Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Will Graham's last few works had been...subpar, to say the least. All the inspiration and motivation had been sucked from the writer on his thirtieth birthday, leaving him dry and uninspired for almost two years. Whilst mystery and horror were very profitable genres with many opportunities, original ideas were far and few between. Everyone had written about family members gone mad, small-town secrets and jaw-dropping mysteries; the market was more than oversaturated with trifling bullshit. Will couldn't see himself joining the list of unoriginal sellouts any time soon. 

Thank God his other books were still paying his bills. 

The writer had tried  everything,  almost everything. For a long time, Will thought about getting dogs, deciding that their lifestyle was enough to keep the man busy and, his mind sated as he thought about his next step in the writing world. He thought about moving to another country, hoping to be inspired by a new location. Taking up new hobbies or entering a romantic relationship always remained as good options until the writer realised...they would take up too much of his time. Will felt, frankly, strung out, ready to give up on his career as a whole. Even if he could spew out a new book, the man doubted it would do as good as his previous collections. 

It was beginning to get frustrating. His publisher and manager jumped down his throat at any given opportunity, aiming to force any bit of content they could from his talented mind. Will wanted nothing more than to escape everyone and everything to be alone. The idea of being utterly alone appealed to the writer more than anything else that he had conjured up so far. All he had to do was...find somewhere that was perfect for him. Months passed before anything caught the writers eyes. 

A hotel. A hotel in need of an off-season caretaker, isolated in the middle of nowhere. Sure, it was just as snowy as Baltimore, but how could he say no to such a beautiful building. The hotel was the most beautiful thing he had seen in a long time, architectural secrets hiding behind the grand walls, surrounded by miles and miles of nothingness. Will would be alone, without a single person to bother him as he allowed ideas to flow in his mind. Tiny, undeveloped thoughts had already begun to bounce around the confines of his mind as he re-read the email, wasting no time in accepting the offer. He would be paid for making sure the grounds were kept safe as he built up and developed his next bestseller. Will couldn't believe his luck. How could he say no?

 He couldn't. 

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Will packed almost all of his belongs, which wasn't much when he looked at his few suitcases. Although the owner had promised there was a typewriter, Will didn't trust himself to use anything other than his own special typewriter. The man had used it to write his previous works, published and unpublished. Writing something new without it would be ridiculous, even if he had a laptop that would speed up the whole process. Every writer had their methods. 

Saying goodbye to his sleepy little town would be easy; nothing interesting ever happened, a change of location sounded more than perfect to the writer. Will packed up his Land Rover, sliding into the driver's side with an excited smile. This was it; he packed up his life to become a janitor at some hotel. A bestseller was close, Will could almost taste it, feel it in his grasp. 

The drive was long and almost as tiring as the last few years of the young writer's life. He stopped off at a motel when it got dark, politely explaining his reason for such a trip to the elderly receptionist. 

"The Overlook, you say?" She chirped, raising a white brow at her guest. 

"Yes. I'm to be the seasonal janitor whilst the hotel is closed for business. I'm going to use it as a chance to write my new book!" Will replied almost proudly, puffing his chest out a little as he spoke. Talking about his works was one of Will's favourite things to do, even when it got slightly repetitive. 

"Ever stayed there before?" 

"No...? Does it have some murderous past that I should be aware of?" He asked with a playful smile, sarcasm dripping from his words. Will didn't believe in ghosts much; sad and lonely people made them up as sources of comfort and, he wasn't lonely. 

The woman pursed her lips, handing the key to the young man before her. She didn't say anything after that rather ambiguous question, simply pointed Will down the hall.  

He huffed, padding down the darkened hallway to his room, falling right onto his bed. Will groaned, tossing and turning uncomfortably for hours, unable to push the woman's words from his mind. She was definitely messing with Will, right? The owners would've made it clear to him in their emails; plus, it would've been online for him to find. Nothing was hiding or waiting for him, nothing besides a new book title. It still gnawed at him, though, as he fell asleep. Will slept almost dreamlessly, images of the hotel floating into the inky blackness of his subconscious, forcing him awake right before his alarm. 

When the writer headed to sign out, Will looked around for the elderly woman from the night before, frowning when she was nowhere to be seen, an older gentleman in her place. 

"Hey, where did the older woman go? I wanted to ask her something." Will hummed as he opened up his wallet, counting a few loose bills for a tip. 

The older man tilted his head in confusion, hanging the key back on its rightful hook. It had been a  very  long time since any woman had worked there. "I'm sorry, Sir, but I have no idea who you are on about." He chuckled softly, attempting to even out the awkwardness that flooded the lobby, taking the tip from Will. "It was me that checked you in last night. Too much to drink, perhaps?"   

"No...no. I'm a recovered alcoholic, haven't touched a drink in years. I apologise, I must have been tired from all the driving. Thank you for your hospitality, have a good day." Smiling, Will made a quick exit. What a sick joke. Will made a note to never stay there again. What good company plays a stupid prank like that? Will knew what he had seen and that he had talked to a woman that night. It hadn't been a dream. 

Will shook his head, turning up the radio as he continued up the snowy hill, body vibrating with excitement as he reached his temporary home. 

'To a new adventure.'  He thought as he climbed out of his car, eyes wide, taking in the beauty of the historic hotel. 

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The writer's jaw was on the floor for a large part of the tour, admiring each and every room with a wide smile. Every room, hallway and, staircase injecting him with inspiration. A book was already writing itself and, they weren't even done with the tour yet. 

"Did you come alone?" The owner hummed, opening the doors to the kitchen, smiling gently at one of the cooks packing up to leave. It was a little surprising to see such a handsome man without a wife or children. He couldn't remember the last time someone came to be the janitor alone. 

"I did. I would've been here sooner but, I stopped to have a rest at a motel," Will poked his head into one of the large freezers, making a note to come and feast on ice cream later that evening. He was allowed to eat anything. 

"I hope you don't get too bored then," Mr Crawford chuckled, clasping his hands together. "But, there is plenty of things to keep you entertained whilst you stay. Your bags have been taken to your room; you are welcome to explore every inch of the hotel once my wife and I have gone if you wish. Every room is yours to look in. We just ask that you stay out of room two-thirty-seven."

Will raised a brow at the older man, smiling a little. "How come?" Questioned the writer, curious as to why that room was off-limits. 

"It is under construction at the moment. A terrible leak last summer left some rot we weren't aware of until now,"   

The writer was more than a little disappointed, expecting there to have been an interesting story behind it all. How boring. He sighed with a nod, following the Crawford's around the hotel until they were back in the lobby. Bella Crawford gave him a few basic rules. Explaining that she had left a few recipes in the kitchen, some interesting books in the library and, many clean, warm sheets in his room. He waved the couple and the cook off, closing the large doors as snow began to fall. 

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Now that he was alone, Will's first order of business was to lock up the drinking room, shutting out any chance of a relapse. The bar was beautiful and, the room itself was nice and comforting, but he wasn't willing to let years of hard work go down the drain. With a shake of keys, the door was locked. He felt much safer and secure in himself. 

"Out of sight, out of mind!" Will smiled to himself, shoving the keys into his jean pocket. His footsteps stilled, snapping around with a harsh expression. Had someone just...replied to him? He could've sworn everyone else had left. It was just him there, right? "Hello?!" He called, rocking back and forth on his heels as he waited. Waited. Waited. Nothing. "Fucking hell, Graham. Get a grip..." grumbled the writer as he continued down the hall, heading toward the lobby, setting up his typewriter. 

The silence was quite pleasant, stilling the writer's mind as he jotted some ideas into his notepad. It was rare for Will's mind and surroundings to be this quiet. Usually, he was juggling multiple trains of thoughts at once, each one fighting for space in his busy head. Coming here was one of the best ideas the young writer had thought up in a long time. Things were going to be done and, money was going to be made. Will opened his laptop, connecting to the internet before clicking onto YouTube, turning on some soft rock, nodding his head along. Working with music was always comforting, inspiring him on occasion. The young writer couldn't stop his mind from drifting back to the motel, lazily sketching the woman behind the counter as he juggled a few ideas around. 

He could've sworn a woman served him; small, round, square glasses perched on the tip of her button nose. She was the textbook description of a homely grandma, her pursed lips burned into the man's memory. What had she meant by her question and her response to Will's answer? Had the older man been lying to him? Will didn't find his little joke amusing at all, deceiving and confusing guests was not good customer service. He leant back in his chair, eyes slipping closed as he began to air guitar along to one of his favourite songs, smiling widely. Will's heart almost leapt out of his chest when classical music started blaring from his laptop, much louder than his rock music, nearly falling out of his chair from the shock. 

"What the fuck?" He grumbled, scrambling to sit up properly, shutting off the music as quickly as he could. Will never listened to classical music, hating how floaty and wordless it was. Never once had he searched for it on his laptop, let alone queue it up to play. The change was so abrupt that it had to be done manually, but the writer certainly hadn't changed it himself. "Fuck this..." he huffed out, pulling his cigarettes from his coat. There was a no-smoking sign in the lobby, but The Crawford's weren't around to tell him off, so he slipped a cigarette between his lips. Will lit it, turning off his laptop before deciding to take the stairs up to his bedroom, humming to himself. 

Just as Bella had told him, a pile of blankets were set on his bed. Will held the cigarette between his lips as he put them on the bed, stopping once he had added three extra layers to the already-made bed. He stubbed out his finished cigarette in the ashtray on the bedside table, frowning slightly. Will could've sworn Bella had told him that smoking wasn't allowed in any room, making him promise to go outside if he wanted to do that.  'Weird,'  he thought, kicking off his shoes as he fell into bed, gazing up at the ceiling. It was only five, but Will could feel exhaustion creeping up on him, pulling him under the many layers of warm sheets. 

"A nap won't hurt..." mumbled the young man, rolling on his side to cuddle up to his spare pillows. Famous last words. Small naps never really were small naps, often pulling the man into a deep sleep that would last hours. Dinner and his work could wait for a little; catching up on his beauty-sleep was much more pressing. 

Will felt safe as he slept, as if someone were watching over him, making sure the monsters stayed hidden under the bed. Once again, his slumber was fairly quiet, his mind still as he slept. However, Will couldn't help but frown in his sleep as flashes of a suit-clad man seeped into the inky blackness, his face completely distorted. 

He woke with a start, gasping softly as he looked around his room, grounding himself. It was almost 11 pm. For a second, the young writer had forgotten he wouldn't be sleeping in his own bed for a very long time. Will sighed, pushing long curls from his face as he got out of bed, pulling on his flannel before heading out of his room, closing the door behind him. His bright eyes scanned the hallways, subconsciously making sure he was truly alone. The earlier events of the voice and music still fresh in his mind as he made his way down to the kitchen, stomach set on the promise of ice cream for dinner. 

It felt a little juvenile, sitting on the kitchen floor, gripping a cardboard ice cream tub to his chest, shoving the sweet treat into his mouth, but Will didn't care. There was plenty of  real  food for the writer to eat, but spoiling himself after a long car ride felt well deserved. 

He should really get back to work...and turn off that god-forsaken classical music. 

Chapter Text

The hours between being sat on the kitchen floor and it suddenly being five in the afternoon the next day were...more than a little foggy for the writer. Will couldn't remember doing any more of his work or taking himself to bed; dressing himself had also slipped from his memory. He pulled at the dark turtleneck, frowning in confusion as he tried to remember when he had put it on. The drive must've really tired him out. 

Will did a lap around the whole hotel before heading back into the lobby, sitting down at the large desk with a sigh. Everything had been left the same as the last time he  remembered  sitting there, besides for a few things. His notepad had been further written in, this time in a red pen in handwriting that wasn't his. It was beautiful, letters joining together with feather-light precision, gorgeous calligraphy next to his sloppy scribbles. Had he done this in his sleepy state? Will sat down and tried to replicate the words, letting out a frustrated grunt when it failed. 

