top of a very long list,” Will hisses. “Right next to it is my utter exasperation that you’re not.”

Francis rubs his face with his hands, breathing slowly--exercises he’s picked up from several shrinks over the years. Willow knows he is counting to twenty, and to disrupt him now would only send them into another screaming match.

It’s tempting.

Slowly, Frank’s hands return to his sides. His eyes are resolute, and his posture is no longer violent. Temper under control, he approaches Will. He cups her hands in his; grip firm but not threatening.

“Let me kill him,” he says, and though his voice is the softest it has been since their fight started, toWill it is as jolting as a gunshot.

“You can’t be serious,” Will tries to take a step backward, to remove herself from the surreal reality that had become their life. But Francis holds firm. His grip on her hands turns painful, his gaze more focused.

“Let me kill him,” he says feverantly. “Let me fix my mistake. Let me fix us.”

Tears spill down Willow’s cheeks. Did he realize what he was asking of her? Francis may be the one to end Lecter, but with her permission she would be just as responsible for his death. Could she do that again, murder in cold blood? Could Will handle killing again, or would this send her right back to an institution? 

A dark part of Will whispers in her ear, a chilling urge to go forward with Frank's suggestion. He is right, after all. To end Lecter would fix everything--send their life back on the path it was before. All Will has to do was say ‘yes’; just agree and Francis would handle the rest. And what was so wrong about killing a murderer? Perhaps in the end they would save someone's life by taking Hannibal Lecter’s. 

The voice of reason argues that it is not her place to decide who lives or who dies.

It could be though, she catches herself thinking. We could end all of this now.

Will thinks about how easy their life had been before that monstrous dinner party so many weeks ago. Before Hannibal Lecter and his stupidly intricate meals; the beast pretending to be human, baring down a plight in the guise of friendship. Muscling into her fiance's head, earning his trust and coaxing their secrets from his lips. 

“It has to be clean,” she hears herself say. “It can never come back to us.”

A look of elation passes over Francis’s features, but it quickly morphs into a solemn nod.

“I’ll be back later tonight,” Frank kisses her forehead, a wide smile breaking across his face. Will has half the mind to tell him how inappropriate his excitement is, but she’s too tired to fight again. “Everything is going to be okay now. It’s all over. We’ll all be happy in the end.”

Except for Lecter, Will thinks blithely.

Francis packs a duffle bag and leaves soon after. Will wonders how he’ll do it--how he’ll kill the snake that has slithered into their life and has tried to pry them apart. Venom would be a poetic end, she thinks, and then very pointed stops thinking about it entirely. She does not want her mind wandering down that path. It never ends well for her.

Instead, Will grabs the half bottle of Jack from the kitchen and sets up camp in the living room. She tells herself it was to help forget what Francis was up to; so she could dull the guilt that would surely come.

In the end, it is to hide the satisfaction she feels for condemning doctor Hannibal Lecter to whatever demise her fiance found fit.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fire is how one cleansed the soul. This is what Francis told Willow as explanation when he described in vivid detail how he killed his grandmother. She was wicked, and wicked people deserved fire and brimstone. Francis Dolarhyde was not a particularly religious person, certainly not Christian, so he took it upon himself to bring the flame to old Mrs. Dolarhyde. If there was no God to reign ashes upon those who were cruel, than man would have to pick up the slack.

She was in her seventies when she was murdered. Police called it an accident. The woman had left one too many candles lit overnight one too many times. An oversight that led to her untimely demise.

Willow, however, thought her death was quite timely; perfectly so. No more air to be wasted by spoiled lungs and sharp words.

As free as his grandmother's murder made Francis, the act of killing still haunted him. It was what put him in the institution in the first place.

“If fire is how one cleanses the soul, then perhaps I should burn as well.”

Hannibal Lecter had been right--Will was the one who talked Dolarhyde out of suicide, not the hospital staff. She had opened herself up to a man she had only known for a few days and admitted the crimes she too had committed. If he deserved to die, so did she. 

Finally the guilt had relented, if it had not entirely abated. Francis could not stomach taking someone’s life who had only ever been kind to him; the idea sent him spiralling and Will convinced him taking his own life would be no different. If Will was not wicked for killing a sociopath that slaughtered a horse, then Francis was not wicked for killing the woman who had tortured him since he was an infant.

