Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2040069.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      Hannibal_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Will_Graham/Hannibal_Lecter, Beverly_Katz/Brian_Zeller, Beverly_Katz/
      Brian_Zeller/Will_Graham
  Character:
      Will_Graham, Hannibal_Lecter, Beverly_Katz, Brian_Zeller, Jimmy_Price,
      Dr._Frederick_Chilton, Jack_Crawford
  Additional Tags:
      Mutual_Masturbation, Rough_Sex, Physical_Abuse, Claiming, Marking,
      Choking, medium-level_breath_play, Forced_Orgasm, Orgasm_Denial,
      Spanking, Humiliation, Cum_Play, Sex_Toys, Object_Insertion, Drug_Use,
      Alcohol, Threesome, Shower_Sex, Angst, Control, Manipulation, Branding,
      the_sickest_fluff_that_does_not_in_any_way_belong_here, Japanese_Rope
      Bondage, Facials
  Series:
      Part 2 of Vignettes_of_Sex_and_Violence
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-07-29 Completed: 2014-08-25 Chapters: 15/15 Words: 93333
****** Concupiscent ******
by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite
Summary
     “I will have you whole,” intones the older man, voice harsh as his
     teeth sink, not biting, but holding the boy’s movements steady
     beneath the grip of his mouth. A breath, another slow thrust against
     him. “I will have you whole so that I may rend you again and again.
     Leave my own marks on your skin and break you as I see fit.”
      
     4 weeks in hospital is a long time to be away from one's
     proclivities.
Notes
     Be sure to read Odalisque before you start, otherwise very little
     will make sense. This is another 15 chapters of pure, shameless kink
     indulgence. We are far from sorry.
     To solamentenic, for being incredible, supportive, and needing this
     at the start of the week.
     And to warpedchyld, for accidentally writing our exact fic in a
     parallel universe as we wrote this.
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Chapter 1 *****
Will doesn’t need his things carried for him, but neither will he stop Hannibal
from doing so.
He grins behind the back of the older man, watching as he hefts up duffle bags
and backpacks, a gym bag overfull with books. Tugging a suitcase behind
himself, Hannibal only makes a noise of dismay when he reaches the steps up
into the house, so laden.
Hard to reconcile this with the monster who Will sees in fog-dark corners of
memory, who weeks before had torn apart a man’s rib cage piece by piece with
nothing more than his hands.
Will draws a breath to offer help, and resists, as Hannibal pushes the door
open and - with stern-jawed, narrow-eyed determination - holds it open for Will
while yanking the suitcase through.
“I really only gave you my keys so that you could bring me clothes at the
hospital,” Will reminds him as he enters. “I didn’t think you'd bring the whole
apartment over here.”
Hannibal watches as he passes into the house, catches the shiver that courses
over pale skin, a passing memory, in spite of the warming spring day outside.
“It is important to undergo regular check-ups during the healing process, Will.
This is especially true for injuries so grievous, and located so precariously
near sensitive organs. I will notice the beginnings of an infection far before
you,” he responds.
A pause, and Hannibal adds, rueful, “And let us not pretend as though you have
not entirely invaded this space already.”
“Oh, not entirely,” Will blinks, his lips lifting in a smile, “until now.”
His bags migrate upstairs, with his less-than-pleased mentor, and Will retires,
for a moment, to the kitchen. By the cooking wine, rest the plate and bowl,
gold lines climbing through them like veins where Will had seen fit to destroy
their cohesive beauty, and then to create something new.
He wonders if he can paint his scar gold, and if it would change anything.
He takes down a glass and chooses water over wine, before meandering to the
dining room. The table stands, pristine and covered in a runner, a beautiful
configuration of bone and shell currently decorating it, two candles, thick and
off-white, on either end of the runner keeping it symmetrical.
He remembers the cold mahogany, as unforgiving as any metal, yet Hannibal had
not taken him to the basement, had not sewn him back up where he took boys to
be torn apart. He had kept him here, where they had shared meals and words,
nights and early mornings.
Will draws a hand over his stomach in an absent gesture and turns to return the
glass to the sink.
He feels Hannibal in the room before he sees him, something about his presence,
one Will’s senses are entirely honed in on, one that he had craved and ached
for and needed in the four weeks he had been hospitalized.
“Until now,” Hannibal agrees.
Will leans back when arms encircle him and tilts his head back with a groan.
An arm around the boy’s shoulder, the other pushing back through his hair to
cradle his head, conscientiously avoiding his stomach but still entirely unable
to resist the pull of him now that he has unburdened himself of the boy’s
belongings.
Four weeks apart, unbearable, even during visitations when Hannibal could stop
in without drawing undue attention to himself. No more than a mentor, then, sat
so near to Will and so entirely far. Unable to feel his warmth, to smooth his
hair from his face as he slept, to draw him near or cast him down or stir him
to a fervor or strike him for his incessant swearing.
