Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2753510.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Hannibal_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Will_Graham/Hannibal_Lecter
  Character:
      Will_Graham, Hannibal_Lecter
  Additional Tags:
      rope_bonadge, Deep_Throating, Orgasm_Denial, odalisque_verse, vignettes
      of_sex_and_violence_verse
  Series:
      Part 7 of Winter_Mornings_-_HeAteUs_Survival_Plan, Part 4 of The
      Odalisque_Timestamps
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-12-11 Words: 6172
****** Anoesis ******
by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite
Summary
     “Filthy child,” comes the admonition, sharp, as Hannibal forces his
     fingers deeper. “No better than a rent boy, even still, for all that
     I have given to you, what little I have asked. What am I to do with
     you? I’ve no interest in someone else’sleftovers, no matter how
     beautiful they may have first been.”
     Even after all this time, there is one thing Hannibal will never
     allow his boy to do.
Notes
     A commission to the amazing SLSmith22, who asked us to interpret a
     very interesting photo...
     Can't say we don't like a challenge, hun! We really hope you like how
     we interpreted it!
See the end of the work for more notes
Will comes home at 2AM. Stumbles, perhaps, is the more accurate term. It's been
a long time since he had come home late, drunk, and without already clinging to
Hannibal and whispering in the older man’s ear that he wants to be fucked until
he can't move.
He manages his boots off at the door and skids on his socks to the stairs,
catching himself there with a laugh before crawling up them on all fours.
The party had been entirely unplanned, everyone invited when the island got
blocked off for some millionaire kid's birthday ball until the early hours, and
even then Will had only managed to get off on some guy's tiny motorboat for a
favor.
He thinks how he can now claim to have tried - and enjoyed - rough sex on a
calm ocean, boat rocking beneath them as Will had moaned his delight over the
empty sea. It had been fun, genuinely, until the man had grunted, growled
something obscene in Greek about the boy being the seductive spawn of Hades
himself, and had cum hard inside Will.
Now, Will scrambles to stand at the top of the stairs and wonders if he should
risk Hannibal’s ire and hope to get to the shower before he smells another man
on him, or just take the spare bedroom and shower in there.
He finds, though, that the draw to press to the older man when he gets home,
despite the hour, is so strong that he cannot even try to fight it. He needs
it, to taste Hannibal with sloppy kisses, to feel him growl his displeasure
when Will can feel his heart beat in delight of seeing his boy again. Perhaps
he would forgive the indiscretion; Will would not be home now, without the
slight slip in permission - much later, instead, if this evening at all. Surely
that is enough: to know his little wolf is home safe.
Will crawls over Hannibal in bed, nuzzling and biting and moaning softly
against him, tipsy and pleasantly warm.
"I missed you,” he purrs.
A strong hand works its way from the back of Will’s neck up into his hair,
fingers splaying and tightening through wind-swept, sweat-damp curls, to pull
Will closer. Hannibal is awake, has been since the boy did not return home when
he was supposed to, but settled, like a shark at rest. He hums, and turns his
nose against Will’s head to breathe him in.
The sea and sweat and smoke, a rich arrangement of scents that speaks of
debauchery. Will is there, others too, one in particular with a masculine,
musky smell that pulls a furrow in Hannibal’s brow. He seeks out other obvious
smells that should accompany this - drugs, of which he finds only trace
amounts, or blood. There is no sweet-sticky scent of that at all, but the other
that has followed Will home in his hair, on his clothes, along his neck that
Hannibal nuzzles against is pervasive.
And more telling, as if the memory of a scent rather than the thing itself,
arousal brushes past Hannibal’s tongue. Adrenaline. Want. Desire. Lust.
“Where did you go?” Hannibal murmurs.
"Mmm, crossed islands for a walk," Will tells him truthfully, nuzzling closer
and settling in bed, messy clothes and all, blissfully, beautifully tipsy.
"Then they locked it off. Good to be a millionaire's kid."
Will hums and bites his lip, stretching up against Hannibal, hands seeking out
the hair against his chest to splay his fingers in. He can feel himself
relaxing, one muscle at a time, close to Hannibal again, two killers in
company.