"Get on with your work..." he muttered to himself, tossing the black ballpoint onto the desk, turning his attention to the typewriter. An hour of work, then he could take a small break. It seemed very reasonable, something Will could work towards without getting distracted or becoming disinterested. He lit up another cigarette, holding it between his lips as his fingers worked at the keys, soft clicking sounds filling the otherwise silent lobby. " Fuck! " Groaned the man as ash fell onto his lap, burning him for just a moment. Had his cigarette already burnt out? Will had only just put it in his mouth, had he not? He muttered angrily to himself as he stubbed it out in the suddenly full ashtray. The scent of burnt out cigarettes and old ash invading his nostrils, filling his throat. 

He coughed slightly, chocking on his spit as he opened up his cigarette box, rubbing his face at the discovery. One cigarette. The writer had smoked nine cigarettes and, he hadn't even noticed until now. Will felt rotten, stomach growling, hands shaking. Smoking cigarettes wasn't going to fulfil his hunger; he had learnt that in college. He looked at his watch, noting that just over an hour had passed. A break wouldn't hurt, not when he was starving. 

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Will hummed to himself as he made his way to the industrial kitchen, stomaching roaring to life as a beautiful, delicious scent wafted in his direction. He blinked dumbly when his eyes landed on a plate full of food. Steak, vegetables, potatoes sat on the dish, with a large glass of cloudy lemonade, one of his favourite drinks since Will had turned away from alcohol. He definitely didn't remember making all that; cooking wasn't one of the writers strong points. Will pulled up a chair, taking a seat before tucking into his food, sighing happily around his fork. It tasted amazing, melting in his mouth, warming the deepest depths of his stomach with every mouthful. Will couldn't have made it; his skills didn't reach that far, even if it was only steak. With all his writing, book signings and busy lifestyle, the young writer couldn't remember the last time he sat down and had a proper meal. 

Much like in his sleep, Will felt as though someone was watching him. The feeling wasn't menacing, more so curious and pleased like a person decking if they think someone is attractive or not. He could feel the gaze on his back, side and front, capturing him from every angle as he nearly devoured the magically-appearing meal. Oddly enough, the writer found himself almost enjoying the feeling, eyes dancing around the room to hopefully capture whatever was looking at him. A camera, perhaps? Maybe an animal had found its way into the hotel, but Will doubted that. "Thank you," he called out softly, laughing to himself. How ridiculous, speaking out into the empty openness as if something or someone will respond. Will shook his head, standing to wash up his plate after eating every morsel of food, belly full and warm. 

"You're very welcome." A deep, accented voice filled out the kitchen as Will washed up his plate, wrapping around his body tightly. The young man shrieked, turning around as quickly as his body would allow. Nothing. Will could've sworn he heard a voice, one just a velvety as the calligraphy in his notepad. The feeling of being watched had disappeared, leaving the young man's knees feeling weak, heart rabbiting as he collected himself. 

"Who's there?" Shouted the writer, hoping that his voice sounded much more threatening than he felt. His eyes scanned the hallway twice, turning his head to the right with a gasp. Will blinked hard, rubbing at his face to make sure he was  really  seeing what he  thought  he was seeing. At the end of the corridor, stood in the centre of the hall, was a little girl, smiling sweetly at Will. The girl had long brown hair, tied back in ribboned pigtails, clad in a blue and white dress. "Hey! H-How did you get here?!" Will called, watching with his jaw on the floor as the little girl waved at him, her polished shoes flashing against the carpet, dashing away from the writer. 

Will was glued to the spot for a moment or two, unable to move in the way he wanted to. After what felt like hours, his legs finally spurred to life, carrying him down the hallway after the young girl. He could hear her small footsteps bounding up the staircase, making their way down one of the main always. "Come back!... How did you get here?!" He panted out, racing her toward the elevator doors. She jumped in, silver doors almost closing on Will's hand as he forced them back open, heart stopping, blood running cold. 

She was  gone . 

Stumbling back as the elevator bel went off, Will turned around.  Holy shit , had that just happened? Will couldn't believe himself. Was he really lonely enough to be making things up? The man couldn't even chalk it up to alcohol induced visions; alcohol hadn't touched his lips in years. He sulked back down the stairs, grumbling to himself as he walked, arms crossed tightly over his chest. What the  fuck  was wrong with this place and, why hadn't the Crawford's disclosed to him that they had weird little girls running all over the place? 

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The brunette pushed his curls out of his eyes, whining a little when he felt the sheen of cold sweat on his forehead. He was getting old if chasing that...thing around tired him out. So far, his early thirties weren't treating him too kindly. 

He pulled on his red and white flannel as he walked through the lobby, deciding to take himself back to the kitchen - the dishes weren't going to wash themselves. On his way to the kitchen, Will had to pass the main hall, the room he had locked on his first day.  The room he had locked.  He stopped, slowly moving his head to the side, breath catching in his throat. The door was open, pushed ajar just enough for the writer to see the red carpets and glowing lights, soft noise filtering through the crack. 

Curiously, Will pressed his ear to the door, brows knitting together as he strained to listen to what was going on. The soft clattering of ice cubes falling into a glass cup echoed, silky liquid flooding the cup, bottle caps popping and twisting. Someone was making a drink, whisky on the rocks from what Will could smell, nose overly sensitive to liquor now. The same classical music that had made him jump out of his skin the day before mixed in with the quiet clattering, bringing a small smile to his lip. Slowly, with one hand, he pushed the door open, poking his head around the threshold. 

Leant against the bar was one of the most handsome men the ' writer had ever seen. He was tall, dressed in the finest suit money could buy, peppered hair slicked back, smirk pressed to his lips as his large hand gripped his glass. The stranger's dark eyes raked over Will's body, taking a sip from the glass, licking a wet bead from his lip. "What the fuck are you doing here? All guests were supposed to leave days ago." Will finally questioned after a moment of jaw-dropping silence. 

"Well, that's one way to give thanks to the chef," he chuckled, the same velvety voice Will had heard before filing the dimly lit room. 

It made the writer's knees buckle slightly, blinking dumbly at the well-dressed figure before swallowing. "Oh...that was you?" 

The man hummed, setting his cup down on the coaster, shifting it slightly with one of his deft fingers before taking a step closer to the short brunette. His strides were powerful and confident; the scent of his clearly expensive aftershave hugged Will. "It was. Ice cream for dinner is not good for you, Will. You don't want to thin out in a place like this. It gets awfully cold." The man's nose crinkled, smirk widening as he spoke, gauging every little reaction Will gave. "I apologise if  she  gave you a fright, Will. I thought you might need a little fun." The man winked, stepping closer, almost invading Will's bubble. 

How did this  stranger  know his name? Had he spoken to him during the time he couldn't remember? No, someone as earth-shatteringly handsome as the man would've stayed in Will's mind. "Uh...no, who?" He shook his head, curls bouncing around his face. "Who are you? Why are you still here? Did the Crawford's say you could stay?" Interrogated Will, dark brows raised as he awaited a response. 

"Hannibal Lecter," he held his hand out, "nice to meet you." Hannibal's eyes raked over the younger man once again, taking in every inch of him now he was close up. He had spotted the young man from afar a few times; even watched him sleep for a few hours the night previous. It would be ridiculous to say that the visitor wasn't handsome; Hannibal knew to appreciate beauty and art when he saw it. Will was most definitely beautiful, gorgeous curls falling into his blushing, confused face. It had been a great pleasure to dress him that morning, hoping he would be able to dress him every morning. 

Will bit his lip, chewing the pink flesh as he looked down at the man's large hand, swallowing a sigh as he admired just how  big  it was. He took the man's hand in his own, gasping softly, pulling back instantly. Hannibal's hand was cold, freezing even, against Will's warm skin, causing the younger man to shiver. He  looked  warm but felt like ice. "You didn't answer my question, Hannibal. Why are you here?" 

The man tutted, amused by the young man's persistence. "Curious boy, aren't you, Will? I suppose you could say that I am a permanent guest here, at The Overlook." Hannibal smiled, tilting his head a little to look down at the man. Surely he had heard about all the deaths that had taken place? Maybe this sweet creature had chosen to be blind, or he was just too lazy to search long enough. "I am dead. A ghost or spirits of sorts, if you will. I died a very long time ago, but this hotel is wonderous, allowing me to choose whom I am seen by." Explained the older man, his voice smooth and level as he spoke, readying himself for the onslaught of questions that would no doubt be thrown at him. 

What Hannibal wasn't expecting, however, was the loud laugh that came from the brunette. Will gripped his stomach, fingers curling in the soft fabric of his turtleneck, roaring laughter filling the room. He rubbed his eyes once, twice, three times, but Hannibal didn't disappear. When his eyes opened, the tall man still stood there, staring at the writer with mock-amusement. "You really expect me to believe that? I just touched you...You touched me. We touched. You're here. I'm not crazy-"

"No one ever suggested that," the man interjected, brows raising as he watched panic set in. 

"Only crazy people say they've seen ghosts... You aren't a ghost! This is just a dream. Ridiculous." Will looked around the room, blinking as hard as he could, hopelessly trying to blink the man away. His head was spinning, thoughts flooding his mind, spilling out of his ears and nose as he tried to collect himself. The air in the room grew thick, making it hard for the young writer to breathe, unable to keep up with his rabbiting heart. Inky black was creeping into his vision, something he hadn't experienced since his addiction. The weak feeling in his knees intensified, body swaying, eyes rolling into the back of his head before his body hit the floor with a loud  'thud' . 

Hannibal looked down at the unconscious man, using his foot to double-check Will's relationship with consciousness. He was out, fainting due to being utterly overwhelmed. It wasn't the first time a visitor had passed out, but it was the first time Hannibal cared. With a small grunt, the man heaved Will's body into his arms, carrying him out of the room bridal style. His drink could wait. "Dear me, Alexa," he hummed to the young girl in the hallway. "I think we gave the poor boy quite a fright,"

"Oh, dear! I was having fun," the young girl frowned, linking arms with her twin sister, following Hannibal up the stairs. The man had the option to use the elevator, but he enjoyed taking the stairs. 

"I'm afraid you will have to wait until our guest is feeling a little better. You two run along now, get yourself some ice cream." Hannibal instructed gently, watching as the two girls disappeared down the hall. Once they were out of sight, Hannibal continued the short journey to the writer's bedroom, laying him down in his nest of blankets. With light, slow movements, the ghostly man undressed their guest, tucking him into bed. 

He sighed, brushing sweat-damp curls from the man's peaceful face. Hannibal stayed for a few hours, watching the steady rise and fall of the young man's chest as he slept off his unconsciousness, stirring a few times before slipping back into a much-needed sleep. Eventually, Hannibal's bedroom called his name, pulling him back to the confines of his lonesome space. "Rest up, Will. You'll need it here." He whispered, tucking him in one final time before disappearing to his own room, sad to leave Will in that big bed alone. 

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For the following week, Will found himself missing the presence of the ghostly man, patiently waiting for him to show himself again. Every night the writer would find himself in the kitchen tucking into another wonderful meal. Thanking the open space around him, secretly hoping that he would be watching. Of course, Will could feel the ghosts eye's on him, occasionally catching glimpses of him in the lobby or his bedroom after a hot shower. Despite all the sirens going off in his mind, the young writer found himself enjoying the dark set of eyes on him. Watching him move through the spacious hotel, keeping him safe as he slept at night. 