There were tears. Guilt and remorse being purged from the body in a physical form. Will had welcomed him into her arms with gentle words and soft lips; consoled Francis until all the pent up emotion was released. Not days later they were both released from the hospital with a clear bill of mental stability; and so their happily ever after started.

If only Francis had mentioned the Red Dragon . If only he had told the whole truth of his grandmother's murder and why he still felt the need to see psychiatrists almost three years after leaving the institution.

Perhaps they could have had their happy ending after all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When Francis comes home it is four in the morning. Will is way past being tipsy and well on her way to being incoherent. The bottle of Jack is almost gone. The thought is a little sad, and she looks at the glass with big, round eyes.

“Why don’t we ever keep a decent stash of alcohol in the house?” she slurs accusingly.

Francis smiles down at her, from where she's lounging on the livingroom floor, tucked in amongst all the dogs. His look is one of fondness, but it is muted by… something. Will’s mind throws some ideas out, of what she is seeing in her fiance’s body language and the light of his eyes. She can’t place it though. The Jack isn’t helping.

“Because you’re always riding the fine line of alcoholism.”

“Am not,” Will tries to puff herself up, to sit up straight and look demanding. Instead the movement just makes her dizzy, and she tips too far back. She falls on top of Sebastian, their Wolfhound mix. The dog takes it with no more a complaint than a muted ‘huff’ , used to Will sleeping on him anyway.

“Okay,” she admits, realizing now that she is much more drunk than she intended. Didn’t she tell herself to stop several shots ago? “Maybe I have a little problem.”

It is now that Will notices something transparent and tubular in her fiance’s hand.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing we need now,” he says, an explanation without actually explaining anything. Francis stuffs the object into the pocket of his dark hoodie, before removing the article of clothing altogether.

Will thinks to be persistent, to find out what Francis is hiding. But she finds herself distracted when after removing his jacket, Frank starts unbuttoning his shirt. Francis Dolarhyde did not have a particularly taxing job, but between the two of them they made all repairs on their home and their cars by hand. With Francis doing most of the heavy lifting, and their farm house being a never ending project , his chest and arms were well defined; stomach taut.

If nothing else, Will’s dolly was a looker.

Will whistles, and giggles at her own immaturity. 

“Come here often?” she mumbles, putting the Jack aside and hefting herself to her feet.

Frank’s expression stays painstakingly neutral. Will’s empathy is marinating in alcohol; she recognizes her fiance's responses are off, but not why or that it is important.

“Bedroom?” Will asks, tugging  at his belt loops. When Frank doesn’t move immediately, Will crowds closer to kiss and nip at his neck. She places more innocent pecks at his stubbled chin and lips, questioning, searching; wanting him to be as excited as she was. Will runs her hand suggestively over the front of Frank’s pants, finds he’s getting hard. Otherwise, he is unresponsive. Shirt unbuttoned but otherwise unphased.

Willow frowns. Maybe she had read the situation wrong. She moves to step away, disappointed, before Francis growls and picks her up. He hefts her over his shoulder like she weighs nothing, hand grabbing her ass and legs to keep her in place. Will yelps, the world spinning dizzyingly. Probably was not the best thing to do to your drunken significant other.

Nevertheless, it shoots an undeniable heat straight between Will’s legs. She laughs, huffs, as Francis carries her to their bedroom.

Frank sets her at the foot of the bed, and makes quick work of her flannel and jeans, practically ripping the articles from her body. Will hears threads tear, a button pops off her collar, but she can’t bring herself to care. She tries to help remove her bra and panties, but impatience has Francis actually ripping the hooks on the back of the bra and pulling the cheap lace of her underwear off her legs. Will mentally notes he owes her new clothes, but the demand of it all has her excitement becoming jittery and warm in her gut.

When he lays her down across their bed he covers her with his body. Francis was a short man, not but an inch taller than Willow, but what he lacked in height he had plenty of in width. Well defined muscles translated to wide shoulders and a barrel chest. The hesitancy from before was stripped away, and as he held her in place with his weight alone, he ravaged her neck, lips, and chest.