Nothing, a boundless distance of inches, until now, as he holds Will as close
as he physically can, to feel every shiver of their bodies roll together in
desperate reunion.
“How do you feel?” he asks, dragging his nose through Will’s hair, nuzzling
against his temple, bending him gently this way and that to chase the scents
that cling to him, the hospital and all its trappings, the Bentley scrubbed
free of blood, the boy’s apartment and the boy himself.
He draws a deeper breath, in pursuit of that particular sweetness, chasing
kisses along his hair.
Will hums, brings one hand back to stroke through Hannibal’s hair, against the
back of his neck, fingers splayed against the warm smooth strands as he works
them out of their pristine order.
“Alive,” he admits, biting his lip a moment before pressing back closer, free
hand up against where Hannibal’s holds his shoulders, hooking gently over the
wrist, feeling his pulse. Then he grins, arches his back and rolls his hips
hard against Hannibal behind him, lips parting on a long sigh of pleasure, of
rekindling that particular memory between them.
“Horny as fuck,” he sighs, turning his head just a little, to feel Hannibal’s
hot exhale against his cheek. He wants to kiss him, turn around and near-climb
the man in his fervor.
But he waits. Rolls his hips again, slips his hand free of Hannibal’s hair to
slide over his hip and hold him close as he starts a rhythm.
“Four weeks - I thought I was going to lose my mind,” he moans softly.
Hannibal’s arm drops lower, to grasp the boy’s coiling movements, to hold him
in place and stop his shifting, careful not to come near the wound yet healing.
He presses nearer with his own hips, though, a driving grind, once, against the
boy held fast in front of him.
“There has been no one else,” Hannibal insists. “I have thought of only you and
in your convalescence I have been driven near to madness.”
He turns Will now, gently despite how his fingers press, craving something
firmer, more savage. Ducking his head against the boy’s, he murmurs, “I have
wanted only you, Will. Here, with me.”
A beat.
“So many words you felt at liberty to use when I had to stay my hand, that now
must be repaid,” he adds, bemused.
Will grins, turns his head and licks his lips, close enough for Hannibal to
feel the heat of his tongue before Will whispers.
“Then fuck me and clear my card a little.”
When he turns back he doesn’t have a chance to say more, hot lips against his,
teeth and low growls deep enough to vibrate more than voice. He draws his arms
over Hannibal’s shoulders, lifts his knee up against Hannibal’s hip until he’s
hoisted up, set against the sink. He wraps his legs around the older man and
tugs his hair softly.
“Such debauchery in your kitchen, doctor, I’m astounded.”
He craved him, missed him, the tug and pull and press of bodies, the delicious
stretch and the pain that underlined his pleasure, always. He rolls his hips
forward again, seeking more, seeking closer. Fingers fall to undo the buttons
on Hannibal’s vest, slip closer still to unbutton his shirt.
Hannibal’s eyes close, content for a moment to just feel the boy’s fingers
against him, spreading warm to push his shirt back careless from his shoulders.
But when his eyes open again, it is with a narrowing.
“The only debauchery here is your mouth, scattering filth each time it opens.”
Leaning in against Will, Hannibal works a hand beneath the back of his shirt,
stroking warm along his spine, to bring him nearer without bending him. Despite
his admonishment, he kisses the boy’s filthy mouth, that beautiful, grinning,
clever, crude thing, that he has ached for in particular, to feel the curves of
Will's lips moving soft beneath Hannibal’s own, to taste his tongue again.
And yet Hannibal’s fingers still, one hand against the boy’s back, the other
playing at his fly. He swallows and nuzzles his nose alongside Will’s, the
ardor withdrawing with painful reluctance.
“No, Will,” Hannibal responds, frustration in the shift of his jaw. “Not yet.
There is still a risk that your wound could reopen, internally, under strenuous
activities.”
Will snorts and tries again to spark that flame Hannibal has effectively
doused. He whines, hard and needy and hungry for this, but gets nothing more
than kisses, nips, hands splaying over his back. Will sighs and relents, his
disappointment palpable.
"Share a cigarette with me,” he offers instead, holding his hands against
Hannibal’s chest as he pulls him close to kiss him again.
The day passes slowly, Will in and out of sleep on the sofa in the study as
Hannibal works on personal reports, handwriting meticulous and small, a
shorthand in a language Will does not understand.
Hannibal makes breakfast for dinner, with sweet bread and a light omelet that
Will thoroughly enjoys. It feels, in the end, too domestic, too normal, when
Will is used to being able to manipulate the man easily to his whims, a certain
arch of his back enough to have Hannibal’s hands on him, hot and demanding,
bending him, stripping him, fucking -
"It doesn’t have to be strenuous," Will reasons, stretched naked under the thin
sheet as Hannibal pointedly ignores him to read from his iPad, jaw set and eyes
hooded. Will bites his lip, eyes narrowing, and grins. With a sigh he turns
away, back to Hannibal as he lies on his side, then turns to his stomach, still
comfortable sleeping that way despite his injury.