However, in his third week, things began to get...weird. Instead of Hannibal visiting him in his dreams, flowing walls of red engulfed his unconscious, filling out his lungs until it hurt to even think about breathing. Most mornings, he would wake up screaming, covered in sweat as he raced out of his bedroom door, running to check if the walls had truly come down. They never did until one evening. 

Will rubbed at his temples, unable to finish the sentence he had started on his typewriter. "Fuck this! Come on, Graham!" His fists met the table as he spoke, grunting lowly. Concentrating was more than hard in a place like The Overlook, so many rooms for the writer to explore. He got to his feet whilst gently stroking his typewriter, giving it a small tap, "I'll be back. I'm hungry." Speaking to himself always felt good, even if it wasn't just to himself anymore. 

Walking down the hall was the easy part; passing the large elevator was hard. Will stilled, tilting his head up as his nostrils flared, flaring them again. His brows knitted together, tilting his head again to look around the hall, breathing in deeply. The scent of blood filling his lungs so quickly that it burnt, turning them from bright pink to a dull grey in seconds. Slowly, but far too quickly, the elevator doors slid open, fountains of bright crimson liquid flooding from the gaps in the metal, cascading toward the writer. Every inch of his body told him to move, to run as fast as he could in the other direction, but...he couldn't. Will was glued to the spot as the irony waves crashed into him, matting his curls to his forehead, slamming his body into the floor.

He gasped, flipping himself over on his stomach to rid his throat of the hot fluid. Will gripped the carpet, his body trembling as he tried to process what had just happened, frantic eyes looking all around. It was gone, all of it. Not a single drop of red stained the walls or carpet around him, yet it covered his face and hands. Scrambling to his feet, the young writer ran to the closest mirror, staring into it, bottom lip worrying as he watched blood drip down his face. "It's just a dream. You're asleep, in bed." Whispered Will, turning on the bathroom taps, splashing lukewarm water onto his face. 

"Gone." Will laughed, checking out his clean face, free of blood. The whole incident had to be another one of his ridiculously imaginative dreams. Hyper-realistic events his mind had conjured up. 

"Is everything okay, Will?" Hannibal's deep voice filled the bathroom suddenly, leaning against the doorway, head tilted curiously. "I heard you screaming. Did you see a rat?" 

The visible presence of the ghost calmed Will at a ridiculous speed, shoulders dropping, sighing loudly. Was he screaming? He couldn't remember doing so, but his throat did feel a little sore. "Oh...no, I'm just awful tired," he chuckled awkwardly, drying his face and hands on a warm towel. 

He remained standing in the door, not wishing to step in front of the mirrors. Will didn't need another fright; the poor mad had already been through enough. "Are things getting a little...strange? As beautiful as this hotel is, some things inside it are quite the opposite." The words didn't sound like a warning, more like a prequel to a fun game children play. 

"Yes," Will breathed out, stepping past the older man, entering the previously bloody hallway. "But, I'm busy, Hannibal. I have a book to write and no time to entertain your silly fucking games!" He snapped, narrowing his bright eyes. 

The older man concealed a frown, upset by the sudden outburst, but not surprised. He tutted quietly, eyes casting down to his polished shoes for a moment. If Will wanted to be left alone, his wish was Hannibal's command. "Do you no longer wish to see me, Will?" Hannibal asked, allowing the bathroom door to close behind him. 

Blinking, the young writer took a step closer to the ghost, his warmth engulfing the older man. "Leave me the fuck alone! Go back to whatever wrenched hole you climbed out of before I kill you again!" The words rolled off of Will's tongue as if they were rehearsed, almost like they weren't his own. Anger was near enough steaming out of the living man's ears, fuelled on the pure shots of fear he had felt moments ago. 

"Okay." That was all the ghost said in response, chuckling deep in his chest. Before Will could spout any more angry curses, Hannibal was gone. It was as if a blink had wiped him from the hotel completely, leaving Will all alone once again. 

"This is utter bullshit!" He yelled, storming back down the hall to his desk. Will couldn't keep still, working through his packet of cigarettes as quickly as he could smoke them, putting them out directly on the wood. He could feel the anger still, hot and heavy in his veins as it moved around his body, jaw clenched. The sheer abuse the typewriter's keys were enduring was surely enough to make them break. Trembling under Will's powerful fingers, loud  clacks  echoing in the large building. 

It had been a very long time since he had felt this type of rage. What had brought it on? Surely, that pompous ass hole wasn't enough to make him explained, right? No, it was whatever was going on in the Overlook - feeding the writer's emotions, spilling onto the pages of his book. When things had gotten this bad previously, Will could always rely on the hot spill of whisky down his throat to ease away from his anger. 

The bar was only down the hall. One drink wouldn't hurt. Will could control himself. After all, he was a grown man. 

Chapter Text

"One drink," he mumbled, taking himself behind the bar. "Just one drink. You can do it." Will sighed, picking up the heavy bottle, watching as the golden liquid sloshed around, lapping at the glass. He popped the lid off, carefully setting it down as he moved to grab himself a glass. The writer would take his time with this. This was the first time he would drink in years; it wasn't something someone should rush. 

The sound of the square ice cubes hitting glass sounded throughout the Ballroom, sending shivers up the man's spine, making his toes tingle. For a moment, Will simply stared, watching droplets of water spread out, condensation building on the container already. The room-temperature whiskey soon hugged the ice, trickling between the gaps; one finger, that was all he would allow himself. "Well...two wouldn't hurt," mumbled the man, looking around the room as if anyone else were there to tell him 'no'. Will was right. He deserved the drink, having been almost a decade since having one. All he wanted was to calm down and soothe his anger, still hot in his pulsing veins. 

Will took a small sip, grunting at the harsh burn that flooded his throat. He swiped the liquid around in his glass, hand beginning to tremble slightly as he fought the urge to swallow every drop in one. Maybe having a drink was a mistake. It only took a second to unwind years and years of hard work. Will shuddered at the feeling of eyes on him, turning his head towards the door, unsurprised to see no one there. 

"I told you to leave me alone!" Yelled the young writer, knocking back his drink with another grunt. It did nothing to calm his nerves, the anger swirling with his blood beginning to bubble, crawling under his skin like a billion bugs. He wanted to scratch at his skin, pull at it until it ripped from his muscles, clawing until white bone glinted under the soft yellow lights of the Ballroom. The eyes left him, leaving Will utterly alone, tiny in the enormous room. 

He dropped his suddenly-full glass with a pained cry, gripping at his wrist until his knuckles went white. Whiskey spilt onto the red carpet, wetting his socks in the process. When had he filled his glass back up? His shaky hand grabbed the bottle, stomach lurching when he realised it was almost half empty.  Fuck . Will's breath hitched in his throat as tears sprung his eyes, pain still shooting up his arms. He looked down, searching his arm for any injuries; nothing. "What..." slurred the man, wiping the cold sweat from his forehead. 

Will shook his head and sniffled, heading towards the Ballroom door, padding out into the hallway. "Huh?" He blinked hard, finding himself back in the room, almost as if he had never left. 

He walked out again, quicker this time. 

Quicker the next, huffing in confusion when he was once again...in the middle of the Ballroom. The room around him had begun to spin, making his movements a little harder each time he tried to escape. 

Running. Running. Running. Each time he ran, Will would always land in the same place. In the middle of that ever-growing room. He screamed, allowing himself to fold in on himself, pulling his knees to his chest. Will cried softly into his knees, overwhelmingly confused about  what  was happening. "Please...I just want to do my work..." he called out to no one in particular, wiping his cheeks with his shaky hands, feeling a thousand menacing eyes on him. The glass bottle caught his eyes, glinting again under the dimming lights. When...did he go and get it? The last time he had seen it, it was on the bar, hadn't it? 

With a deep, heavy sigh, Will popped off the cap. He licked his lips, screwing his eyes shut before bringing the neck of the bottle to his mouth, drinking. The author, previously almost ten years sober, finished every drop of expensive, rich whiskey. He wiped his lips, choking on a half-hiccup, half-sob. Will felt disgusting, hardly able to get to his feet as the room around him swayed, making the walk to the door much harder than previous. This time, Will didn't return to the room, stumbling through the hallway instead. He couldn't shake the slimy, heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach, realising the sensation of a thousand menacing eyes hadn't left him. 

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His typewriter brought no comfort to the young writer, unable to tell 'U's apart from 'V's, letters looking like shapes and blurs. The man's fingers abused the keys, sounds echoing in the hotel's lobby once more. Will could hardly keep track of what was happening; everything around him was topsy-turvy. He hated himself for what he had done, hated the hotel for  making  him do it. 

He felt alone, even more so than he usually did, unable to feel the comforting eyes on him that Will had felt when he had first arrived. The young writer didn't  want  to be alone, not when he felt as awful as he did. Why did he tell Hannibal to leave? The man had only asked him questions; being stuck in this place for so long must get boring. Will was a prideful man, but right now...he really needed someone to tell him it would all be okay. 

"Ha-Hannibal!" Called out the man, voice shaky and out of pitch. He sniffled, wiping the snot from his nose, "Hannibal! Ple...Please, I didn't mean what I said!" Will could feel eyes on him, intelligent and dark on the back of his head. He turned, sobbing dryly when the man he wanted, he needed, wasn't there. "Come on! Please!" 

The ghostly man sighed, watching from his position behind the younger man, brows knitted together as he watched the writer shudder and sob. Poor Will, sobriety didn't come easy yet...it was gone within a flash of an eye. He didn't know exactly who or what had forced Will to stay in the room and drink until he couldn't walk, but Hannibal wasn't happy with them at all. 

"No need to cry, Will. I'm here." Hannibal finally spoke, making himself visible to the saddened man. He sunk to his knees, allowing Will to wrap his arms around him, burying his wet face into cold skin. Hannibal's fingers found their way into his curls, stroking them with a slow tenderness whilst the younger man cried. "I'm here. Everything is okay. I'll help you feel better." 

"W-Wouldn't let me leave. I drank all of it." He mumbled into the man's neck, sniffling. Will's stomach felt both full and empty at the same time, acid dancing up and down his throat as he fought the urge to vomit. "I-I feel so rancid..."

"Hush now," the ghost gently pulled Will's face from his neck, his icy thumb brushing away hot tears. It baffled Hannibal, leaving him unable to figure out how Will was so beautiful, no matter what. Even in both smoking anger and blubbering sadness, Will Graham was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. In his current state, curls stuck to his forehead, cheeks pink and lips trembling, the broken thing was gorgeous. No, Will wasn't broken yet. He could tell the young writer was strong, able to withstand almost anything thrown his way. It would take more than a bottle of whiskey to break him. 

Hannibal carefully lifted the smaller man into his arms, wrapping Will's legs around his middle, cradling him to his chest. "Let's get you a bath. You will feel much better, I promise you." The man soothed as he carried him up the stairs. Hannibal considered taking Will to his own bedroom, not yet. The young man wasn't quite ready to see Hannibal in that way. 

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The ghostly man filled up the bathtub in Will's room, adding some sweet-smelling bubbles; if it's one thing The Overlook could do, it was picking wonderful smelling soaps. Bella had exquisite taste. The older man helped Will into the bath, averting his eyes, as to not view the man's naked body in his vulnerable state. Hidden under all the bubbles and warm water Will's milky skin still poked through in certain places, pale feet perched on the edge of the tub. 

Will's head fell against the corner of the porcelain, eyes half-lidded, trained on the older man. "Thank you...I'm-"

"Don't. It's okay," Hannibal cut him off, brushing damp curls from his blushing face. "Will you let me wash you?" He was already reaching for the body wash, raising his light brows expectantly. 