It hurt, where he bit. It was unlike Francis to get so violent in bed, but Will finds she does not want him to stop. She closes her eyes and imagines what those bites would look like in the morning, round bruises with suck marks.

“Feels good,” she moans as he locks his jaw around her throat. “More. More.”

Will gets a growl in response before he flips them.

The sudden motion causes another bout of dizziness and disorientation. Will screws her eyes shut to the vertigo, waiting for it to pass.

Frank has no such patience.

Will hears him rip open a condom packet, feels as he rolls it onto himself. Frank grips Will’s hips in a bruising hold, uses his strength to lift her . Will barely has time to register what he’s doing before Francis let's go, gravity and alcohol-weak limbs impaling her on his cock.

“Fuck,” it feels good, it feels so good. Will had not realized how wet she had become, but as Francis grinds himself inside her, completely buried, she finds there is no pain. Just a hot, slick slide.

“Please,” she begs, not sure what she is asking for. Francis seems to know, because suddenly his hands are back at her hips and he’s using her. Lifting Will up and pulling her down, his hips fucking up into her at the same time. It is rougher than he has ever been with her before, and Will likes it. She loves it. Frank fucks into her with a harsh slap of skin and all Willow can think about is how he just killed a man.

Will uses Francis’ chest for support; finds she is unable to hold herself up any longer. She’s close, so close . A heat pooling in her belly, an incredible sensitivity building at her clit. Just a little more and she’d--

Francis stills. He brings her down just as roughly as before, but does not move to fuck into her again. He is breathing heavy, chest heaving and Will knows he must be as close as she is.

“Dolly?” Will’s voice is half pleading and half whining. She opens her eyes and sees that his gaze has focused on something behind them.

A dog? Will wonders, but before she can look he cups her face with both hands and pulls her down for a kiss. It’s wet and sloppy, Will’s inebriated state certainly not helping matters. Frank makes slow, gentle rocking motions with his hips: a tease of what Willow really wants.

“Please,” she says, pulling away as much as he’ll let her. “I want more. Please.”

Frank bares his teeth at her plea, and through the haze of Jack Willow can read lust and violence in his expression. She’s too drunk to be frightened; too horny and used to sleeping with the wolves; her mind and Frank’s crimes. But it does give her pause. 

“Dolly?” this time her question is one of concern.

Francis recognizes this. His lip curls in distaste. It’s not at her, Will can tell, but with her sight. That she can see the cracks in his mask and the beast that has always laid dormant. The feral hound that killed his own grandmother. It has never bother Willow before, but she gets the sense that there is something more. That there is something important, right beneath the surface. In reach if Willow could just concentrate. 

Frank reaches across the bed and rummages clumsily in a bedside table drawer. He pulls out a black blindfold, a fake silk cloth they had bought when they had first moved in together and were still in the experimental stage of their sex life.

“Oh, Dolly, I don’t know about that tonight,” Will starts.

“Please,” Frank says, and it’s the first thing he’s really said since taking her to bed. His voice is rough, like the growls he’s spoken in exclusively since picking her up in the livingroom. It is a lot less like a question than Willow feels in garnered for this moment.

“Okay,” she agrees, half because she doesn’t want to make her fiance uncomfortable with her sight and half because she just wants to finish. 

Frank ties the blindfold for her, won't let her even lift her hands. It is a tight knot, he doesn’t want it coming off. When he’s done Will tries to test the tie, but Frank gathers up her wrists and keeps a grip with one hand. It should concern her, how much control Frank is taking away from her, but at this point Will only feels excited.

She expects them to pick back up where they left off: relentless fucking tumbling toward a quick end. But even after the blindfold is in place Francis does not move. For a moment longer Willow holds still, but she grows impatient and bold and tries to grind her hips down, to entice him. Will hears Francis hiss in pleasure before using his one freehand to grab her hips and hold her still.

Willow cants her head to the side teasingly, fully prepared to play that kind of game, when she feels a dip in the bed from behind. Her smile slips from her face and her heart begins to hammer in her chest: it wasn’t a dog.

“Francis?” her voice comes out more panicked than she intends. He doesn’t answer her.