He waits. Long enough for Hannibal to set his reading aside, for him to flick
the light off and settle into bed, just turning to reach for Will. And then
Will gasps, body shifting just gently to curl up, unfurl again. The gasp
becomes a moan and Will presses his face to the pillow, one hand down between
his legs to stroke himself slowly, a teasing show with nothing to see and
everything to imagine for the man beside him.
Hannibal lingers, hesitating, before embracing the boy. A curious hum,
listening to the little moans and heavy breaths that press against the pillow
beneath him, the familiar sound of skin rubbing softly against skin.
He isn’t sure he’s ever been so hard as he is right now, after so long without
any real relief, and to hear the boy so depraved beside him.
“Will,” Hannibal murmurs, a warning, his own resistance peeling away with every
stroke, every shift of skinny shoulders, every needy little sound that comes
from the decadent thing beside him.
Finally, he moves, all but smothering the boy beneath him, covering Will with
his body, mouth hot against his shoulder as he kisses, bites, tastes along the
graceful curve of his neck to press his lips just beneath the boy’s ear. He
rocks against him, a restrained movement, enough that Will can feel his cock
rubbing against his ass, seeking more and fighting the urge to simply take.
A hand skims across the boy’s hip to grasp his hand as it works against
himself, squeezing to still it for a moment, just to hear Will gasp as
Hannibal’s hand closes hard over his own.
“I will have you whole,” intones the older man, voice harsh as his teeth sink,
not biting, but holding the boy’s movements steady beneath the grip of his
mouth. A breath, another slow thrust against him. “I will have you whole so
that I may rend you again and again. Leave my own marks on your skin and break
you as I see fit.”
Still, his hand loosens enough that he can feel the smooth turn of Will’s wrist
again, thumb toying across the slick slit at the tip, earning him at least
another aching moan.
And with this, Hannibal releases him, draws back his body from this insatiable,
insufferable little thing curling and quavering beside him, eyes wide in the
dark to track every shift of muscle, every stretch of pale skin beneath the
sheets.
“You would take your pleasure, then, rather than wait for what I would give
you?” An offer, perhaps. A scolding. A manipulation, to see if he can still the
boy’s fervor as readily as the boy stirs his own.
"I would have you take me," Will replies, breathless, but he stills, stops the
movement of his hand, turns, nuzzling the pillow, to Hannibal with a smile.
"Not strenuous," he insists, arching his back before leaning close to kiss
under Hannibal’s chin.
"You could have me this way," he continues, "with your hands, mine on you in
turn... stroking, playing, taking."
Each word is moaned, Will arching up again a little more, feeling the sheets
brush his cock. But for all his teasing, he does not disobey to touch himself
again.
Hannibal lifts his chin, eyes closing as the boy nuzzles against him.
“Have we ever, in a way that is not strenuous?” he wonders, amused, and pushes
firm fingers through Will’s hair, to gently tug the curls straight and let them
spiral again, following the line of his jaw, the curve of a collarbone, down
further still.
Eyes opening again, Hannibal’s hand hesitates, just above the scar. He doesn’t
ask, but allows time enough for Will to stop him, to twist away from it, and
when he does not, he only then allows his palm to run the line of it.
The same way he’s always rubbed Will’s stomach, adoring, affectionate, but now
with a path to follow.
“Gently, then,” he agrees, pressing a long kiss to the corner of Will’s mouth,
to feel the breath he draws when Hannibal grasps his cock.
The bed was desolate in his absence - empty, cold, far too large without his
lanky limbs splayed across it. Nightly Hannibal had turned to reach for him, to
gather his boy’s warmth against him, and found only empty sheets, waking sudden
and rendered sleepless as he wondered first if Will would return to him at all,
and later wondering when, each day longer than the one before it.
He slips an arm beneath Will and brings him closer, unwilling to let any
movement of his body go unfelt, any spike of his pulse, any moan or kiss or
touch made his again, his entirely.
Will goes, pressing close, flushed already with the thought of gentleness, with
the feeling of Hannibal’s hand against him.
He had missed it at the hospital; the rough hands, the possessive hold that
would pull him close then bend him over, heavy body on top of his, rough hands
spreading him, warm accented syllables murmured in his ear, in English, in
French...
He makes a gentle noise of pleasure and brings a leg up over Hannibal’s hip,
one arm wrapping around his shoulder, the other down to curl over the thick,
familiar length of him.
He could suck, he could try to convince Hannibal that sitting astride him,
locked together, he could be as rough as he wanted and Will would not get
damaged. But here, like this, he feels himself already close, and aching,
greedy, for more.
