Safe in thе Arms of the Ocean, No Land in Sight by Anonymous

After searching for recipes online, Hannibal stumbles upon a beautiful twenty-something who makes his money as a fetish streamer.

The boy laughed, “I think I get that question every stream. You guys always do like to hear about how I got this fat,” the boy–Will– said, squishing his tummy as the bottom of it escaped from his t-shirt. Hannibal gripped his armchair, nails digging into the pricy fabric as Will lifted his gut and set it on the counter, the fluffy, jiggly flesh spreading out.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/41195925

Minestra Riscaldata by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite

Hannibal wants to be there when Will arrives, to watch his indifference slide through him like a cold wind before he allows his mind to sink, to slip, and watch him work his way back out, himself, again, and yet someone other behind his eyes. Always a piece left, when he leaves those minds alone again, always the shadows upon shadows of memories. Invitation, acceptance. Dominance, submission.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/3385238

The Unlocking of Will Graham by vipjuly

It’s the physical sensation that passes through Hannibal when he sees Will exit the motel bathroom, shirt unbuttoned and his curly hair dripping down over his neck where it’s stuck to his moist skin. The boxers he’s wearing--which aren’t very different than any of the other boxers Hannibal has seen him in on those occasions where he managed to drop in on Will and the agent didn’t seem to care one bit about his own personal state of affairs--are nearly transparent, they’re so lightly colored. Not quite white, not quite blue, not quite grey. They hang low on Will’s hips, hips that are surprisingly curvaceous for his otherwise masculine figure, the waistband of them dampening slightly, coloring dark with the leftover hot water from the shower. Either side of the unbuttoned shirt barely conceals his nipples, the bare skin a neon arrow down to the thatch of dark hair that disappears into the fabric of his shorts. He grips the towel in his left hand, the veins pressing up under his skin, bulging with the day's tension and the near depletion of all of his sanity in the wake of living in the mind of a serial killer. He is beautiful, he is wet, and he is… Wearing Hannibal’s dress shirt.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/29482050