"Got off around midnight,” he says, and then giggles take him, one hand up to
press to his face at the seemingly irrelevant pun. Will draws up his knees and
leans closer to whisper against Hannibal’s ear, "Row, row, rock the boat..."
A low purr rumbles through Hannibal in feeling Will’s fingers press against
him, a growl, equally, in hearing his words and being entirely too aware of
another presence far too near his boy, and for far too long. He flexes his
fingers in Will’s hair, tightens and loosens them, again and again, before
rolling over the boy and watching with hooded eyes as Will arches with a lovely
little laugh beneath him.
Hannibal’s lips are soft against his skin, teeth scraping across his
collarbone, over his heart. His hands press to Will’s sides and skim lower,
followed by his mouth, a shuffle back to kneel between the boy’s legs and kiss
his sternum, his stomach.
Will’s lower lip is held between his teeth as their eyes meet, and he curls a
skinny leg over Hannibal’s back, and in an instant Hannibal knows precisely
what the boy has done.
What he has allowed.
But he asks, instead, voice mild, “What did you do? Tell me about it, little
wolf.”
Will wriggles against him, a pliant and warm thing, steadily more sleepy, and
tries with fumbling fingers to tug Hannibal close again.
"Guy had a motorboat, private vessel, can't be blocked on island so," he sighs,
bends twists, "I got a ride."
"Did you."
Will smiles, eyes half closed, not hearing the threat. "I asked nice,” he
teases, "so I could get home to you and you didn't make your way out to seek me
and claim dinner in the process."
Twisting his head to shake loose Will’s unsteady fingers, Hannibal presses
another kiss lower still, against the soft trail of hair that runs beneath
Will’s belly button. He can taste the remnants of semen there, salty where his
tongue sweeps into another kiss, smell the boy’s familiar odor in this, at
least. And near enough now to catch more than that, brought into his bed, in
his boy, and offered by that same cruel creature to Hannibal now, as Will
whines and arches his back.
“You must have asked very nicely,” Hannibal agrees, “to receive a ride such as
that.”
With a hum and a nuzzle against Will’s soft belly, Hannibal allows his body to
settle, his pulse to return to steadiness, and as he comes up to meet Will’s
mouth again he avoids the kiss the boy would yield to him and snatches him
roughly by the hair instead.
“Very nicely, indeed,” sighs Hannibal, from resting state to active, as he
draws himself up to his knees and slips his feet to the floor, pulling Will
behind him with a bang against the ground.
"Fuck!"
Will’s used to the abuse, trained well enough that were he sober he would be
able to break the hold, break free, run and fight back. But all his movements
are sluggish, slow, and beyond moaning his displeasure he can do little else.
"Hannibal! Let go, Jesus," Will groans, twisting, flailing, eyes wider when he
realizes where he's being dragged. He's taller now, longer limbs and stronger
arms but still Hannibal is a wall to fight against, a statue, a god. Wrathful,
powerful.
"I couldn't have swum the fucking ocean to get to you, drunk! Hannibal come on,
please, don't think of it, it meant as little as the alcohol, it meant -"
“Ah, did it?” Hannibal asks, almost conversational as he drags Will down the
stairs, a dull thud on each step that the boy’s ass bangs against. Sharp
fingernails tear into his wrist and a quick jerk of his hand pulls a yelp from
Will and he just grips Hannibal instead. “It meant so little to you - nothing
at all, really. A dalliance of no import.”
His words become a snarl, teeth gritted behind curled lips as Will scrambles
against the floor, feet slipping out from under him with lack of control. A rug
bunches beneath him but Hannibal pays it little mind, through the house, and
towards the basement.
“Then perhaps your pleas for forgiveness mean just as little me, as the mind
you paid to a simple request I have made of you,” Hannibal murmurs, and into
the darkness they go.
Will curses again and it's weaker, the basement always drawing colder terror
through him than any violence wrought on him.
"Please, shit, just... Hannibal."