The offer brought a small smile to Will's lips, cheeks turning a rosy red. The man hadn't been with other men much, never having much time to pursue what he wanted. Although Hannibal wasn't suggesting anything sexual, the act of being washed by another man seemed very intimate; Will wasn't overturned to the idea. "Yes, please." He whispered, blinking his thick cow lashes at the man as he sat up. 

He poured some soap into his hands, lathering it up in his palms before beginning to rub it on the younger man's wet skin. Will's skin was so  warm  and  smooth  under his touch, feeling goosebumps rise in response to the touch. Watching the young man's eyes slip closed, clearly relaxing in the water, made the ghosts heart swell. It had been so very long since anyone had stepped foot in The Overlook and taken his attention. Will had done so perfectly, captivating the old soul since his first day there. "Lean your head back for me," Hannibal instructed once he had washed the suds from Will's beautiful body. 

"Your hands are cold," Will whispered through a little chuckle; although, he didn't mind. It was actually quite soothing. As requested, the writer tilted his head back, closing his eyes so the older man could wet his curls. 

"My apologies," he chuckled with him, using a cup to pour water onto the chocolate curls before lathering them with sweetly scented shampoo. The balls of his fingers massaged Will's scalp, moving slower when the action pulled satisfied moans from the man. Seeing him so relaxed felt like a privilege, doubting the busy writer got much time to himself. When Hannibal was alive, he was a very busy man, always finding himself with blood on his hands and money in the bank. It was a shame he had lost himself in The Overlook, having travelled there for business a  very  long time ago, never leaving once his time was up. 

Eventually, the water became too cold for Will to be comfortable anymore, politely asking the man to look away before getting out. The urge to sneak a peak became too much, forcing Hannibal to excuse himself. If he still had a heartbeat, it would no doubt be rabbiting against his rib cage. Much like many mornings, the ghost found himself helping Will into his clothes, pulling his pyjama shirt over his head. 

"I should be going," Hannibal nodded, half-hoping that his new companion would request otherwise. 

"Oh...why don't you stay for a little?" he pulled out a box of cigarettes as he sat on the bed, back against the headboard. "Smoke with me, just one and then you can go."

How could anyone say no to someone like the brunette? Hannibal most definitely couldn't, finding himself sitting on the bed before he could respond, eyes lighting up at the request. "Smoking is bad for you, Will." He tutted, slipping the white cylinder between his lips, taking the lighter from the younger man. 

Will was almost overjoyed to see Hannibal hadn't turned him down, feeling the weight of the bed shift. "Why are you smoking them then,  Hannibal? " Will quipped, bright pools trained on the ghost, a small smirk playing at his lips. 

"Because...I'm dead, remember," he held the lighter out, taking the liberty of lighting the other man's cigarette for him. The slightly embarrassed look Will gave him made Hannibal chuckle, shaking his head as he took a long, almost thoughtful drag. "It's easy to forget, don't be embarrassed. Humour is a marvellous coping technique when you have been here as long as I have." 

"How long?" 

"Almost as long as you have been alive, dear Will." He turned his head to the side, honey eyes tracing over the man's face, admiring the blush and stubble. Right when Hannibal opened his mouth to speak again, Will leant forward, eyes half-closed as he blew smoke into the ghost's mouth. The older man coughed, breaking out into sputtered laughter, resting his cool forehead on Will's.

Suddenly, their noses were brushing together, eyelashes kissing as their faces inched closer to one another. Will could  hear  his heart rabbiting, pounding in his ears, lips suddenly dry. Everything in his body told him this was wrong, convincing him that Hannibal wasn't even real, just someone he had made up to have company. Though, when his hand rested on the man's chest, the feeling of cotton under his fingers was enough to tell him he was real. All they had to do was close the gap, their lips almost brushing against each other, Will's soft breathing hot on Hannibal's pink lips. 

"Right," Hannibal chucked, pulling back to stub his half-finished cigarette out, getting up from the bed. In a vital second, the ghost had moved away, forcing their isolated moment to crash into the ground. Will could feel the air catch in his lungs, smoke ticking his nostrils as disappointment and a second wave of embarrassment washed over him. 

The young man felt deflated, allowing his cigarette to go out in the ashtray; it wasn't worth it if Hannibal wasn't going to stay. He felt like an awkward college student again, swallowing the uncomfortableness of being rejected. Was Hannibal doing that? He had seen the way the ghost was looking...no, gawking at him when he got out of the bath. Hannibal was clearly attracted to him. Will wiped his sweaty hands on his pyjama bottoms, standing up to open his bedroom door, rocking back and forth on his heels. "Yeah...goodnight. Thanks for helping me tonight. It means a lot." He hummed, watching as Hannibal headed to leave. 

"Goodnight, Will. Sleep well." 

With disappointment heavy in his stomach, the young writer fell against his bed, crawling into the nest of blankets. He was quite thankful he had decorated the bed with more sheets, finding it much warmer and comfortable than his usual bed. It didn't take long for Will to fall asleep, exhausted from the whiskey and hot bath, mind glued on Hannibal and the Ballroom as he slept. 

However, Will wished that the figure that had taken to standing at the end of his bed would go away. 

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Back in the safety of room 237, Hannibal removed his suit, folding it neatly, placing it on the set of drawers. He stood in front of the mirror, deft fingers tracing over his rib cage, cringing when a digit or two slipped between the cracks of his rotting skin. 

That couldn't happen again, Will wasn't ready for him. He hadn't experienced every horrific wonder of the hotel yet. Then, and only then, Will would be ready to see the truth. The poor writer had a lot more to see before that could happen; Hannibal only wished the hotel and the spirits dwelling inside it would hurry along. 

Chapter Text

Will didn't want to open his eyes. He couldn't bear to face what or who was waiting for him at the end of his bed. He could feel it; cold, hard eyes, heavy and uneven breathing, filling the space between them. It made Will's blood run cold. Those eyes felt so different from Hannibals mahogany set. Even if it took hours, Will would wait and wait until they removed themselves. 

That morning though, curiosity took over him. He wanted so desperately to see what those eyes to belong to. Will's eyes fluttered open, gaze fixed on the ceiling, unable to bundle up the courage to look forward. With a sigh, the writer bit the bullet, adjusting himself to be sat up. Stood, right at the end of his bed, was a naked woman. Her skin was almost as pale as Will's, eyes sunken in, long brown hair covering the supple of her breasts. Will's eyes moved down, acid rising in his throat at the sight. 

Instead of a fleshy stomach, Will was met with shredded, oozing skin. It seemed as though someone had stabbed her repeatedly, without mercy, creating a gorey window to her intestines. Tears spilt from her dull eyes, almost as red as her tattered skin. She cried hard, mouth open in a toothless scream, stretching impossibly wide as insects burrowed their way out of their decaying home. Pale skin began to melt, falling off yellowing bone like candle wax, hitting the floor with horrific wetness. Next, her limbs were falling out of their sockets, thudding to the ground ungraciously, joining the mound of rotting flesh. Will couldn't tear his eyes away, not even when her jaw hit the ground, eye sockets becoming black pits. 

He blinked hard, squeezing his eyes shut whilst he counted to ten aloud, faking bravery. When he opened his eyes, the woman was gone. Will scrambled to the edge of his bed, kicking away his blankets, desperate to see if the woman's body still lay on his floor. He couldn't believe it; everything was...gone, not even a stain marked the carpet. "Fuck!" Grunted the man, Hans slamming down onto the mattress in a flash of anger. 

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That same seething, rotten anger followed Will around like a lost dog for days, constantly stepping on the backs of his feet. On most days, it was just a slimy, far-too heavy feeling heating the pit of his stomach, clawing at his skin in hopes of being released. However, on other days, Will would find himself screaming, running around the hotel in a maddened fury, searching for no one in particular and someone so painfully familiar at the same time. This anger wasn't his own, but it felt so raw. 

Will hadn't seen much of Hannibal after their...compromising incident a few days prior. The ghost always seemed to make himself sparse when things became a bit too much; when companionship was beginning to form, both men becoming comfortable. Though, when dinner time rolled around, there would be some sort of delicious food waiting for him, without fail. He wanted nothing more than to spend time with the ghost, desperate to hear his voice and smell his glorious aftershave. 

It infuriated Will that Hannibal didn't show himself. Even in death, alone in a hotel, Hannibal seemed to prefer isolation. Why did he have to see all these horrific...things? Why did Hannibal  choose  to leave him alone with them? He had come after the incident with the little girl so, what made all the other spirits different? Was Hannibal scared of them? Will couldn't figure it out, couldn't understand why he was being ignored in such a way. The writer wasn't fond of cat and mouse games. 

Some days, almost as if to taunt him, the little girl would make a reappearance. Maybe even both of them if Will were  lucky  enough. The writer's heart stopped every time they would appear, dainty dresses dripping with blood, faces tainted with the irony liquid. It made Will shake, wanting nothing more than to watch those stupid smiles fade as he drained the life out of them a second time. To hear them scream as he tore them apart with his bare hands. Everything about those unnervingly innocent twins made Will's blood boil. 

Other days, Will would be sat at his desk, typing or smoking and, a sound would drift through one of the windows. At first, he couldn't make out what it was, starting off as a low pitched hum, only audible if the writer was completely still. Much to Will's dismay, the sound grew louder, evolving into an animalistic whine. It hurt Will's ears. It made him cringe, hair on the back of his neck standing to attention. The whining was coming from outside, dancing hand-in-hand with the wind as it whipped around the hotel. When it was at his loudest, Will would find himself stood at the front entrance, hand resting on the cold metal handle. He'd never open the door. He'd never step out into the heavy snow and risk losing himself for something he  knew  wasn't real. 

Nothing in The Overlook felt real. 

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 "It's kinda pathetic, isn't it?" Will questioned, speaking into the empty space of the kitchen as he ate. It was salmon and steamed vegetables this time. "I mean...a ghost, hiding from a human. Isn't that sad?... You can cook me dinner every night, but draw the line when it comes to conversation?" Chuckling, the writer had one last mouthful before throwing over half of the food in the trash. Anger could be heard in his voice, loosely wrapping around each word as it fell from his lips, tainting the air around him. 

Hannibal bit his tongue, swallowing back an annoyed sigh. He would've thought the dinners meant something to Will; that he still cared and wanted to be there with him but couldn't. Things had been going exactly how he wanted, especially after employing the twins to help move Will's...transition along. The twins were his favourite, easy to control and eager to mess with any guest if it meant they could have fun. Poor children, Hannibal could see just how bored they were sometimes. His face dropped when Will threw out his dinner, not even bothering to finish it, even though he was hungry. Hannibal monitored the man's eating and drinking habits, as well as his smoking issue; he always knew if Will  needed  something. 

It wasn't shocking to the ghost that Will was upset with what had happened in his bedroom; anyone would be. Hannibal could still taste the cigarette smoke on his tongue, feel the warmth of Will and the flutter of his eyelashes. He could see the milky flashes of skin as bubbles danced across the writer's flesh, curls sticking to the nape of his neck, the dip in the bottom of his back. Will truly was beautiful, but Hannibal didn't want to scare him off. On occasion, Hannibal would look in the mirror and be displeased with what he saw, wishing his skin would patch together again. He wished that he stilled looked how Will saw him, with his smooth tanned skin and light stubble, instead of decaying flesh. However, Hannibal didn't dislike his mirrors image; it was who he was, stripped back of his earthly body. 

"You know what? I can't do this. I came to you for help and, then you disappear a second time. I can't  imagine  what you were like when you were  alive! " Will shouted, throwing his plate into the sink, watching it smash into multiple pieces. He watched, just for a moment, half-expecting the porcelain to come back together in the large silver sink. For a moment, the plate came back together until Will reached his hand into the sink, pulling back with a gasp. Blood dripped from his hand onto the reflective surface, blooming out, mixing with the droplets of water that had trickled from the tap. Will lifted his hand to his mouth, breathing in the irony scent of his hot blood, pink tongue shooting out, licking at his wound. 