He kisses Hannibal, open-mouthed and needy, and moans low, rolling his hips
forward, turning his wrist on the upstroke and feeling Hannibal twitch with it.
Legs entwined, bodies tangled together in slow undulations of hands, mouth,
hips all meeting, joined with languid strokes of movement.
“Think of it,” Hannibal tells him when they part enough to take in air, lips
grazing together as he speaks. “When you are well enough, think of how
beautifully you will stretch for me, Will. The pain that will sing through you
and curl your toes when I pull you from the couch and bend you over it
instead.”
He tugs firmer now, tightening as his palm works across the head of Will’s
cock, leaking slick with need, an unsteady gasp pulled from him.
“Perhaps over my desk instead,” Hannibal suggests, a growl more felt than heard
beneath his words. “I will bare you over it, leave you there as I complete my
work, reaching to press my fingers inside you only when I feel so moved. You
will ache from it, but not so much as you will ache for more.”
His teeth grit as Will finds the rhythm that pulls movement from Hannibal’s
hips, uncontrolled, given over to this boy and his clever hands, his widening
grin, the flush of color darkening his cheeks. Hannibal kisses it, tastes the
warmth of blood blushing through pale skin, and sighs hard, his body forcing
itself forward.
“There will be no gentleness in it, sweet boy. I will hear you sob my name.”
"Hannibal -"
Will’s lips part on a moan now, as though a promise to see it disintegrate into
sobs, into shudders as he imagines everything Hannibal had said, imagines being
bent over his desk, as Hannibal filed reports, most likely reciting something
for the man’s pleasure. His own thesis maybe, maybe his new one as he works on
it, that Will snuck into his desk to see.
"You’d tell me to stay still and I wouldn’t listen," he gasps, ducking his head
against Hannibal’s neck and finding his head pulled back by his hair for the
man to see him, to catalog the flush in his cheeks, down his neck as his cock
leaks into the man’s hand.
"God, you would keep me there for hours and play with me," he whimpers, tries
to spread his legs wider in the position they're in, locked together in tangled
limbs and hot breath.
He feels the telltale stretch over his stomach, the ache that comes with it,
and grits his teeth, forcing his mind back to pleasure again, to stroking
Hannibal enough to feel the head swell, to ache and miss the feeling of it
within him, pushing deep, drawing pitiful moans from Will’s throat...
The expression is not unnoticed as Hannibal watches every movement, every
twitch or gesture as if he had never seen them before. He releases Will’s hair
enough, and brings the boy against his throat again rather than bending him
into that endlessly pleasing curve. Gentling, by force of will, to pull Will
tightly against him instead - intimately aware even in the abandon granted to
his body beneath Will’s hands and mouth, of what hurts him, and how.
“I will,” Hannibal breathes, their legs tangling in the sheets as they rock
against each other’s hands, pull and push and grasp and turn. “I will spread
you as though you were my paperwork, laid out on display. Presented. Your body
will burn, Will, after so long untouched. So many weeks without feeling the
stretch of fingers inside you.”
A gasp, pulled hissing through Hannibal’s teeth again, as he fights down the
release that pulls through him from the depths of his stomach, coiled around
the base of his spine and bringing him to buck harder. He mirrors it with his
own hand, the same skillful hand that last laid stitches into Will’s skin now
undoing him, fingers tightening beneath the pink, glistening head of his cock
as he strokes, feeling the uneven twitches gathering in the boy’s body.
“I will take you there, laid across my desk,” Hannibal purrs against his ear, a
threat sharp beneath his words. “I will have my fill of you and you will remain
still, unmoving, your thighs left sticky from it until I am ready to have you
again.”
Will swallows, a moan breaking free from his throat, unwilling to be silenced.
"Oh fuck.” He twists, so close and not wanting to break so fast, wanting to
feel the ache of it the need throb through his system after weeks and weeks
without. But the thought, the image of being Hannibal’s toy, just a thing to
use when he felt inclined and then left, filthy and dripping, to ache without
release…
“You would leave me there for hours,” Will moans, body shuddering, closer,
closer, and he’ll admit he’s not putting in enough willpower to stave off his
release as he could be, and he doesn’t care.
Beneath him, beside him, Hannibal’s muscles tense, his breath hitches on a
laugh dark enough to no longer warrant the name, and bites a harsh kiss against
Will’s jaw, just under, marking him there, a new bruise on an old canvas
remade, resewn.
“Please…”
“Yes,” Hannibal whispers, an agreement to everything, spoken and unspoken,
Will’s need for release and the pictures that Hannibal paints for him, promises
made and sealed in fire, as immutable now as before. An assent to the then and
now and yet-to-be, as Hannibal arches, breathless, a primal groan pulled free
and unrestrained as he allows himself his own release, hot and thick between
the boy’s fingers, his hips following the pulse of it, quick jerks, shuddering,
mouth slack for the panted breaths to part his lips.