He falls pliant, a heavy weight yanked further through the basement as he kicks
his feet softly against the floor. He thinks of how easy it would have been not
to allow it, how he could have struggled free and drowned him in the ocean,
left him there and taken the boat.
He thinks too of how good it felt, fingers curling in the bottom of the boat,
wet ropes and the smell of fish, pushed harder and harder to it until he had
slipped to his elbows and laughed.
Inebriation was never good for Will’s mind, any substance the easiest escape
for having it work so fast.
"I'm sorry," he whines.
Hannibal releases Will’s hair and shakes the loose strands from his fingers,
knowing - or in light of this indiscretion, hoping he knows - that Will would
not try to run from here, and raise Hannibal’s ire even greater.
“You will be,” Hannibal agrees, as he paces towards the back of the basement.
“Extremely.”
Freezers hum in the near darkness, illuminated only by the sallow glow of the
overhead lights that Hannibal flicks on as he passes. His table - a newer model
than the one in Baltimore - rests angled in the back, blindingly clean from the
last butchery he performed on it, and Will raises his eyes to the tools hanging
along the wall within arms reach of it.
Hannibal goes past them, to a large cabinet, and snares from it a long length
of rope that he slinks around his shoulder.
Will curses softly again, scrambles back but doesn’t struggle. Just shows his
fear in the wide eyes and vulnerable posture. He regards the rope, swallows,
draws his legs beneath him and crawls closer, pressing his face to Hannibal's
legs, feeling the tension there, the anger boiling beneath.
"I was stupid," he murmurs, nuzzling, ignoring the feeling of rope falling
against his back in a heavy coil. Will bites his lip. "Please tie me up," he
whispers, "hurt me, remind me that I'm yours but don't leave me down here
alone."
He presses closer, nuzzling, whining, needy and tired. He laughs, bites his
lip, a gentle thing, and brings his hands to Hannibal's thighs just to hold
him, but Hannibal drives his knee out into the boy just hard enough to dislodge
him.
Will catches himself on his hands, only just, knees sprawled to either side of
him, and Hannibal bends low over him, holding Will’s chin in his hands. There
is no laughter here, no warmth, not even a distant sense of play or pleasure in
his voice as he snarls, “I can smell him inside of you.”
He shoves Will back to the floor and steps away to measure out the rope in his
hands, exhaustion in his voice, an overwhelming unhappiness that his boy - his
- has been used in this way.
Let himself be used, in fact.
“You are greedy,” breathes Hannibal. “Selfish. So little do I ask of you,
truly, so little do I insist upon,” he hisses, teeth bared, “and you laugh in
the face of it. And so I will treat your request with just as much respect and
consideration as you have treated mine. Remove your clothes, Will. Now.”
Will swallows, shifting to pull his shirt over his head and toss it aside,
pants following next before Will curls with his knees to his chest and waits.
He moves to remove his briefs with little more than a look from Hannibal,
before shivering on the concrete floor and holding out his wrist for Hannibal
to take.
"You and your double standards," Will purrs, uncoiling himself as he’s yanked
forward, kneeling, "The boys you still seduce and take, every day... and I can
smell them on you. Thick and wrong and you entirely shameless in it, pulling me
close to claim me again after -"
Will presses his lips to Hannibal's palm as he’s silenced, fingers digging into
his cheeks and nails leaving marks.
He turns his wrist, feeling the rope dig into him with elaborate knots. It will
hurt, in a way as to make Will moan and ache and plead for the warm fingers to
pull the ropes away, loosen them, touch him...
“One thing, Will,” hisses Hannibal, snapping the rope to jerk Will’s arms
roughly, and tie them back behind him. “One thing I have asked from you when
you do this, and you cannot even manage that.”
Hannibal loops the rope around Will’s neck and bends him backward, riding it up
his pale neck to just against his jaw, to regard Hannibal upside down. Lips
thin and eyes narrowed in a scarcely withheld anger, he seethes softly, “If I
displease you so much, Will, you are welcome to try and leave. Go work the
shore, the streets as you did before, and let all manner of beast leave your
thighs slick in my place.”