A second set of hands whisper up her sides before cupping her breasts.

“Francis!”

“Shhh,” hot breath against Will’s ear, a familiar voice sending ice down her spine. Will can feel the warmth of a second body behind her, the texture of a man's chest pressed against her shoulder blades, the hard heat of an erection at her ass.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Will isn’t sure who she is yelling at.

“None of that,” Hannibal tisks , before a thick, silky material in stuffed in her mouth. It is not enough to be a gag, or to disrupt her breathing, just enough to shut her up. From the feel of it, from the scent of it, it is the doctor’s tie.

Words stolen from her, Willow whines pitifully, pleading with a Francis Dolarhyde she thought she knew.

“There’s no reason to be scared, Willy,” the growl in Frank’s voice has simmered down, but it’s still there. A wolf lurking in his throat, ravaging his words and stealing any meaning. “This has to be done. This has to be done.

Francis grinds up into her, cock pressing deep inside Will, and tears start to collect against the dark material against her eyes.

“This will feel good,” Hannibal promises, tongue flicking against her ear. She tries to pull away but he grabs a fist full of her hair. Enough to control, enough to sting. The doctor’s other hand slides slowly away from her chest, down her side; fingers prod at the place she and Francis meet.

“Hmph,” Will arches back, a panicked reflex as a finger slides in alongside Frank’s cock. Hannibal allows the movement. He releases the grip on her hair and instead holds her throat, coaxing Will’s head back until it rests involuntarily against his shoulder.

Frank starts a gentle rhythm: shallow thrusts in and out. Hannibal lets his finger slide along with him, waits until Will’s slick drips down his hand before her inserts a second finger.

Will struggles against Hannibal’s hold then, having a terrible idea of where this is going. She tries to lift herself off the doctor's fingers and Francis’ erection, tries to pull herself forward and away from the serial killer behind her, but between their combined strengths they hold her tightly in place.

“I wouldn’t suggest struggling too much,” the doctor smiles into her ear, warm breath terrifying and erotic. “I am more than confident in my expertise, but you could hurt yourself.”

Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.

A third finger and now it starts to burn. Will figures the alcohol has helped to numb her up to this point, and her activities beforehand would have been good prep. But Willow has never been one for experimentation, nothing like this anyway--she has never used anything more than an average sized man or a dildo before. She was terrified of what two full grown men inside her would feel like--what kind of pain she might feel. 

Lecter adds a fourth finger just as Francis thrusts in; the slide is smooth but Will decides she does not like having so much inside her. Instinctively, with her panic, Will’s body clamps down to try and push out the intruding bodies. It does little more than make Frank moan beneath her.

“Good girl,” Hannibal praises from behind. “You are doing wonderfully. So wet for us.”

An unbearable heat has taken over her face, and Will feels it creep down her neck to her chest. She couldn't deny the slick still building up and dripping onto both Francis cock and Lecter’s hand; her own thighs.

At this point Willow doesn’t know what to expect; she imagines Hannibal just forcing his whole fist alongside Frank’s length, imagines herself tearing open and blood mixing with her natural lubricant. All the gore she dealt with at work slowly churning and combining with her sex life.

Instead, unexpectedly, Francis once more stills and Hannibal removes his fingers. Hope bubbles in Willow’s chest. Perhaps Frank had come, and the doctor had found his own completion with his fucked up power play. Was it over?

Hannibal does not move away. Instead, Willow hears what sounds like the older man stroking himself with the same hand wet from being inside Will. A breathy sigh is released under the man's breath, quiet and contained. He moves closer still, the position a little more comfortable for Willow’s neck, before pressing the damp, hot head of his cock against the abused flesh his fingers had just been stretching. 

It won’t fit, Will thinks hysterically. It won’t fit, it won’t fit, it won’t fit.

The head pushes in, slipping right along side Frank’s still cock.

Will’s body tenses like a seizure patient. She hides her face against Hannibal’s neck, breath coming in short, desperate huffs, barely aware of the keening she was emitting.

“You’re doing so good for me, Willow,” Hannibal praises, gently rocking his hips, inching his way inside of Will. “Just like that, try to relax and open up for me. This doesn’t have to hurt.”