The writer's eyes slipped closed, sighing loudly as he continued to lick at his hand. "Ow!" He yelped, throwing his hand away from his face, pain shooting up through his arm. "How did I...How did this happen?" Will held onto his wrist, holding it upright as he headed to find the first aid kit. After cleaning the several minor wounds on his palm, he wrapped them in bandages, tracing over the abrasive fabric. Will had to change them another two times after that, throwing the blood-soaked bandages in the bin. Since when did nicks in the skin bleed so much? 

Will wanted to leave. He didn't want to. Deep down, Will loved the hotel. It was sweet, his bedroom was cosy, there was always plenty of food...it wasn't all bad. Some part of the writer preferred The Overlook to his small home in Baltimore. Things were calm here; no commitments or issues that once bound him back home. An even smaller part of him wished he could never leave. He wanted to climb into the wet heat of the hotel's heart, let the beating muscles wrap around his willing body, pulling him into the  truth . 

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The passing weeks weren't too interesting. Will had gotten used to the visiting girls, adjusted to all the lost time and forgotten periods. Even figured out how to make his own dinners...without Hannibal. Though he did feel lonely without Hannibal around, without his comforting gaze on him as he ate. His dinners were pitiful, lacking flavour on good days, lacking substance on the worse ones. 

Will pushed down his hunger, ignoring the soft growls from his stomach that filled the lobby, determined to focus on his writing for once. He cracked his knuckles, turning off the music. Complete silence. Will couldn't work with both music and the sounds of the hotel. His fingers worked the keys, tapping away at the metal circles as black letters appeared on his off-white paper. "You're a fucking genius, Graham!" Will chuckled, tapping the sheets on the desk to neaten them out, skipping through them with a pleased smile on his face. 

'The feast is life. You put the life in your belly and you live.

The feast is life. You put the life in your belly and you live.

          The feast is life.

You put the life in your belly and you live. 

The feast is life. 

You put the life in your belly and you live.

The feast is life. 

You put the life in your belly and you live. 

    The feast is The feast is life.

You put the You put the belly

in your belly

and And. You

        Live. Live.

The feast is life. 

You put the life in your belly and you live. 

                                     And you liv....e'

Content with his days work, Will headed up the stairs, carrying himself to his bedroom. He removed his clothes, pulling on a flannel pair of pyjama bottoms, climbing into his inviting nest of blankets. He sighed, burying his face in his collection of pillows. Sleep was drawing in on him, pulling him into inky darkness, codling him like an innocent baby. 

Hannibal emerged from his position in the Ballroom, swirling the liquid in his glass around. Although he couldn't get drunk anymore, Hannibal still enjoyed the odd glass of wine with dinner or a finger of whiskey in the evenings. With a leisurely pace, the ghost made his way through the halls, sauntering into the lobby. Disappointment washed over him when Will was nowhere to be seen, missing from his usual post at the messy desk. Will needed to improve his cleanliness and organisation. 

He was always so curious to see what Will was working on. The young man always looked so busy at work, glasses perched on the tip of his nose, brows knitted together, humming along to his annoyingly loud music. He always looked...adorable; that was the only way Hannibal could find himself describing the man at work. He wished he could watch more often, he would die all over again to get the chance to watch Will more than he did. He'd stay, perched behind his shoulders or sat in front of him, watching with curious eyes. He'd love that, breathing in the writer's scent with desperate hunger. Hannibal adored Will, even when his most violent spells took over. 

"Oh, dear Will," whispered the man, picking up the collection of papers from the man's desk. At least half of the already-written story made sense, describing vague events that had taken place in a story format, enjoyable to read for the most part. However, after a while...things began to not make sense. Sentences weren't finished, word misspelt, languages mingling together on occasion. And then, Will started to repeat the same phrase, over and over until the words became jumble and dropped. A smile played at Hannibal's lips as he read, perching on the edge of the wooden table, sipping his drink as he went along. 

To him, the jumbled writing was a good sign. It meant things were finally picking up, soon enough, Will would be ready. The hotel was almost done, ready to spit out a newly born creature. Will Graham. The Overlooks version of a small-town, big-shot writer was about to reach the end of his becoming. Hannibal couldn't wait to show him who he really was...what he really looked like. Hannibal placed the papers back on his desk, taking the liberty of cleaning it up a little before taking himself to his room. 

To room 237. 

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The writer blinked, head lolling around almost as if it weighed more than his whole body, drooping and falling. Will looked down at his feet, wiggling his toes, bringing the feeling back into them, sinking them not the carpet underneath him. He blinked again. All very suddenly, Will became aware of something in his hand, something cold... metal?  Will couldn't remember waking up and getting out of bed. He couldn't remember anything past dinner that night, flavours still glue to his tongue. 

Groggily, Will rubbed at his eyes, clearing his foggy vision. Bright blue eyes locked on the off-white door in front of him, mouth falling open in both confusion and fear. 

Blood. The harsh scent bombarded the hazed writer, bringing him back to reality in the most violent of ways. He strained his eyes, almost unable to see the words, his mind working double-time to shield Will from what was going on. 

R E D R U M  

Almost as if time itself had slowed down, the knife in his hand clattered to the ground, echoing unbelievably loud in the empty, far-too cold hallway. Will looked down at his hands, each finger dipped in red, small wounds oozing hot crimson. He looked again, ghosting the incomprehensible word with his index finger, exhaling shakily. When had this happened? How had this happened? Where the  fuck  did Will get a knife that big? He tore his eyes from the door, letting them settle on the knife, whimpering at the amount of blood on it.  Was it all his?

Will kicked the knife to the side before heading back into his bedroom, hurrying to find the small first-aid kit in his bathroom. He hissed as he washed away the blood from his hands, using an alcohol wipe to clean his fingertips before wrapping them in multiple bandaids. After changing his pyjama bottoms, Will pulled on a t-shirt and clean underwear, picking up a pillow and blanket. A new room was what he needed. A different floor from his one, somewhere far enough away from it all. 

This room wasn't any better. The bed felt empty and uncomfortable without all of Will's blankets and extra pillows. It was cold and uninviting. Will tossed and turned, cuddling into his pillows, throwing his blankets off of him, pulling them back on, eventually submitting to exhaustion. The disgruntled writer didn't stay asleep for long, waking up in cold sweats. His shirt stuck to his skin, chafing under his arms, wetting his curls to the nape of his neck. 

"Humph!" Grunted the man, pulling his shirt off, throwing it to the floor. Why had he moved rooms? There was nothing for him to wear, not even clothes from old guests. He didn't sleep once that night, unable to drift into the inky blackness for what felt like hours. Instead, he spent his time in the bathroom, scrubbing his skin with hot water, soap and his nails. He scrubbed until his skin tuned raw, eventually bleeding and blistering all over again 

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Although Will never remembered falling asleep, he did remember leaving his room, wearing nothing but his underwear and an old jumper. He wasn't heading anywhere in particular, but Will felt as though the hotel was taking him somewhere, leading him to a room he had never been to before. No matter how many times he tried to stop his legs, they wouldn't stop moving. The Overlook was dragging him, forcing him along. 

He rubbed his eyes, looking up at the number on the door. The Crawford had ordered him to stay out of that particular room. 

Room 237. 

The door creaked open, revealing a large bedroom. It was bigger than his own, but Will couldn't pay much attention to that. Not when  he  was stood in the room. Dressed in a pristine suit, hands behind his back, smirk dancing on his lips, was Hannibal Lecter. His eyes lit up when he saw Will, noting the bandages on his fingers and the dried blood on his hands. It was clear that the writer had seen almost everything the hotel had to offer. He was ready. 

"Hello, Will." Hannibal purred, staring into the other man's bright eyes, watching as he stepped closer, closing the door behind him. 

"Hannibal..." he whispered, feeling the pull between them. 

"What happened to your fingers? Are you hurt?" 

Will chuckled softly, Looking down at his battered hand. The men were inches apart now, Will's breath warming Hannibal's face. Strong hands drifted to the writer's waist, thumb rubbing on the band of his underwear. Will looked gorgeous, bathed in streams of moonlight that came through the dark curtains. "I just had an accident...a couple nights ago. Maybe?..." 

Of course, Hannibal had already seen and heard of the 'accident' his visitor was talking about. He wouldn't dare reveal he  possibly  had something to do with it. "Poor thing," Hannibal whispered, his free hand cupping Will's warm face. Heat surged through him, sparks shooting up his spine. "You must be feeling...quite tender, darling boy."

His breath hitched, pressing his face into the others large palm a blush coated his cheeks. Will's could feel his heart beginning to rabbit, gripping the man's suit jacket in attempts to ground himself. He tilted his head slightly, the tip of his nose brushing against his older counterparts. Will wanted to kiss him, wanted to press their lips together...but, something was stopping him. 

However, nothing was going to stop Hannibal. 

With harsh fever, their lips crashed together, strong arms pulling the smaller man flush to his body. Will squeaked, eyes wide with shock. For a moment, his eyes drifted over to the mirror, eyes widening further. In the mirror, Hannibal's reflection was much different from the one Will was used to. His face was hollow and grey, bones peeking through the rotten skin on his hands, teeth visible through a bullet-like hole on his cheek. As quickly as they had widened, Will's eyes slipped closed. Their kiss deepened, hands grabbing at skin and clothes, teeth clashing together as Hannibal's cold tongue invaded the others warm mouth. 

" Hanniballlll ," he whispered breathily through heated kisses, brushing their noses together again. 

Hannibal laughed softly, reaching his hands down to gently squeeze the plush of the younger man's ass. He knew that the young writer had seen what he  really  looked like, and he didn't seem to care. In fact, Will  seemed  to like it. He seemed to...really like it. "Oh, Will. You're such a wonderous thing, how you have changed," he pressed a few sweet kisses to the man's neck. "For the better." 

"You talk too much," teased Will, tugging at the man's tie. Hannibal thought rightly; he didn't care about the ghosts true form. In all honestly, Will adored it. Hannibal was still dangerously handsome; he so desperately wanted to see all of him. "Just kiss me. I deserve it." 

"You're right. You deserve it all." Hannibal purred, lifting the man into his arms and off of the ground. 

Chapter Text

"H-Hannibal...oh my god..." Will laughed breathily as he was thrown onto the bed, head falling onto the pillows. His dark curls splay out against the white fabric, creating a halo of hair, cheeks flushed an irresistible shade of pink. 

"There is no such thing as God here, dearest Will." The ghost replied, large hands wrapping themselves around the writer's ankles, dragging him downwards, man-handling the gorgeous creature. "You're breathtaking," continued Hannibal, pressing chaste kisses to Will's pale ankles, fingers massaging the warm flesh. Although the ghost was cold to the touch, the sighing body on his bed warmed him to the core. "Truly." Hands moved from his ankles, trailing down to caresses the soft plush of Will's thighs, fingers brushing the edges of his underwear. 

The writer's body was on fire, reacting effortlessly to the touch he was being given, too shy to ask for more. He didn't want to ruin things again. Will chuckled under his breath again, brows knitting together for a moment. Was he really about to get  intimate  with a  ghost ? Wow. Whoever had told him 'life gets boring after thirty' was a liar. This was far from that. 

"Is something the matter?"