"You would miss me," Will whispers, parts his lips as the rope is tightened
just enough to choke him. He can't bring his hands up to stop it, and just
keeps his eyes on Hannibal.
He does not find a kind stare in return.
Rarely does he make Hannibal truly angry, bring him to viciousness that is not
in play. He thinks of the basement in Baltimore, the sting of the belt as he
had been cut by It over and over for his own idiocy. He thinks how here he had
finally been forgiven it.
He gasps, floor freezing against his chest as he is almost hogtied in place. He
can feel the knots still deliberate, to press to points of pleasure and pain
both as Hannibal tethers him.
"I'm yours," he reminds Hannibal, whiny and needy both at once. "I crawl
through hells and beasts to get to your bed, pay for It as they beg but they
never have me." He yelps as Hannibal gathers and pulls, twists and knots,
between Will’s throat and his feet, curving him backwards as far as he can
reach in an ornate and deliberate web of rope.
“No?” asks Hannibal, and for a moment the man sounds almost reasonable, were
Will not so tightly bound that he can feel his pulse in every part of his skin.
“And so that is why you told me, then, so I would know and you might make
amends for it. Why you washed that filth from your body before bringing to my
bed.”
Will swallows as Hannibal continues his work, controlled enough to bind him
tightly without cutting off circulation. “That is why you let him defile you
that way? It was to show him that he didn’t have you,” Hannibal repeats, as if
clarifying.
Looping the remaining length of rope around his arm, Hannibal circles to stand
in front of the boy now hogtied so tightly in soft red rope that his toes
nearly touch his head.
“Did you kill him, Will?”
Will’s eyes are wide, lips parted. He shakes his head as he can, licks his
lips. He still wonders why, still thinks of the moment he could have tipped the
man overboard, burdened with his wet ropes and crate of tools. Still wonders
why, after the man had finished, Will had not immediately struck him.
"I didn't."
He sighs, eyes closing as Hannibal presses his hands to them. He trembles,
licks his lips and makes a plaintive little sound.
"I couldn't leave a body on the sea, Hannibal, they would have found him, they
-"
Hannibal’s fingers are gentle as he strokes them through Will’s hair, down his
neck, against the rope that presses against his pulse.
“- certainly would never have understood how a drunken fisherman got ensnared
and fell out of a boat, at night,” Hannibal murmurs. For a moment he considers
kissing Will, savoring the taste of him and his regret once more before the
thought of what he allowed - and what he tried to get past Hannibal - stokes
his anger again and he stands, calmly.
The rope, single but folded and tied into seemingly many, is looped over the
ceiling beam overhead, and is caught with a soft sound in Hannibal’s hands.
“What are you -” Will begins, but his words are cut short on a whine and a
wince when Hannibal begins to heft Will from the floor in steady pulls. The
rope makes a soft susurrus as it slips over the beam, and Will inches higher
and higher from the floor. Limbs strained into an even sharper discomfort, the
ropes press - squeeze - around him, soft enough not to cut into his skin and
strong enough that he can do little more than hang suspended.
Hannibal loops the rope around a hook embedded in the wall and rests for a
moment, still in nothing more than his sleep pants and now a far cry from how
he had hoped to spend his night.
“Did you enjoy it, Will? When you felt him finish in you. Did you think about
it on the way home, relish it against your skin?”
Will watches him as he hangs, every muscle tense, everything throbbing already,
his own weight his torture here. He starts to turn, finds Hannibal catches him
by the chin to keep him still. He bites his lip.
"I didn't know he had until he did,” he admits, "then he let me go and -"
He can still feel the stickiness filthy between his legs, tied splayed with
more elaborate loops. Will curls his toes and turns into the hand holding him.
"He told me he would get me off the island for a fuck," he sighs. "Most do,
most of the time I don't care."
A displeased hum from Hannibal and Will levels him with a wry look. "I got here
on my back, to this island, to you. Spreading my legs has never been a problem
for you, for you to watch it be done, to do yourself. It's the claim -"
He makes a pained noise and trembles again, fingers splaying, toes bending and
relaxing how he hangs as the pressure grows more.