It has been so long, and for so much of that time Hannibal considered that this
may never be again, that he finds himself as reluctant to let the moment pass
so suddenly.
He pulls his fingers tight, almost painfully, as he feels the boy twitch
beneath him and stays his climax, hushing him softly as he keens, a joyous
cruelty in the amusement of his words.
“I will leave you there, Will, until your legs grow weak from bending yourself
in presentation to me. Until you are dizzy with the effort, the strain. You
will shift, despite my instructions, you will draw your arms in and bend your
knees and try to find release against my desk.”
Teeth catch beneath Will’s jaw again, lips firm against him to suck another
bruise into blooming beautiful blues and purples over his skin. His favorite
work of art, the canvas of this boy’s body, his to paint again and again in
countless, exquisite expressions of the pull that Will has over him, manifested
in their shared carnage.
“And when you do, stubborn boy, when you ache and fuss and whine at me as I
work, you will pay for every word with my hand across your thighs.”
Will whimpers, a helpless pleading sound and shivers, muscles pulled taut with
containing his release, mind burning with the images within it.
“Yes,” he breathes. “Please, yes…”
And still no mercy for it, just a deliberate drawing of a rough thumb over the
head of his cock until he chokes on a whine and claws his fingers down
Hannibal’s arms. He relaxes only when the man kisses him, rough and deep and
possessive, and soothes his hand over his cock, allowing him to cum, almost
convulsing with the force of it, so good after so long doing it alone.
When they part, Will’s eyes are closed, lips parted red and smiling. He ducks
his head, nuzzles against him, all soft kitten pliancy and gentle need for
closeness.
“God I missed you in there,” he sighs.
Hannibal gathers Will against him, an insistent tug into his arms, easily moved
in the limberness of his relief, legs still tangled together, shared release
cooling damp against the sheets.
He pays no mind to it - the sheets can be changed tomorrow - and brings his
hand to his mouth to taste the boy there as well, the earthy saltiness spread
wet across his fingers. There is no part of Will that Hannibal does not want to
taste, see, feel, consume again and again, to stoke the memories that have
failed to keep him satisfied in the boy’s absence, to refresh and reclaim.
Tilting his nose against Will’s temple, breathing him in, he sighs, an
unfamiliar tension in his murmured words. Guilt. Regret.
“I came as often as I could,” Hannibal responds, rubbing the soft curls of
Will’s hair against his cheek. “More than I should have, for a mentor visiting
a student. Had I my way in it you would never have left here. I would never
have let them take you so far from me.”
He remembers the indecision, the desperate want to keep Will on the table, to
leave him there to recover on his own, to not call someone else to come and fix
him, fill him. But his chest had risen and fell so weakly, his breaths not near
enough to fill his lungs, lips already pale, skin near-translucent.
He would not lose him to his own obsession.
And now he lives, now he’s here and breathing and warm, wriggling in Hannibal’s
grip and pressing closer still in his need for him.
“I ached seeing you so close and not being able to move into you,” Will sighs,
but there is no accusation there, no anger, just a soft, exhausted sort of
regret that was outside of either of their control.
Will had worried, endless nights when Hannibal hadn’t come, for the first week,
perhaps still clearing up all information of Will’s ‘assault’ or the scene
itself, that he would not want him anymore. That the scar had severed them, not
just cut Will in half.
He takes Hannibal’s hand now, slides it to splay over his stomach again, the
hand big enough to cover hip to hip, warm the raised scar there. His fingers
spread, across the scar and over the soft skin around it, tracing it softly,
gentle strokes. The same way he touches the scar inside Will’s thigh,
relentless adoration for the marks he wears so beautifully, the pain he takes
with such remarkable strength.
Though not carved by him, his mark as much as the other, in its repair if not
its creation.
“Beautiful boy,” Hannibal breathes against his cheek, chasing the words with a
kiss. “Little wolf.”
Unspeakably content to have Will near him again, unwilling to indulge in the
doubts and questions that accompany these quiet sensations to instead just let
them rest warm against their skin, and settle into the first easy sleep they’ve
found in weeks.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Summary
     The refrain has become deafening. One more week, one more week, every
     time he’s made mention of his boredom, kicked his feet against chairs
     and complained, tempted and suggested. Every time he’s taken the
     answer and borne it in silence, until now. One more week too many.
     WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: very rough sex, insane possessiveness.
Chapter Notes
     Some routines you can't establish back so easily...
     Look at them, fighting like an old married couple. Sweet little
     killers. What the FUCK, Val.
It’s restlessness, really.
With the hatred of being cooped up in a house big enough to walk in, but not
enough to breathe in.