Doesn’t it?

It seems like an eternity before the doctor is completely seated inside her. Will’s breathing is labored, chest heaving; a thin sheen of sweat over her skin.  She feels so full, so impossibly full she fears she may burst.

Alongside the burn of a stretch, there is pleasure. Pleasure in the erotic nature of what was happening to her, and the pleasure she knew her rapists were taking from her body. Some of it was her empathy, Will knew, but some of it was her own. Will was not surprised. Will has known for a long time she was fucked in the head.

Tears soak through the blindfold; a moan escapes her obstructed lips. Willow lets her head lull at Hannibal’s shoulder, nose buried at the crook of his neck. Every breath is scented by sweat and expensive colon, a mix of pine wood and exertion. The smell is wild, and seems fitting for the beast mounting her. Will feels the undeniable urge to bite through the soft flesh there, to maul and mark like the animal she knows deep down she is.

Perhaps then they are all wild things: a pack of rabid wolves, clawing for dominance and territory. Willow lets her eyes close, her mind running away from her. In her minds eyes she sees a mess of teeth and fur and claws.

A set of hands rest at her thighs, another grabs her hips.

“Feel good, Willy,” Francis huffs with the same, unfamiliar gravel. “Need to move.”

There’s a jerk of hips, Frank trying to fuck up with the same hard pace from before. Willow yelps from behind Lecter’s tie. It’s too tight, it’s too much for the same rough treatment from before. He is going to rip her in two. 

“No,” one of Hannibal’s hands leaves Will in order to hold Francis still. There is no growl to the doctor’s words, but there is certainly a beast commanding his voice. The effect is instant, and Frank does not try to move again.

This was not a fight for dominance, Willow realizes. There was no question who was in charge here. This was all symbolic for Hannibal, a means to an end. It frightened Will that she could not determine his motivations, or how this was all going to end for her.

“Patience,” Hannibal coaxes as he releases his grip of Will’s fiance. “Take it slow, let her adjust.”

And then Hannibal is moving inside her. He pulls himself out, a slow slide before gently fucking back inside. Setting the pace, leading by example. Will hears Francis huff in exasperation, but he complies. He obeys, perhaps the most disturbing thing about their whole affair. How much control Hannibal Lecter has over the both of them.

They move in tandem, Hannibal and Francis, fucking in slow, long thrusts. The doctor turns out to be right, because soon Will seems to loosen, their movements don’t seem to be so forced. She can feel a new trickle of her slick moving down their cocks and making her thighs damp and sticky again. It starts to feel good again, deep where the head of their cocks meet, and the slow pace becomes excruciating.

The idea of her becoming desperate for either of them angers Will; she wants it to be over--she wants to come and she wants them out of her. She wants control .

When they next pull out, the same measured thrusts, Will pushes herself up with her thighs before slamming herself back down. She tightens around them, clamping down in a way that usually drives Frank crazy in bed. Francis moans, surprised by the new pace she’s setting and the sudden grip. He tries to hold her down by the legs, so instead she grinds down, moving her hips the way Francis has always liked it. Hannibal grunts from behind, and he adjusts his grip in order to keep her still.

“Do you not like our arrangement, Willow?” Hannibal speaks into her sweat matted hair. He thrusts in sharply next to emphasize just what their arrangement is. The movement throws Will forward, and Francis lets go of her wrists so she can catch herself on his chest. 

Will regains balance and quickly yanks the tie out of her mouth. She moves to do the same with the blindfold but a strong hand stops her.

“It stays,” Hannibal says simply before letting her hand go.

“Go fuck yourself,” Will pants, but she does not move to remove the blindfold again.

“That’s what we have you for,” Francis snarls, and it is so out of character for him Will doesn’t know how to reply at first. But indignity mixes with her temper, and at a loss for words she launches forward and bites . She locks her jaw around the meat of his shoulder, and even when he shouts Will does not let go.

Will expects some kind of violent retaliation, but instead Frank just takes it . Confused, she doesn’t know what to do when Hannibal’s hand rests firm at the back of her neck, holding her in place. He doctor looms over them both, holding them down and overpowering them physically and mentally. What was his end game? What the hell was he getting out of all of this?