"I hate it on my skin," he whispers. "I want to wash it clean."
“But you did not,” Hannibal reminds him. “You said nothing of it, made no
attempt to save me from the stench of it. You came into my bed - ours - reeking
of another with little mind but your own comfort.”
A slap starts to send him spinning but Hannibal catches Will’s face before he
can turn away - once, for swearing, Will knows, swallowing hard past the rope
at his throat. His touch gentles then, a cruel torment in itself as the older
man strokes the backs of his fingers down Will’s cheek, against his chest,
following the beautiful, extreme curve held by his body until Hannibal reaches
his cock, hanging between the bindings.
“You thought with this, what little you thought at all,” murmurs Hannibal. He
wraps his fingers around the soft organ, stroking him as if he were milking
him, from the way he hangs. “You satisfied him and yourself, insatiable boy,
and came to serve me only after doing so, laughing as if you thought nothing of
it. The insult of it, the selfishness,” Hannibal says, voice twisting into a
hiss.
"I wanted to get to you," Will murmurs, voice unsteady as he tries to duck his
head to see what Hannibal is doing and finds it impossible. "I had to get home
and into your arms, I missed you -"
A squeeze, in warning, and Will bites his lip, releases it.
"All day, you were gone. All day. I went off island to distract myself, I
didn't know it would be locked off, I didn't know I would need to fuck my way
off." Another slap that Will takes with a moan, not a cry, cheeks flushed
already as Hannibal keeps cruelly stroking him, listening. "I wanted to get
home, to your bed, to ours, and lose myself in you and I couldn’t... without
letting him do that."
Hannibal sighs, a long and tired sound, squeezing hard enough to shake a moan
from the boy already trembling against the ropes pressing white against his
skin. Feeling Will’s cock harden despite himself, despite his best attempts at
genuine atonement, Hannibal takes a distinct satisfaction in skimming his
fingertips across the slick that beads at the tip, and teasing the skin down to
bare the head entirely to the cool cellar air.
“You enjoyed it, didn’t you?”
Will blinks, biting his lip to stifle another moan as Hannibal touches softly
over the exposed, sensitive skin.
“Answer me,” Hannibal warns, “in truth. I will know if you do not and we will
see how long you last bound as you are, and filthy. You enjoyed his company,
and that’s why you didn’t kill him.”
Will shakes, voice higher, trembling. He clenches his fingers, relaxes them,
shakes his head, nods it.
"He looked like you -" Will moans, another beautiful sound following as
Hannibal works him to agony with pleasure. "He wasn't rough, he started kind...
treated me like I was little, I was shy when I asked for a ride and he was
kind..."
Will arches his back, bending himself further in the beautiful tangle of rope
holding him captive, eyes closed and mouth open on panting and soft whimpers.
"He stopped the boat far out, bent me over...and he was nothing like you. His
touches too soft, his words filthy and dull. He fucked deep but not hard, I
ached for you, I wanted to... to go home... to feel... feel you instead...
please, Hannibal, please -"
The older man hums, the first moment of acquiescence that Will has earned so
far, with his fearful sincerity. He slows his stroking, though it matters
little even when he stops, Will’s cock now hard, swollen and red.
“I’m sure you were irresistible,” Hannibal allows. “Cheeks flushed with
expensive liquor, with drugs, your hair wind-swept in the salt air. Did you ask
him sweetly, beautiful boy? Did you act shy when he told you his fee, pretend
as though you’ve never done such things before?”
He skims a hand down the curve of Will’s spine, his tanned skin, following the
bend of his lean young body from his hair, over his ass, and around his legs in
the shape of a hoop, interspersed with lines of rope. Like a dreamcatcher,
formed from the body of a boy who has begun to learn not only how to snare the
wishes of others but to end them, entirely.
"I begged," Will bites his lip, and for a brief moment allows a mischievous
smile, eyes up to Hannibal. "I told him my daddy would be so worried if I
didn't get home before curfew."