"Mmh?" The brunette smiled, licking his suddenly dry lips. "Nothing, I'm just enjoying what you are doing." He chuckled, gently nudging the man's side with his bare foot. Will was already half-hard, desperate to be out of his clothes and for Hannibal to be in the same state of nudity. He didn't find himself caring at all about what Hannibal looked like, what he  really  looked like. Will loved it. He loved his suit, silver hair, cold skin, and the image reflected in the mirror. 

Hannibal laughed softly, placing his hands either side of Will's head, leaning down to press a heated kiss to those cherry lips. Instantly, the younger man deepened it, pushing his hot tongue into the cool pool of Hannibal's mouth, tangling them together. Very quickly, Will had his legs wrapped around the older man, tugging at his hair as they kissed, curious hands exploring eagerly. The ghost nipped at Will's bottom lip, groaning softly as the taste of blood bloomed into his mouth. 

Delicious. 

Shaky hands worked at Hannibal's suit, throwing the clothing to the floor, fingers exploring the now-bare skin. It was strange, feeling smooth and complete skin under him, but when he looked in the mirror...the complete opposite met his eyes. "Fuck..." Will whispered, flicking his tongue out to lick away the blood from his lip. Hannibal was gorgeous, with tanned, muscular skin, silk briefs clinging to his bottom half, perfectly outlining his hardness. Will swallowed, brows rising when he caught a glimpse of it. Hannibal was well endowed...to say the least. The writer feared it would rip his fragile body in half. After pulling off his own jumper, both men were in only their underwear. 

"Have you been with men before, Will?" Hannibal questioned, lips against the shell of the young man's ear. 

"Not," he turned his head, catching the man's lips in another needy kiss. "Not all the way. Not with a ghost." Will chuckled between kisses, licking the plump of Hannibal's lip.

A smug look coated the ghosts face. Hannibal would be the first...and hopefully, the only one to go 'all the way' with Will Graham. He lifted the other man a little, moving him to rest his head on the pillow once again. With one swift movement, Will was completely naked, pink and leaking cock pressed to his stomach. He felt naked in every sense, bare and willing for Hannibal's taking. Whatever had happened to him in the past months had readied him for this. He was ready to touch, taste, feel every inch of Hannibal Lecter. 

"I suppose I am lucky then, darling boy." Hannibal quipped, gently pressing the younger man's knees up to his chest. Using his arm, Hannibal held the writer's legs in place, his free hand running down Will's cock, lightly teasing at the other's hole. He'd take his time with Will. After a moment of admiring, the ghost dipped his head, slowly dragging his cold tongue over the puckered flesh. Will's reaction was adorably amusing, hips stuttering as his mouth formed a shocked 'O'. How delicious. Hannibal's tongue continued to work the sweet flesh, using both hands to spread his open, pushing himself deeper. 

The cool, wet lick of velvet felt heavenly to the younger man, sending shivers up his spine, toes curling as he gripped his thighs, holding them to his chest. It didn't take long for Will to fully relax, mewling and moaning enthusiastically. Lacing a hand in the ghosts silver hair, pushing his head against him even further. "M-More! Please..." he keened, giving Hannibal's hair a desperate tug. He wanted to be full. To feel every inch of the man. To feel something so good after all the confusion and upset of the past months. 

"What a greedy, cunning boy you are, Will." Hannibal nipped at the man's thigh, instantly kissing over the small mark. "Not long now. You'll feel good, I promise." 

Will gasped in surprise when Hannibal spat onto his hole, massaging the puckered flesh with two digits. With painful slowness, the ghost pushed one of his fingers inside the tight heat, moving slowly. He hummed in delight, watching Will squirm under his touch as he added a second finger, quickly building a steady pace. Will had dropped his thighs from his chest, feet planted on the bed, toes curling around the sheets. He felt  so good , yet it had only started. 

"How does that feel?" 

The writer groaned, lifting his head from the pillow slightly to look at the older man. Was he really asking that? Will was practically sobbing from the two fingers inside of him, cock leaking heavily onto his stomach. "H-Huh? What...o-oh!" Will was cut off by another moan, hips sputtering when fingers brushed his prostate. 

"I said," Hannibal slowed his fingers, free hand massaging the writer's trembling thighs. "How does that feel? Use your words for me. Writers have a brilliant vocabulary, no?" The ghost teased, focusing on incessantly massaging Will's prostate.  

" Oh! Ha-Hannibal! " Cried the man, back arching beautifully as he tried to process what Hannibal was even saying to him. He couldn't focus on much, desperate to chase the heat pooling in the bottom of his stomach. God. Will was close. "Fe-Feels... ah~!  Feels so good... please . Wanna come..." He whined, eyes opening fully when Hannibal's fingers left him clenching around nothing. "No!... Why did you stop?!" 

Chuckling, Hannibal licked his fingers clean, tasting Will on his tongue. The writer's pathetic whining made his cock twitch, ready to leave the confines of his silk briefs. "No coming yet, okay? Be good for me, Will. You have been perfect so far." Hannibal praised, leaning down to kiss the man's thighs, stomach and chest. "I'm so proud of you..." He moved away for a moment, pulling off his underwear, discarding them on the floor with the rest of his clothes. Hannibal would've preferred to fold all of his clothes whilst taking them off, but Will seemed to not care as much about neatness. 

Will felt heat rising in his cheeks, turning his ears a sweet pink shade as he looked at the older man's cock. He whined a little, preparing himself for the burn that would no doubt follow penetration, watching with an eager expression as Hannibal reached over to the bedside drawer. The ghost took a long, few moments to pour lube onto his hand, slicking up his cock with a quiet groan. He was enjoying the desperate look on Will’s face, breathing in his excitement and arousal. Will wrapped his legs around the man, pulling him down for another kiss, reaching a hand down to help Hannibal line up. Will was fed up of waiting for what they both wanted. The ghosts slicked cockhead teased the used, puckered flesh for a moment before pushing in, stopping when he was buried half way. 

He cried out, head falling back on the pillow as he attempted to adjust to the girth stretching him out. God. Will felt so full, only having taken the older man in half way. "Please!" Will whined, tightening his legs around him, forcing Hannibal deeper inside him, making him bottom out. The feeling of utter fullness only made Will whine and moan more, squirming underneath the strong body of the ghost. 

Hannibal grunted, burying his face in the crook of the writer's neck, teeth nipping at the salty skin. Will felt so good; hot, tight and incredibly responsive. The ghost was more than thankful the hotel was finally done with this talented writer. It was finally done showing Will everything he could do if he really wanted. Hannibal picked up his pace, low moans slipping from his lips as he fucked into Will, pulling the man in for a kiss. 

"G-God!" Will whimpered, gripping the older man's shoulders. Suddenly, the writer flipped them, eagerly straddling the older man. He pushed the curls from his face, thumb tracing over the sharp bone of Hannibal's cheek. Will stayed like that for a moment, admiring the body beneath him. He couldn't even feel the dull ache in his fingertips or the soft burning coming from the blisters on his hands; it had melted away entirely. Will wasn't thinking about the knife, the incomprehensible scribbles of blood or all the things he had seen in the hotel. Nothing mattered besides him and Hannibal. 

Together, they found a rhythm; Hannibal's hands on pale hips, Will moving eagerly. The writer's movements quickly became sloppy, head falling forward as desperate moans fell from his lips. Hannibal was in awe, watching with lidded eyes as his gorgeous boy chased the heat pooling in the pit of his stomach. He looked so relaxed, face scrunched up in pleasure, not a single ounce of confusion clung to his brow. Will here and Will sat behind his desk were two completely different people. This version of the young writer was complete, strong and unwavering as he melted with the older man. 

They were one. 

"I'm...I'm gonna-" cried the writer, nails biting into the damp flesh on Hannibal's chest. 

Hannibal's hands rested on the pert of Will's ass, lifting him up slightly, thrusting harshly. That was it. With a loud half-scream, Will shot ropes of blisteringly hot come onto the ghost's chest. His body shook, toes curling as he collapsed onto the other's chest, whimpering throughout Hannibal's continued thrusts. The older man came soon after, back arching off the bed. Fingers dug into flesh hard enough to leave bruises, mumbling incoherent curses and foreign phrases as his orgasm pulsed through him.  

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"Why did you leave me alone?" Will asked from his position in the bathtub, buried under thick bubbles, pressed against the ghost's chest. 

Hannibal raised his brows, deft fingers massaging the writer's shoulders. They had moved to the bathroom after almost falling asleep in their mess, waking before they could do so. "I didn't leave you alone. I was there, watching. You were never really alone, dear Will. The hotel has its ways and, you needed to be by yourself for things to take their course," he explained, kissing the crown on Will's curls. "Now, I won't be leaving you alone unless you ask me to do so." 

The writer leaned back further, sighing softly. "I don't want you to leave me alone again. I really like it here, things are so easy and relaxed." Will smiled a little, lacing their fingers together. He did feel those things, despite all the fear, loss of time and confusion, Will loved his time at The Overlook. "I'll be sad to go when the Crawfords are back." 

The older man didn't say anything after that, simply humming in response. There was no comment or protest from him at the mention of Will's eventual departure. Neither men said anything more as Hannibal set about washing the both of them. 

Chapter Text

Despite all his confusion, Will was sure of one thing. He would have to leave The Overlook. The agreement was; Will would watch the hotel during the closed season and, the Crawfords would come back, sending the writer back home. Returning to Baltimore seemed so far away; his townhouse, small circle of friends, and whatever future opportunities would come his way...seemed pointless. The Overlook was comfortable and, his book was coming along so nicely, but it wasn't done and wouldn't be done for a long time if he returned home. 

Hannibal had noticed the shift in Will's behaviour. He had caught the young man staring off into space on more than one occasion, mind empty and still. He'd heard Will muttering to himself, talking nonsense as he walked around the lobby. The ghost was worried about the young man, often making him a larger meal or holding him for longer in the mornings. Covering him in kisses - just to make sure he was okay. Hannibal never thought about Will and his departure....because he didn't have to. However, Hannibal was happy to continue pretending like he was.  

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"Will," Hannibal hummed, raising a light brow at the brunette. "You don't have to worry so much. The Crawfords won't mind if there's a little mess. They have cleaners for a reason." Chuckled the ghost. His large hand rested on Will's shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. 

The writer huffed a little, spraying more glass cleaner onto one of the large windows, polishing away. By now, Will had cleaned the hotel three times, fingers raw and blistered from the products he had let onto his skin. "A little mess? This place is a shit hole and, its all my fault. I keep messin' it up..." he sighed, setting down the bottle and rag, turning to face the older man. "I want this job next year, Hannibal. So I can come back and see you...please, just let me do this." There wasn't any way Hannibal could say no to Will. Not when his bottom lip stuck out and, he made his eyes ridiculously large, eyebrows knitting together in an adorable, pleading pout. 

 It was hard not to chuckle at the man's words; Hannibal found it amusing that Will was hopeful about returning to the hotel. He was so willing to allow The Overlook to welcome him back into its arms. Hannibal bit his tongue, nodding. "Okay," although the hotel was already spotless, chiding Will or punishing him would do nothing. If the writer saw the hotel as a grotesque mess, then it  was  a grotesque mess. "However, I want you to rest for me later, my love." Hannibal smiled fondly, thumb gently running over the younger man's cheek, leaning down to press a kiss to his lips. 

Kissing Will filled the dead man with warmth, taking over the usual cold feeling of his body. In his long life, no one had ever made him as happy as the sarcastic writer. Every day was a good one with Will around. Hannibal could remember himself before the hotel, all of the people he had murdered and the rich lifestyle he indulged in; perhaps his untimely death was deserved. He had killed the rude, feasting on the fruits of their bodies to ensure nothing was wasted, even feeding them to 'friends' and colleagues. Without having come to The Overlook, Hannibal would never have met Will and, there would be no glorious beacon of light in his life. Grunting, the ghost lifted his writer from the ground, placing him on the table with a happy sigh. 