“That’s it, Willow,” Hannibal praises as he starts up a more brutal pace. Francis follows suit, trying to keep up with the older man, groaning when the movement pulls at where viscous enamel meets his skin. Will moans around her mouth full, both in pain and in pleasure. The stretch is still a lot to adjust to, but when they are both fully seated inside her it’s almost worth it.

Now that Hannibal deems Will ready for rougher handling he once again takes full control of the pace. He fucks into her with little restraint, the sound of his hips slapping against her ass mixing with the sound of their labored breathing and shared pleasure. Francis thrusts up like an afterthought, hips stuttering every other thrust from over sensitivity. He’s close, Willow can tell, and it both angers and excites her.

Willow moves with them, pulling up when either moves to pull out, and meeting them with the same enthusiasm she had shown Francis before. If this is happening, it would be on her terms, she decides. Frank would come because she deems it so.

Again Willow grips as well as she could around them, and she sucks at where she still bit into flesh.

“Oh fuck,” Francis hisses, and his fingers dig into Willow’s hair. He tries to pull her away, but she is not having it. Will recognizes this is mentally not the same Francis Dolarhyde she has been living with for the past three years, but physically, she still knows his body inside and out.

Will bites down harder, hard enough to break skin. She times it with a downward thrust, and feels as Frank stills entirely, his blood rushing into her mouth and his cum into his condom. It feels like taking back control, and a lot like victory.

Hannibal uses his grip on her neck to pull her away from her mark. It is easier to breath like this, and she pants, blood and saliva dripping down her chin. The doctor lets her adjust her position, only enough to be more comfortable before he uses his superior strength to once again pin her down ontop of Francis.

Willow lets him. She does not fight to straighten herself as the doctor continues to use her body, Francis’ slowly softening cock still tucked inside her. She understands now, to a degree, what this is to the older man. What ritual he is completing.

It was never a fight for dominance, but a show of it. A power play to reveal the true dynamics between them. To put them all in their proper places.

All those weeks ago Hannibal Lecter had revealed his interests in Willow, his plight with pigs and sheep. The wolf was looking for companionship and he had found potential in Francis and Will. But he needed them to know the order of things. 

That is what tonight is all about.

Neither of them last much longer. There’s no need to, Hannibal has already proven that he is the only alpha in the room. Willow is first. She is so overstimulated, both emotionally and physically, she could not possibly hope to hold out for very long. She moans into Francis’ chest, smearing blood across her lips and his skin, as her vaginal walls spasm around both Lecter and Frank’s cocks.

Francis moans and grips viciously at the sheets, over sensitive and their continued movements borderline painful for him.

“Good girl,” Hannibal praises, groaning out his pleasure as he forces himself deep inside of her one more time. He stills, muscles taut, and it suddenly occurs to Will that she doesn’t know if he put a condom on.

The doctor leans forward and buries his teeth in her shoulder, much in the way Will had done to Francis. He bites down until she bleeds, heedless to her shout of pain. Like an animal claiming its mate.

There are a few still moments of them each catching their breath. The room stinks of stale dog and sex, expensive colon and corner store whisky. Will cries quietly, both from the pain pulsing at her shoulder and from everything catching up with her. Her muscles were sore, her head ached with the beginnings of a hangover, and she did not want to even begin thinking about how painful walking was going to be.

Hannibal pulls out with an easy slide, dislodging Frank as he went. With his weight off of her, Willow removes the blindfold and moves to get away from Francis.

“Willy,” Francis starts, arms coming up as if to embrace her. Will sees red, the gentle gesture not belonging in the aftermath of her assault. She swipes at his face, nails like claws, and hear him yelp as she tears at flesh.

“Don’t say that!” she yells down at him. She sees blood welling across his cheekbones and nose and feels elated to see she has caused him pain. She pulls her fist back to inflict more. “Don’t you ever say my name again!”

Her fist connects with a painful jolt. Francis grabs her around the throat in retaliation, strangling her with both hands and the intent to kill. Will can see it in his eyes, an outrage that cries out for blood. This is not the gentle monster Willow fell in love with in a mental institution. This is something much more unhinged.