He watches Hannibal’s eyes darken, a longstanding game with them, a gentle
name-calling. Then Hannibal draws nails over Will’s skin and he gasps, shivers,
cock leaking warm between his legs, dripping a sticky drop to the floor that
Will knows he will be made to lick clean.
"I pretended that I had never done it, that I was scared but I would try, if he
could get me home." Hannibal's hand slips between the cheeks of Will’s ass and
presses against him, still slick and messy, Will watches his lip snarl in
possessive anger. "I sobbed so loudly it echoed off the water before he made me
moan, and only then I did to make him stop," Will whispers, muscles tense and
shaking.
"I was temptation," he says, voice wavering, "and I clawed my way from him when
he hit the shore to get to you."
Precariously balanced between desire and disgust, between a want to punish and
a want to have, Hannibal’s lip curls a little more and he slaps hard across
Will’s ass - once, twice, again, until the boy yelps and his skin is scarlet.
For the name, Will knows, the title that Hannibal so loathes, and he bites his
lip again to stop the grin that tugs at the corners of his mouth.
He works his fingers back against Will’s warm opening - damp and open from
being so recently used - and allows the thrill of anger to curl inside of
himself again, an animal ferocity in finding his territory impeded upon by
another.
“Filthy child,” comes the admonition, sharp, as Hannibal forces his fingers
deeper. “No better than a rent boy, even still, for all that I have given to
you, what little I have asked. What am I to do with you? I’ve no interest in
someone else’s leftovers, no matter how beautiful they may have first been.”
"Make me yours again," Will gasps, trying to arch back to the fingers deep into
him, trying not to swing, finding himself held steady by a hand against his
throat, just above the rope. He will be bruised all over for this. Will shivers
at the thought.
"Make me work myself clean, reclaim me entirely... through blood and pain and
cries... tears... spread wide as you take me again and again until you feel me
yours again, please!"
Trembling, moaning, dripping to the floor again as Will endures another slap,
another, until he calls Hannibal's name in that tone, that sweet little tone
that only comes when his desire hits new levels he can barely control.
"I want to be yours again," he breathes.
Hannibal’s fingers twist deeper, merciless inside the boy, spreading him wider
than he already is to feel him shake against the taut cords. It is a
punishment, and yet Hannibal knows all too well how much pleasure Will derives
from the pain, the humiliation he inflicts on him. With a huff of breath to the
scent of this other from his nose, Hannibal withdraws his fingers, eyes
narrowing in his own pleasure now as Will lets out a little sob, trembling.
Plucking the ropes, Hannibal plays the boy like a harp, changing pitch and tone
depending on which he pulls tighter - a high alarm when he tightens the set
strapped across Will’s belly, a low delight when Hannibal changes to the one
across his chest instead. Finally, one in particular is sought, and when
Hannibal curves his finger around it and pulls, the slipknot unravels - as do
several others joined to it, and Will unrolls the width of his body with a yelp
as the ropes pull tight against his weight again. On his back now, cock against
his belly, one knee held tight against his chest and the other ankle stretched
high above him, arms still held behind his back.
Hannibal steps closer to Will’s head, hands framing his face, smearing the
stickiness of his fingers across the boy’s cheek to allow him to savor it as he
attempted to fool Hannibal into doing. Smiling faintly, he curves a hand around
Will’s chin and tilts his head back, straining against the rope snug around his
throat, until Will is face-to-face - and upside down - with the older man’s
hardening cock, the ridge of it just visible beneath his shorts.
“I should leave you here,” snarls Hannibal softly.
"If you step up closer I can pull your cock between my lips and relearn you
again," Will whispers, flushed and hard and tangled, hair dangling towards the
ground as his eyes seek out Hannibal's. He twists his wrists, just to show the
struggle, the strain in his body for Hannibal to enjoy.
"I've never had you this way, I could take you so deep," he licks his lips,
parts them. He wonders how he must look, as he is, a little boy caught in a net
and tugged from the sea, half-wild and hissing and feral.