"How about I help you  rest  and  relax  right now?" Hannibal purred, hands running up the soft fabric on the other man's thighs, squeezing. "Cleaning can wait, darling boy. I can't." 

Will whimpered, instinctively spreading his legs for the older man, cheeks and ears covered in a sweet blush. "H-Hannibal..." he chuckled, nosing at his cheek before pulling him in for an almost desperate kiss. "They'll be back at six...and," Will looked at the clock on the wall, "it's almost five." He made no move to push Hannibal away, pressing into the touch that had now moved to his crotch, happily grinding into the large palm of his hand.  

The ghost didn't respond, delivering a light tap to the other man's crotch as a warning. Hannibal didn't even need half an hour to reduce Will to a whimpering, shaking mess; he had learnt that very quickly. Distracting the young man was all Hannibal could think to do; he couldn't watch him scrub the hotel floor-to-floor for the fourth time. 

Soon, Will's trousers were around his ankles, legs propped up on one of the ghost's shoulders as his deft fingers worked their magic. Watching the writer unwind was almost as good as the actual event, easily losing himself in the brunettes whoreish moans. "That's it, just relax." Purred the ghost, face buried in the other's neck, kissing at the bite mark he had left. "You're doing so well, just a few more minutes, hmm?" 

"Pl-Please...they're gonna be here soon! Han-Hannibal...please!" Will whined, hips bucking, pushing the thick digits deeper inside himself. The writer felt hot, grey T-shirt stuck to his skin as sweat beaded at the nape of his neck. He would certainly miss Hannibal's touch when he returned to Baltimore, unable to imagine the empty nights that he was no doubt promised. When a third finger was inserted inside him, massaging the lovely bundle of nerves buried deep inside him, Will couldn't help but topple over the edge. His toes curled, body arching forward into Hannibal's touch, crying out desperately as he came onto his stomach. No matter how quickly the ghost made him come, he was always left seeing stars. 

Hannibal hummed contently, taking a moment or two to admire the writer's dishevelled look, messy hair and sweat-stained clothes. It was all because of him. After licking the mess from the other's stomach, Hannibal happily dressed him once again, covering his face in soft, loving kisses. "You better sort yourself out a little, the Crawfords have returned," Hannibal smirked devilishly, nodding towards the sound of wheels in the snow. For once, being early was worse than being late. 

"Fuck-" Will huffed, jumping down from his position as he tried to fix his messy curls, moving to put away his cleaning supplies. The writer couldn't believe it. He was leaving already. It felt like he had only been there a few weeks, days even. Will wasn't ready to go, to step away from the hotel and Hannibal Lecter. Very suddenly, everything came crashing down on the troubled writer, almost too quickly. 

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The Crawfords were shocked, to say the least, when they saw Hannibal Lecter in their lobby. It had been a  very  long time since either of them had seen the refined gentleman. Bella Crawford was quick to notice the fondness in the man's eyes when he looked down at Will, causing her heart to race and then drop soon after. A look like that promised nothing good, not when Hannibal was involved. 

"Thank you so much for taking good care of our hotel!" Jack clapped his hands after having shaken Will's, greeting him warmly. "You'd best stay the night and take your time to leave. Driving in the dark won't do you much good...not on these hills." He laughed lightly, looking towards the large window. Snow fell quick and heavy, deepening the white blanket that covered the grounds surrounding the hotel. Will wouldn't make it home in one piece if he were to leave now.

"Yes," added his wife, smiling warmly. "I'll be cooking dinner in an hour if you'd like to join us, both of you. Hannibal, would you mind helping? I can't match your exquisite eye for food." Bella raised her brow at the man, giving him a slightly stern look when the writer' eyes had averted themselves. The older woman felt a sense of softness for the curly-haired man in her lobby. He looked so kind and fragile; meeting his end in the unforgiving walls of The Overlook wasn't something  she  wanted. 

"What are we cooking, Mrs Crawford?" Questioned the ghost, rolling up the sleeves on his shirt once they reached the kitchen. 

"What have you done to him?" Bella didn't waste any time in trying to find the answers to her questions. She was blunt, much more forward than her husband, unbothered by the forged politeness Hannibal was attempting to offer. 

Hannibal looked offended, light brows raising with a tilt of his head. The woman's quick tongue never failed to amuse him, but this time...it did the opposite. Bella was quite rude to assume  he  had  done  anything to Will, even if she was somewhat correct. "I don't quite understand what you mean. Will and I shared a mutual attraction, one that didn't require the manipulation you feel as though you see." 

"Don't be ridiculous," the woman scolded, opening one of the large fridge-rooms, selecting a few items to begin their dinner. "It isn't fair, Hannibal. You can't keep him here forever, Will is not a pet to play with." 

"Be careful not to overstep your mark," Hannibal chided, clicking his tongue tauntingly at the woman. He picked up a large kitchen knife, running his finger along the cold blade before chopping away at some vegetables. "He's alive and well, is he not? Will has been enjoying me as much as I have been enjoying him and, trust me...that's a lot." Hannibal's voice carried a slight smugness when he talked, lip turning up in a proud smirk. 

Bella rolled her eyes, moving around the large kitchen with an angry air. She knew, even with the ghosts reassurance, that Will was far from  well . The hotel had its grips on the writer, black vines wrapped around his ankles, securing his spot in the building. It wasn't her intention for Will to end up this way, seemingly fine despite the obvious hopelessness in his eyes. There was no way Will Graham would be leaving the hotel with all of his sanity. "I hope you know what you've done,  Hannibal Lecter ." 

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Dinner came and went for Will. He couldn't remember much of the time between the Crawford's coming home and his return to their bedroom. Things were all different types of blurry, fogging his vision even after he cleaned his glasses. Will managed to undress himself, sinking into the warmth of his duvet and al the extra blankets Hannibal had provided for him. 

"Hannibal..." he whispered from beneath the mess of curls and blankets, eyes closed.

The man set down his book, turning his attention to the writer besides him. "Yes, darling boy?" 

"I don't want to leave," the broken croak of his voice shattered Hannibal, moving to pull the younger man into his arms. "I'll miss you too much and...I don't think the Crawfords want me back here next year." 

"Why do you say that?"

"I heard them talking about it and, Bella doesn't like t-the idea of having me around next year. She said something...something about you." 

The ghosts breath caught in his throat, eyes casting down to the head resting on his chest. Hannibal wasn't fond of gossip or unnecessary chitter-chatter. "My dear," his fingers laced into the man's chocolate curls, petting him gently. "You have not to worry about coming back next year." 

Will tilted his head up, blinking his wet lashes at the older man, a confused look flooding his face. "What do you mean?" He sniffled, nosing at the soft hair on Hannibal's chest. 

"How is your body feeling?" Questioned the dead doctor as he traced his index finger along Will's sharp jaw. "Tired? Sore? I would like for you to be truthful with me, Will." 

The questions made the younger man's brows furrow together, looking up at the ghost with mock confusion in his eyes. "Why are you playing doctor so suddenly? I've felt find for the last few days..." Will whined when Hannibal pressed his hand against his forehead, feeling his skin. The writer swore he had felt fine - perfect - for the last week. However, when he was given the chance to think about it, Will had remembered feeling slightly faint and exhausted not too long ago. 

"You're cold, Will. Very cold." Hannibal cupped the younger man's face, tracing his cheek slowly, dark eyes glued onto the other set. "I want you to try very hard to remember the last week or so for me, okay? Close your eyes and just focus on breathing. I'll be here the whole time." The older man took the liberty of moving Will, pressing the writers back against his chest, arms wrapped tightly around him. "Close your eyes, darling boy. Don't be afraid of what hides behind them." 

"Hannibal...You're...okay," he sighed, giving in to the man's request. Will slipped his eyes shut, relaxing under his touch. It took a while to still his thoughts, pushing them to the side of his mind for future attention. The bed from under him disappeared, leaving Will floating in a familiar inky blackness, one that wrapped around him comfortingly. 

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Sleep had escaped Will once again, hiding from him when he slept alone. On some nights, Hannibal insisted that they sleep alone or that he would come to bed once the writer was asleep, never giving Will a reason why. When he was without the ghost, his bed felt empty and far too cold against his uncomfortably warm skin, sticking to his skin, suffocating him. 

With a sigh, the writer rolled onto his stomach, squeezing his eyes shut. Will never remembered falling asleep, but he always remembered waking up. Even after finding solace in Hannibal's embrace, Will's melting visitor never failed to make an appearance. Almost every night, she would stand at the end of his bed and scream, limbs falling off to join the puddle of skin that pooled on the floor. After a while, it stopped affecting the writer. He would simply sit and watch her unfold gruesomely before his bright eyes. Nothing unnerved him now, not the eyes on the walls, the blood-drenched twins, not even her. Sometimes, Will found him anticipating their arrival; waiting almost excitedly for the eyes to land on him or the twins to wrap their small, bloody arms around his middle. 

However, one night, she moved. Will hadn't had the best day to begin with; eating had been hard, so had writing, smoking, even thinking was hard for him. Everything was hard; nothing seemed to be going his way. He hoped that sleeping might take away the frustration of his day, heading to bed a few hours earlier than usual so that the sleeping pills he took could take their course. Usually, self-medicating wasn't something that Will enjoyed doing, not after giving up drinking. Things had begun to blur way before he found his way to the bedroom, melting and swirling into one. 

After the sleeping pills had taken control over his body, Will fell into a deep sleep, body still and calm. When he woke to meet the gaze of the melting woman, everything felt far too still. The writer's bright eyes met her dull ones, unblinking as he stared. 

"Hello?" Will spoke out when he realised that her usual nightly sequence wasn't taking place. 

She said nothing, only leant forward to sink her hands down onto the mattress. Will swallowed, eyes never leaving her. 

"This is unusual...Hello?" The writer huffed, sitting up in his bed. "Leave!" Will yelled when her knees planted down on his bed, scrambling out of his comforting bed. He got to his feet, stepping back from the bed, watching with wide eyes as his bottom lip worried. 

She turned her head to look at the young man, tilting it almost curiously. The woman moved from the bed, standing before Will, expression blank and unwavering. It took him a moment to notice the glinting blade in her hand, handle settled in the pale hand. 

"P-Please...just leave me alone!" Will cried, freezing in place when her bony hand settled on his shoulder, spinning him around quickly. 

The writer tried to scream for Hannibal, desperate for the man to come to his rescue like he had multiple times before. His screams came out broken and weak, almost silent as the woman pulled him to her chest. Will could feel his heart beating, echoing in his hot ears. He wasn't ready to die. Will had thought about a lot of things in his life, but he'd never thought about something like this. He was still young and had lots of things to do. What about his books? What would he tell the few friends he had back home?

Slowly, the blade found its way to Will's pulsing neck, cold and harsh against the softness of his flesh. His mouth was full of saliva, but he didn't dare swallow in fear of cutting himself. Will didn't understand why this was happening. Had he done something to wrong the woman? Was he supposed to 'save' her when she stood at the end of his bed? Will didn't know, far too focused on the tears running down his face and the blade on his neck. He wanted to fight, but his body wouldn't allow him. 

With one smooth, controlled swipe, blood splattered along the walls. Will's knees went weak as hot liquid flooded from the long slit across his throat, bleeding him dry in the most expert way, standing the walls and floor around him. The woman guided Will back to his bed, allowing him to fall back against the sheets, hands desperately finding their way to his neck. No matter how hard he pressed, blood continued to spill and squirt until there was nothing left for him to give. 