“Dolarhyde,” Lecter’s voice does not raise and yet to Willow it seems as loud as a jetplane. Francis does not let go immediately, he squeezes harder, at first, growling indignantly. Black spots start to form in Will’s vision before Lecter places a firm hand at Frank’s throat. 

“Dolarhyde,” the doctor says in the same tone of voice, and Francis tosses Will to the side. She lands sprawling on the rumpled bedsheets, coughing and stuttering and trying to inhale. Will isn’t sure how long she lays there, naked and just focusing on breathing . She thinks she may lose some time, blackout for at least several minutes, because when she comes to she is neck deep in a bathtub.

Hannibal stands at the sink, dressed in slacks and a red sweater with its sleeves rolled up. He is fixing his hair in the mirror; a gentleman piecing himself back together after releasing the animal within.

“Do you rape all of your patient's, doctor Lecter?” Will’s voice is raspy and throat terribly sore.

“I don’t consider you a patient.”

“I wasn’t talking about me,” Will has the urge to get up and cover herself with a towel, but she honestly doesn’t trust herself to stand. “I thought psychiatrists were supposed to help their clients.”

“I have helped Francis discover his full potential.”

Will lifts her head from the back of the tub, gingerly sitting up. “He never stopped seeing you, did he?”

“Francis did not lie. He did stop seeing my in a professional manner, just as you had requested.”

“Manipulating the truth, lying, whatever you want to call it. What did you do to him?”

“What he had been searching for since he killed his grandmother, all those years ago; what all the psychiatrists before me tried to hinder. His Becoming.”

“Becoming,” It wasn’t a question because Will already knows what the doctor means. Becoming, evolving… devolving. The violent nature that lurked beneath the skin of a tortured little boy was rearing its ugly head. Will sometimes refered to it as the ‘breaking point’ at work; where killers begin to bare their teeth with abandon. “Is he not interesting enough with just one death on his hands? Does he need to rack up a body count to be worthy of your companionship?” 

“Francis Dolarhyde will never be worthy of being my friend, let alone for me to consider him an equal. Neither would the Red Dragon.”

“Then what is the point? Why change him, why the power play?”

“You know the answer to that already, Willow. If you stop and collect your thoughts, I know you’ll see my design.”

“Doctor Lecter,” Francis’ voice came low from the other side of the bathroom door. “It is done.”

“We will be right out,” Hannibal replies. He picks up a towel from beside the sink and holds it out for Will to take. Her cheeks flush with embarrassment and her temper. On shaky legs, she slowly stands from the tub. Will hastily grabs the towel and pulls it around herself. She uses a second one to dry off, not wanting to be exposed to Lecter anymore than what was unavoidable.

“Get dressed, please,” Hannibal gestures to a stack of clothes left on the toilet seat. He does not budge from his place at the sink, or give any indication he plans to give her privacy. Will doesn’t bother to ask for him to leave, not sure how she would handle being denied any more control than she already has been tonight.

Will dresses as quickly as her body allows her, careful to keep her back to the doctor. Panties and jeans are the hardest part to maneuver; her thighs and her vagina protest every movement. 

“It was never about Francis,” Will says, trying to distract herself. “You never saw a kindred spirit in him.”

Hannibal doesn’t answer, and it’s all the confirmation Willow needs.

“You planned on releasing the Red Dragon from the very beginning, for whatever reason you think justifies destroying a man's sanity. But you couldn’t predict me: Frank’s loving, murderous fiance. The woman who thinks like a killer for the FBI.”

Will slips on the clean bra next, fumbles with the hooks a few times from nerves.

“You conned Francis into trusting you, and he told you all about his suicidal thoughts and how he met me. All about my time in Louisiana,” Soft flannel slides easily over her arms. It feels good to finally wrap herself up in clothing; like a security blanket. It grounds her. “You saw an opportunity in me. A different kind of potential.”

“You haven’t disappointed yet,” Lecter said as Will turned back to face him. “You have exceeded all my expectations.”

“So what’s the plan now? Francis can’t survive as a monster forever. There’s a reason he ended up in that institution: he can’t handle the instability.”