"Let me earn it?" he whispers, hopeful, horny, leaking down his stomach.
Hannibal’s gaze sharpens, a curious annoyance spurred by the boy’s words, by
the boy himself, and yet aimed not towards Will at all. It is Hannibal’s own
weakness that frustrates him, his inability to simply beat the boy blue and
leave him dangling, to return to bed and seek him out in the morning. Bound and
held, stilled from even the delicious squirming that still twitches visible
through his slender body, he is definitively irresistible, a temptation that at
no point in his life might Hannibal hope to have enough willpower to resist.
And then Will’s tongue wets his lips again, and Hannibal doesn’t mind so much.
He releases Will’s cheeks to instead slip his thumbs beneath the waistband of
his shorts, sliding them just low enough down his hips that his cock is sprung
free, falling thick against Will’s throat, the soft cord around it. Hannibal
sighs as Will’s breath warms his skin, and he braces a hand against the
bindings that keep the boy aloft, murmuring low.
“Show me how sorry you are.”
Will grins, biting his lip before opening his mouth and arching to get
Hannibal’s cock against his lips to suck. Hands bound, he ends up squirming
until he manages the tip, with a laugh, and closes his eyes to take more.
It is a brutal angle, but Will swallows until he chokes, opens his eyes and
does it again, watching Hannibal as he sucks, flushed and trembling, sweaty and
so hard his cock twitches with every pull against Hannibal’s.
He parts his lips, strings of saliva pulling to his lips and tongue as he
moans, grins, laughs, and wraps his lips over him again, arching in his net to
stretch his body more.
Hannibal tucks a hand beneath Will’s head, grasping him by the curls, and
brings the other to rest against his throat. A low hum - decidedly pleased now,
rather than balanced between want and punishment - and he holds Will in place
to move his own hips instead.
A steady, slow fucking into Will’s mouth, lips curled wet and snug around his
flushed cock, tongue stroking curiously along the top, with Will upside down as
he is. Mouth reddening beautifully, and throat working beneath the older man’s
hand, Hannibal ducks his head to groan, sighing, as he pushes deep, languid, to
the back of Will’s throat.
His intent is clear, he does not ask, but he gives the boy room enough to choke
down air before trying again, eyes black with delight. “Greedy,” purrs
Hannibal, cock smearing spit glistening bright against Will’s already swollen
lips, and with a roll of his hips he pushes past them again, seeking out the
boy’s throat with a snarl.
Will whines, needy and high, eyes closed and throat open, by his position and
choice both. The rhythm is suffocating, Will barely managing to choke down air
as he's fucked.
His toes curl, fingers twisting in the knots to no avail, wrists turning as he
moans and coughs, thick sounds of swallowing as Hannibal continues his
punishment, gripping Will's hair and holding him still.
Will knows his tears drip down to his hair, down his cheeks and to the floor in
thick drops. He sobs, in need as much as pain, aching to breathe and begging to
cum, arching and writhing and twisting until he is allowed to breathe and says
only please!
Hannibal’s cock leaves a slick, shining smear against Will’s cheek, and the boy
is slapped for his whining, his begging, jerked up by his hair to bring their
eyes together, Will’s glistening bright blue as he blinks, and tears slip from
the corners.
“You have had your pleasure for tonight, Will,” Hannibal reminds him, another
cruel jerk of his curls to force his head back down and press his cock past the
lips that part so eagerly for it. “You will not again. Not tonight, perhaps not
tomorrow. Perhaps a week, more, if you ask again,” promises Hannibal, meeting
the sweet whine that rises high and lovely from Will’s throat with a growl of
warning.
Will forces his throat, sore already, to relax, closes his eyes and surrounds
the man once more with his mouth, wet and warm and still so eager. Again
Hannibal lets his fingers rest against the boy’s throat, head ducked and
shoulders hunched as he feels Will’s throat work to open for him, to take him
in, to hold Hannibal so deeply in his mouth even as Will’s breath is
scattershot little pants and gasps.