Hannibal goes to work. Will stays there. Forbidden from leaving for fear of
doing damage to his injury. ‘The greater good’ never sounded so damned sullen,
and Will finds that beyond pacing and blaring inappropriate music through the
invisible speakers of Hannibal’s home he has little to do but read and immerse
himself in thoughts of things he can’t do anymore.
Hunting.
Fucking.
Even fucking college is out of the question until his six weeks of healing have
curled up and ashed out the window.
Slowly, Will grows more and more agitated. He smokes more, he stays up late
reading or staring into space, returning to bed too late for anything to happen
and curling up with his back to the older man, denying any invitation.
But it’s when Will deliberately turns his head away when Hannibal leans in to
kiss him that he finally pushes back.
“I need to hunt,” Will tells him, expression neutral, tone entirely honest.
“Now.”
Hannibal regards him at length. Rather than tightening his grip as he otherwise
might in facing such resistance, he uncurls his fingers from where they had
found their way into Will’s hair and lets them lower.
He brushes the backs of his fingers along Will’s cheek, feels the hot flood of
color in them despite the forced neutrality to which the boy holds himself.
Without showing anything but a clinical sort of kindness, Hannibal moves past
Will to continue cooking, without the kiss he sought when Will finally appeared
in the kitchen.
It is the first time he’s seen the boy today, and the days preceding had left
him unexpectant to see him at all before dinner was ready.
“One more week,” Hannibal responds, the same answer he’s given time and again,
the same immovable tone.
“Now,” Will repeats, eyes narrowing when Hannibal ignores the word to instead
slice the meat on the cutting board into thin strips for cooking. The entire
gesture angers him, the man indulging in his own hobbies, working with them
immediately in front of Will and denying Will his own.
He swallows. Parts his lips with his tongue and nods.
“Fine.”
Without a word he leaves the kitchen, feet padding up the stairs in a quick
rhythm. Hannibal lets him go. Perhaps in another week, Will would not ask
again. Perhaps by then he would settle, remember why he’s here, why he’d been
on a drip and away from Hannibal for four weeks entire, why Hannibal had only
allowed Will to finally coax him into fucking him against the shower wall four
days ago.
The footsteps return down the stairs, heavier this time, and Hannibal glances
up to watch Will pass the kitchen and noticeably speed his steps when he feels
Hannibal looking, as he aims for the front door.
He’s managed the second lock by the time Hannibal has grabbed his wrist and
pinned it.
“Let me out, Hannibal.”
It feels like panic, but Will won’t give him that, staring balefully at the
older man who holds his wrist turned so easily against itself, the promise of
pain tightening along bone and sinew.
“One more week.”
The refrain has become deafening. One more week, one more week, every time he’s
made mention of his boredom, kicked his feet against chairs and complained,
tempted and suggested. Every time he’s taken the answer and borne it in
silence, until now. One more week too many.
“And the week after that?” Will asks, as calm as he can be in letting Hannibal
hold him there, gaze sharpened.
Hannibal’s brow lifts, the barest suggestion of surprise at the accusation
masked as question.
“Are you so desperate, Will, to be opened beneath another’s hands so quickly?”
A chill frosts the words around their edges. An implication for an implication.
He releases the boy’s hand before he can jerk it free and injure himself, but
remains near enough the door as to dissuade him from reaching for it again.
“A chance in hundreds I am willing to take,” Will replies, cheeks flushing
darker for a moment, wondering if he will even be desirable, now, with that
gash across his stomach, where once he had been unmarked entirely and pale.
Beautiful.
“For two years I have been beaten, bled, fucked, and I have lived. I have
outlived,” he reminds Hannibal. “I am not a housepet, Hannibal, what the fuck
do you think I am to you?”
The slap comes hard, unexpected after being allowed such a substantial grace
period to swear to his heart’s content, enough to force the boy to stagger
beneath the weight of it.
“Ungrateful,” comes the answer, an ice wind now rather than a chill.
Hannibal does not move to grab him, though his fingers itch to feel the boy’s
hair wrapped tight around them. He watches, every movement subject to scrutiny,
holding himself still in wait.
“Hundreds,” Hannibal repeats, and the word sticks hard between his teeth, “and
brought low even still. Dead, if not for me that saved you from it. My hands,
Will, that destroyed the one who did that to you. That stitched you sobbing
back together again.”
A step, closing the distance by only so much, but enough to fill the space
around them, a looming presence, standing tall but with all the feel of a
predator stalking prey, ready to strike again at the barest movement.
“And so you show your gratitude.”
Will’s gaze doesn’t waver, though his eyes are wider now, the pupils filling
the cool blue around them. One cheek burns red with the strike and he doesn’t
touch it.
“What am I to you?” he repeats quietly. “You knew, know, what my nature is.