His eyes remained on the ceiling, gazing up at the patterns of the roof. Will's curls splay around his face like a bloodied halo, strands matted to his forehead and cheeks. His eyes fluttered closed, hands moving from his neck to fall on the bed, chest covered in slick blood. The young writer could hear his heart fading, stilling inside his body as it gave up the fight or life. That was it, Will would die in the hotel, joining the others for eternity. 

He smiled softly to himself, hardly able to feel the large hands planting on the side of his face, whispering comforts to him as he slipped away. 

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"Am I dead, Hannibal?" Will finally spoke, fingers tracing along his neck. 

"Yes."

Chapter Text

"What...what do you mean I'm dead?!" Will sat up, moving away from the older man, face contorted in upset and confusion. "I can't be! I-I'm here...I'm alive!" He continued to yell, voice becoming broken. 

Hannibal let out a soft sigh, sitting up to better talk to his sweetheart. "I'm here too, am I not?" He quipped, tilting his head at the writer. He knew that this reaction would no doubt come from Will finding out the truth, but Hannibal didn't think he'd be too upset about it. Something about seeing Will this way amused Hannibal, even if he didn't want to admit it. 

The writer's cheeks were wet by now, face and neck covered in hot-pink blush, spotting his pale flesh. He wiped the snot from his nose, choking on a broken sob before speaking again. "Where's my body?!" Will got up from their bed, pulling on his pyjama bottoms. "Where is it?! I-I want to know!" 

Watching Will shift from angry to upset was no longer amusing, making his heart ache. He shifted to sit at the edge of the bed, wrapping his arms around the younger ghost, gazing up into his sad eyes. "It's right here, daring boy. Your body isn't tucked away in some crawl space or buried out in the snow. It's here, with me." He soothed, pressing his forehead into the man's stomach. 

"What...What do you mean? I look so nor-normal." 

"Look in the mirror, mymilasis." 

Will did as told, lacing his fingers through Hannibal's silver hair as he looked toward the mirror, frowning. In the mirrors image, Will's throat was sliced cleanly, dark blood staining his pale skin. Other than the life-halting wound and slightly sunken in eyes, Will looked the same as he did before. In fact, Will looked even better than before; his hair looked fuller, smile much more vibrant, skin smoother than porcelain. Hannibal, on the other hand, looked rotten, just like he had done before. 

"How did you die, Hannibal? Why don't I look like you do?" Will questioned once he had calmed down, sniffling softly as he toyed with the older man's hair. "Please tell me."

The older man sighed, pulling Will back into bed with one swift movement, acting as the big spoon. "I suppose I wasn't as fortunate as you when it came to meeting my demise. I was shot through the face by one of the visiting musicians...a man called Tobias Budge." Explained the ghost, pressing kisses to Will's jaw, nosing him lovingly. "Mr Budge thought it be good to hide me in one of the freezers until I was found - silly man. When I died, there happened to be a little...rat problem." He couldn't help but chuckle. The look on Tobias Budge's face when he saw Hannibal, arisen from the dead, was a look to last a lifetime. 

"What did you do to him?" Although Mr Budge was more than likely dead, Will couldn't help the protective tone in his voice. He pressed himself further against Hannibal, earning a little sigh from the man. "Surely he didn't just...kill you for the fun of it, Hannibal."

"You're right. You see, before I ended up here, I was...famous in an unconventional way. Have you ever heard of the Chesapeake Ripper?" 

"Yes?" Will chuckled, turning his head slightly to look at the man. 

"You're in bed with him," purred the older man, fingers lightly digging into Will's side, holding him in place. The slight hitch in the younger ghosts breath told Hannibal he enjoyed that information. It wasn't exactly shocking, not with Will's response to the hotel or his search history. "Tobias Budge didn't quite appreciate that I was a much better killer than he was. I don't think he liked how famous and recognisable my name was either. He followed me out here and took my life before I could take his." It wasn't his preferred way to die, but Hannibal couldn't help but find humour in his own death. 

The younger ghost squirmed a little, pressing himself into the older man. He had remembered reading about the cases when he had first started writing. They were gruesome and...interesting. Will had become easily obsessed with the notorious serial killer that had suddenly stopped killing, handing in the towel of death after man decades. Now, with the knowledge of  who  Hannibal was, Will still wasn't afraid of him. He was even  more  certain that Hannibal could've killed him far before the woman in his bedroom, but...he didn't.

 "Why didn't you just kill me, Hannibal? If you knew this would happen...which I have no doubt you did...why not?" Questioned Will, pulling the older man's body as close as he could, pushing against him in return. 

Hannibal raised his brows, burying his face in the writer's neck, nibbling and nipping gently. The soft noises Will was making almost pushed Hannibal away from his train of thought. "Why would I want to kill you, darling boy?" He cooed, running his teeth over the shell of the younger man's ear, breath cool on his neck. "You're so pretty...I would've kept you alive longer if it were in my control. Now I have my pretty, darling boy forever, hm?" Hannibal's hand trailed down to find the plush of Will's ass, giving it a firm squeeze through the thin fabric. "Something on your mind?" 

"Hannibal... You're being inappropriate." Will whined softly, eagerly pushing back into the older man's large palm, letting out a breathy huff. He couldn't stop his body from reacting, already hard in the confines of his loose pyjama bottoms, a wet patch surely forming. 

"Is that so?" He quipped back, sliding his hand under the thin fabric, gripping at the flesh much harsher now. Hannibal moved his grip to the writer's crotch, wrapping a hand around his hard cock, stroking lazily. "So quick to arousal, my love. Does lying in the arms of a  dangerous  serial killer excite you?" His hand sped up, thumb running over the wet slit firmly. 

The brunette buried his face in the softness of his pillow, rutting eagerly into the man's hand, letting out sweet moans. "No!" He huffed, shaking his head defiantly. 

Hannibal's hand slowed, coming to a stop. "Uh-uh. No lies, darling. Does it excite you?" He tightened his grip on the man's cock, stopping him from thrusting his hips. 

"Y-Yes! It does! P-Please!"

" Please  what?" He circled the tip with his thumb again, slow and firm. "Use your words." 

"God...F-Fuck me! Please..." Will mumbled, pulling his bottoms down to his thighs, pressing his bare skin against the man. "I...I wanna feel good. Make me feel better, Hannibal." When the younger man pleaded so prettily, Hannibal found it hard to say no to him. Will looked more than desperate, face lit up with blush as he rutted helplessly into the older ghost's hand. 

The older man sighed, pulling away for a moment to get the lube from their bedside table before slipping out of his silk underwear. Hannibal pressed his chest against the other's back once more, kissing at his neck and shoulder as he lubed up the younger man's needy hole. "Lift your leg up for me, darling. Hold it right there, okay?" He instructed, using the remaining lube to slick himself up, adjusting himself once Will had done as asked. With a low, satisfied grunt, Hannibal pushed into the younger ghost. It was hard not to smile at just how responsive his darling boy was. 

Will gripped the flesh of his thigh, keeping his leg up for the man as he thrusted. He tried to bury his face in the pillow once more, but was pulled from the warm comfort as Hannibal tugged at his curls. He whined, fighting for a moment before simply allowing his face to be exposed, too focused on the abuse his prostate was enduring. Will was happy in their chosen position, letting out a loud whine when he was suddenly moved. 

Now, on his knees at the end of the bed, both men had an unobstructed view of the mirror. Hannibal pulled at the chocolate curls in his hand, forcing his ghostly counterpart to look into the mirror. 

"You...You are here forever, Will." Hannibal growled, his free hand gripping at the writer's neck, running down to his stomach. He sunk his teeth into Will's shoulder as his thrusts became much sloppier, dark eyes fixed on the light set in the mirror's reflection. 

"F-Forever!" Yelped the man in response, desperately trying to grab at something so that he wouldn't fall off their bed. Will wanted nothing more than to spend forever with Hannibal. He would spend a million lifetimes within different versions of the man if it meant he had him and only him. The brunette wrapped his hand around his cock once more, stroking just as sloppily as Hannibal was thrusting, bringing himself closer to the edge. 

"Look." He instructed, angling Will's head to the mirror once more. "So pretty, just for me." Hannibal couldn't help himself from praising and complimenting the younger man. Getting used to his new reflection would take a while and, Hannibal wanted to do everything he could to make Will feel better about himself. After all, the writer was one of the most beautiful men Hannibal had ever lay eyes on. 

Hannibal's words effortlessly tipped Will over the edge, causing him to spill into his hand. The younger ghost cried loudly, quickly covering his mouth when he remembered the Crawford's weren't sleeping too far away from them. He whimpered and mumbled pleas into his hand as Hannibal continued to fuck into him, teeth breaking the skin on Will's shoulder. It didn't take Hannibal much longer to reach orgasm, spurred on by the writer's moans and tight body, filling him up with a loud groan. 

Both men broke out into a chorus of laughter seconds later, surprised when they heard a few loud knocks coming from one of the walls. "Looks like we aren't so good at being quiet." Hummed the older ghost, pulling Will back down on the bed. They could clean up later; other things were far more important.  

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Over time, Will got used to the person that looked back at him in the mirror. In fact, he came to like his reflection more than he would've imagined. Hannibal had taught him more of the things he needed to know and understand about the hotel, introducing him to all the other  permanent  guests. Although it wasn't his place to do so, Will couldn't help but feel sorry for a few of them. In particular, the twins. He had joined Hannibal in an almost fatherly role for the twins, looking after the mischievous little girls when they decided to make themselves known. It was so sad to see such young, innocent beings trapped forever, unable to grow. 

Although the young writer was unable to leave the hotel, it didn't stop him from continuing and publishing his book. After all, he had come to work on a new piece. It wasn't shocking to anyone other than Will when his book hit bestseller, selling out quicker than any of his previous works. The Overlook soon became a hotspot for curious fans and book-signings, bringing in much more money for the Crawfords than any other guest had. It amused Will when he held book-signings, staring all those unknowing people in the face as he jotted down his signature. No one besides him knew that the book was more truth than fiction. Each page described the demise of an unfortunate and out-of-luck man as he fell victim to a hotel powered by the supernatural. However, it failed to mention just how wonderful Will's life had become. No one ever questioned why the writer suddenly moved from his town house in Baltimore to a hotel room in the middle of nowhere. 

Will couldn't think of anything he'd rather have than his life in the hotel. He had Hannibal by his side daily, curling up with him nightly without fail. When it came time for the Crawford's to leave during the closed season, they always looked to Will and Hannibal to do the job. Everything worked perfectly now. There was no pain or frustration that had once followed Will back in Baltimore; everything felt easy and  right . Will was more successful than he had ever been. He was happier than any other version of himself, all thanks to a small Ad in the newspaper. 

One might think that being confined to one building for all of eternity might get boring, but both men always found a way to combat those issues. On occasion, Will and Hannibal would take turns having their  fun  with guests. Waiting in hallways or looming in the corners of bedrooms, jumping out when guests least expect it, disappearing into thin air soon after. 

On some days, Will would take the place of the melting woman, standing at the end of guests beds as he drew the knife against his throat over and over again. Those were his favourites, watching as the confused visitors tried desperately to stop the scene before him. They weren't able to do anything, often frozen in position by fear or by the grips of the hotel. Every few years, per the ghost's request, Jack Crawford would hire another winter janitor. 

Matthew Brown was Will's favourite addition. He was so handsome and reminded the ghost of himself all too much - even if he wasn't a writer. The young med student was easily swayed by Will, falling into the writers clutch almost effortlessly. It was almost a shame to kill him, but it had to be done. He needed a friend and, Hannibal always enjoyed bringing a plus-one to their more intimate activities. 

There were many things Will Graham had done in his life and regretted, but responding to a winter's janitor ad at The Overlook wasn't one of them.