“No,” Hannibal agrees. “I don’t suppose he would be able to fool people for very long. His mask has many cracks, large and small.”

“Then you understand this can’t last.”

“The Red Dragon was never meant to,” the doctor says cryptically. Before Will can prod any further he opens the bathroom door. Will isn’t sure what she’s expecting, but for the bedroom to be just the way they left it… isn’t it. The sheets are rumpled, Will’s old clothes are scattered amongst the floor, and there’s a small blood stain on the bed from where Willow bit Francis.

“This way,” Hannibal says as he walks toward the front door. The dogs are nowhere to be seen, and for a moment Will panics and thinks they’ve done something with them. She hears a scuffling from upstairs, the sound of dog nails on wood flooring and a muted whine from a particularly anxious mutt. Relief hits her like a brick. She will never forgive Francis for what has transpired tonight, but Will thinks she might have killed him if something had happened to their dogs.

Outside the air is crisp from the evening frost. Will’s breath mists the moment she steps outside. The sun has begun to rise, pink fringes lighting up the tree line around their property.

The scent of gasoline smoothers the usually dew-soft smells of the early Virginia morning.

Will spots Francis standing in the middle of a grass field, just to the left of their driveway. There are three empty canisters of gas tossed to the side, and a ring of kindling circling Frank. He is naked, despite the cool weather, and staring up at the sky, arms out in surrender, as though seeking benediction from a god.

There is a zippo in his hand.

“Francis!” Will screams, a terrible urgency pulling her forward. Despite the discomfort she tries to run to him, to stop him. “Francis, stop! What are you doing?”

Strong arms grab her around the waist, holding her back. 

“Get off me you piece of shit,” Will twists and turns and bites to get free. “This is your fault, this is your fault!”

Hannibal pins her to the porch banister, forcing her to watch Frank’s apparent suicide.

“Was this your great scheme? To get him to off himself?” Will sobs. “Francis, you idiot, he’s manipulating you!”

“That is no longer Francis Dolarhyde,” Hannibal said matter-of-factly.

The Red Dragon stood amongst his ramshack pyre with all the intensity William Blake had intended. Despite everything that has happened, Willow understands how Francis had been gaslighted to reach this point. He went to Lecter looking for bedrock, and instead Francis built his trust on quicksand.

“Francis, you can’t leave me!” Will shouts. “Don’t let this dragon consume you! You are you’re own person, you always have been!”

“No,” Francis growls back, finally turning to face them. “I was always a coward, too scared to break free of my chains.”

“You were never a coward, Dolly,” Will insists. “You were not a coward the day you killed your grandmother, and you were not a coward the day you left the institute to spend the rest of your life with me.”

“I was only delaying the inevitable. I was only denying myself,” tears slip down Francis’ cheeks. “My only regret would have been leaving you behind. It’s why it took me so long, I think, to finally face my Becoming. But then I met Doctor Lecter; I knew you would be safe with him. He can understand you, Willow--in a way I never could.”

“Please don’t do this,” Willow begs, her legs have long since given out. She leans her weight against the banister and relies solely on Hannibal’s hold on her to stay upright. “You don’t have to do this, Dolly. You don’t.”

“Hannibal said you would try to kill him; that deep down you were a predator too,” Francis turns back to the sky, to the malevolent god who saw fit to put the Red Dragon in his head. “I didn’t believe Lecter at first, when he told me that he would look after you. That he was a better fit. You told me once how ugly killing was, even when it was a necessity. But you agreed so easily to killing Doctor Lecter; you looked so excited when I came home and you thought I killed a man.”

Will’s tears dry up, her empathy wraps a noose around her. She sees how far gone Francis is. To him, to live after everything that has transpired after the last several months, is more terrible than facing death. Death was not an end to him, but a beginning. The Red Dragon was a new start, the ability to be born into the world strong enough to fend off any who would think to be cruel to him.

This was an abused child trying to turn back time and stop himself from ever becoming a victim.

“This way we don't have to hide from our true natures anymore,” Francis opens the zippo; a small flame came to life in his hands. “This way we can both be free from the chains we hung around our own necks.”

He drops the zippo over a pile of gas drenched straw.

“I love you, Willow Graham.”