From the first night neither of us managed to fulfil our particular desires in
our particular hobbies, you knew.”
He swallows, ducks his head away from the intense gaze of the other man,
doesn’t say a word about the rest, of how Hannibal had found him, had killed
for him, cleaned up, stitched him back to life.
“How would you have me show my gratitude in captivity, Hannibal? How else than
how I have been?”
He glances up and his brows furrow again.
“You whipped me to within an inch of my life for my envy,” he reminds him. “And
now?”
Another step, close enough now that Will has to raise his chin to meet his
eyes.
“Is that how you see this?” Hannibal’s head tilts, just so, as though hearing a
sound in the distance that he can’t quite make out. “Is this captivity? Do I
hold you here against your will, this home a prison?”
The touch that brushes against Will’s cheek, still warm from the strike, would
seem gentle if not for the darkness gathering between them, shadowing
Hannibal’s face as he ducks his head and lifts the boy’s chin, to force their
eyes to meet.
“It must be,” he concludes, “for you to flee it at your first opportunity. To
run into the beds of others, let the filth of their hands and words seep into
you, their seed coat your thighs, their fists and feet and blades find their
way into your skin. All worth more than what I have chosen to give you.”
His hand tightens cruelly, holding the boy’s chin ensnared in his fingers.
“What am I to you, Will? And what becomes of you when I am not there to save
you again?”
Will makes a soft noise, one hand out behind him to curl against the door, the
other at his side, not struggling, though he could. He swallows.
“I hunt to kill, Hannibal, just like you,” he reminds him, whisper-harsh and
narrow-eyed. “And I cannot kill you. I don’t have that ability. I don’t have
that desire.”
He jerks his chin free and glares up from beneath his hair, just as weakened by
the admission, just as annoyed that he feels this at all.
“You are the man I come back to, the one I seek out, the one I chose.” He
brings his hand up to tug his hair back with a sigh and looks at Hannibal
properly. “I crave your bed, your hands and your words. I ache for your seed to
slick my thighs and leave me trembling. I want your bruises and blood and pain,
where for them I merely endure it, to be able to wrap a belt around their
throats at the end and watch them die for me.”
He swallows.
“Let me go, Hannibal. Trust that I will come back.”
Hannibal watches him, the earnestness in his eyes, and he knows all too well
how maddening is the sensation of being unable to act, resisting the pull of
one’s nature until it splinters like bone, digging deeper and sharper with
every breath, every movement drawing blood.
“And if I trust, and you do not return?”
The statement is unfinished - unable to make himself force the words, because
in truth Hannibal does not know what form they would take. The scent of blood
and bile still burns in him, weeks passed since he felt Will’s blood pulsing
softer and softer across his fingers, and there is no more light on that path
for him than before, no guidepost to follow were he to find himself there
again.
“My trust would not have saved you, had I been a minute more delayed. An extra
stop light. A mistaken address. And you would not be here to say these things.”
The ice cracks. Hannibal’s hand snarls firm in Will’s hair, tugs him close and
bends his skinny body, little care now for the pull of scar tissue firm across
his belly, to bring him closer and feel him, there, alive, with racing heart
and curled lips soft beneath Hannibal’s own as he whispers.
“Your words will not warm me when your body is cold. I would raze cities to the
ground to bring heat to myself in your absence but it would not be enough. I
would lay waste, desolation without end, in your name so that others in their
grief would know a fraction of what I felt. And no amount of blood would
satisfy me for the loss of yours.”
Hannibal swallows.
“And knowing this, you ask me to trust. To let you go and to wait.”
Will’s breath is quick, a sharp thing, eyes wide and heart hammering.
He had remembered Hannibal’s words, had heard every single one when he had been
forcing himself to stay conscious. The words that carried with them the weight
of Hannibal’s entire world. Fully meant, every single one. Enough to pound four
letters into Will’s heart without them ever being spoken.
He moves, fast enough to rival Hannibal, and snares his hair in turn, pushing
them close to kiss, mouth parted hot, tongue falling pliant to Hannibal’s
assault of it. It’s a surrender, a giving over of his being and soul, and
Hannibal swallows it, devours it, savors everything.
Will whines, soft, a little thing once more in his hands, here; delicate and
damaged, a child, still, and not a monster. Studies and friends and an illicit
love affair with his mentor, and nothing more. Will makes a helpless noise and
then he pulls back.
No.
A shell, without the monster.
“I will return to your bed,” he sighs, nose nuzzling against Hannibal’s, just
as desperate in his declaration as Hannibal had been in his. “And you will
punish me for my disobedience thoroughly, but you will let me go now.”
He pretends to ignore the sound Hannibal makes, barely there in his throat,
pretends to ignore the way his breathing stills to nothing, before Will pulls
from his slackened grasp and unlocks the door before the other can stop him.