“Stay,” Hannibal tells him, and though Will has no choice but to do so, the
instruction raises a panic in his chest, sends his heart fluttering and tongue
rocking against Hannibal’s cock as if to dislodge it. Eyes wide but blurry with
tears, his breath comes shorter for each second that Hannibal remains buried
down his throat. Hannibal releases Will’s hair and splays his hand instead
across Will’s bare chest, soft skin segmented into tightly demarcated portions
by the bindings. He presses his fingers there, just over Will’s heart, to feel
Will’s panic send it frantic like a fluttering bird, like a leaf tossed by
wind.
“Stay,” he says again, in warning, and now Will can feel his body numbing, no
way to move away, to turn his head or open up his airway. “Breathe,” Hannibal
tells him, and only when Will clenches his hands and lets out a high, fearful
sound, his little body curled in distress, does Hannibal draw back from his
mouth and finish, hot, sticky splatters across his face, and a savage snarl
rips from Hannibal’s chest.
Will coughs hard, eyes tearing and body shaking as he tries to heave in
breaths, and even so he holds his tongue out to catch the drops that fall on it
as Hannibal finishes. Then he’s let go, left to swing and hang like a dead
weight, muscles still tense, cock still hard and aching and untouched.
Will closes his eyes and lets himself breathe, twisting his wrists just enough
to feel them, to know they have not lost circulation and are not in pain. He
feels, in a word, forgiven. Used and punished and let go. Filthy and helpless
and in the basement where so many boys like him die.
He only opens his eyes when he hears Hannibal step away, and then only to
follow him with them to see if he will be forced to spend the night in the
basement or if he will be exiled to the floor or spare bedroom instead.
Hannibal stops, a short distance away, to take in the sight of Will -
suspended, his legs spread and body slack but for where his cock lies pink and
full, and his cheeks, his lips, glistening wet with tears, with Hannibal’s
still-warm marking. He commits the sight to memory, no more anger in him now
that he has taken it out on the boy, and he murmurs only, “Beautiful.”
Carefully, he unloops the rope from the wall, winding it between his hand and
his elbow as he returns to stand beside Will and slowly lower him to the floor.
Will arches his neck back just enough to see how far he is from the floor, then
he bends forward to allow himself to come to the ground comfortably, groaning
as he’s laid against the cold concrete again. He’s panting, trembling, watching
Hannibal with wide eyes and parted lips as the man settles beside him to work
the knots free.
This is the part, in all the times that they have played this way, that Will
finds himself entirely mesmerized. Anger purged from Hannibal, the man softer
and gentler, strong fingers working deftly to slip loop from loop and set Will
free. Hannibal had told him, once, that there are at most two knots in the
entire structure of a suspension, the rest is carefully turned rope, twists and
bends and loops, never knots.
No matter the man’s anger, he has not put Will in danger with this kind of
play. Will doubts he ever would.
When he’s released he stretches, curls onto the cool floor on his chest and
lifts his eyes through his filthy fringe to seek instruction, contented, for
the moment, to be told what to do before he is allowed to return to bed and rub
himself against Hannibal until in that, too, the man relents.
“Clean yourself,” Hannibal tells him, studying the boy who stretches at his
feet. “All of yourself. Thoroughly.” His meaning is clear enough, and he hums
as Will stretches his arms out in front of himself, catlike, before slinking
closer to sit at Hannibal’s feet. He curls an arm around his leg, rests the
other on his thigh, and kisses whatever skin passes beneath his lips.
“Where would you like me when I’m done?” asks Will, turning his eyes upward,
following the long looming lines of Hannibal’s body. “Should I come back here?”
Hannibal twines his fingers through Will’s hair. “You will come to bed,” he
answers, and Will has to fight not to grin when Hannibal adds, “You’ve earned
my forgiveness. Now you will earn back my affection.”
End Notes
     Anoesis: (noun) Psychology. A rare word, anoesis is characterized as
     a state of blind emotion filled with extreme sensation without any
     cognitive awareness. Your senses, perception and feelings are
     extremely elevated and devoid of intellectual comprehension.
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