A shell, without the monster, and he cannot be hollow.
The door closes, and Will is gone.
Hannibal stands, for seconds, minutes, hours it seems, and feels Will’s warmth
recede from him where it was pressed.
A hand slides across his face, to press away the feel of the boy’s mouth
against his own, the taste of his tongue and the echo of his words. Hateful
silence fills the house, taunting him with the lack of familiar footfalls, of
curious interruptions, of movement and of sound and of life.
Hannibal finds his way to the kitchen and disposes of dinner before it’s even
been cooked. No taste for it now. No interest. A pale pleasure at the act, a
minor destruction in coda to the one laid bare now.
Four weeks of unfathomable distance. Two more weeks, these of desperate
reclaiming and renewed devotion and rampant desire, and then, as suddenly as it
had begun, fading - curling away like ash until that, too, fell and softly
split apart.
Wine is poured, swallowed without savor, a senseless attempt for consumption to
sate a monster stirred not to violence but to an adoration defying words and
finally given them, on breathless insistences and oaths and vows sworn to this
boy, his boy, and none other.
I am not a housepet, Hannibal, what the fuck do you think I am to you?
Words that were deemed insufficient. Found lacking enough for Will to still
leave, after all that transpired. Unsatisfying enough for Will to surely
consider not returning to one who would allow himself such weakness as to make
those declarations.
Uninteresting. Unworthy.
The irony is as acrid as ash, extinguished smoldering against Hannibal, a sharp
and sudden pain.
He shuts the lights off behind him as he goes to bed.
There is no reason to keep them on.
-
It's well past midnight when Will returns, closing the front door quietly
behind himself before leaning against it. He sighs, one hand up to rub his
face, to wipe away the heat of an unfamiliar, unwelcome mouth, his other up to
turn the second lock on the door.
The house is silent, as though entirely devoid of life, and Will would think
Hannibal had gone hunting himself were his kill ground not his own home.
Will swallows, the sound Hannibal had made still heavy, loud in his ears where
he could not wipe it from his mind the entire night, the entire time he had
bent over the bed, pretended to be someone’s naughty little boy, pretended to
sob and struggle, pretended and wailed at how much being fucked hurt...
It had silenced when the man below him stilled in breathless silence, for just
a second, just a sigh, before filling Will’s brain again.
He'd left the scene quickly, hands shaking, unused to the strength needed to
garotte someone with a belt after weeks of no practice. His fingers had
slipped, he had nearly lost the man to his struggle, had nearly lost himself to
another near-death.
But he couldn't. He couldn't break a promise to Hannibal that way. So here he
is, feet silent and bare as he makes his way upstairs, shucks his jacket to set
on the chest at the end of the bed.
The man doesn’t move when Will climbs over him in bed, doesn't turn to him, and
Will finds himself burying his nose in the familiar hair, silken and straight,
to breathe Hannibal in, to moan pleasure at the familiar, needed, wanted
sensation.
"I'm here," he sighs, feeling the tremble of restraint as Hannibal holds
himself still, for the moment. "I missed you."
Small hands spread across Hannibal’s chest, curl against the soft hair to feel
the beat of his heart, unmovable as the man himself.
Hannibal remains still. Feels the boy here, again, hugging tightly to him in
the silence, feels the racing fear in his own pulse that the damage done was
irreparable, the shortened sigh from Will that aches for a response. Feels his
mouth move warm across the back of Hannibal’s neck and his fingernails draw
against his skin and Hannibal swallows, hard.
Will left, as he must, as his nature drives him to give himself in pleasure and
then snap it away with the crack of leather. As Hannibal knows, in honesty to
himself, that were the tables turned, he would have left just as readily,
unable and unwilling to be more or less than he knows himself to be. He had
whipped the boy to bleeding for even the implication that he would be so
restrained, and given nothing to Will when he asked for the same freedom.
The tension pulls twisting between them in the silence, and with a breath, it
snaps.
In an instant, Hannibal has turned, pinned the boy beneath the weight of
Hannibal’s body, beneath the harsh fingers that curl against his throat and
hold just a little too tight. Keeping him there, held tight under his hand as
though doing so would stop him from leaving ever again, scarcely able to move
or breathe, for Hannibal to fill the emptiness that burned cold and hollow in
him in his absence.
Hannibal knows that were it him, he would not have returned.
But Will has.
Here again as he swore he would be, whole and unharmed, reeking of another but
desperate with need for Hannibal, for Hannibal alone, he knows on every
shuddering curl of the boy’s body, on every keening little sound, that Will
feels for no one what he feels for Hannibal.
Their mouths meet, teeth catching against lips, tongues smothering against the
other, to chase away the bitterness and the taste of others. A violent kiss,
mirrored in the brutal shove of their bodies one against the other, breaking it
to nuzzle, to scent so hard against Will that he turns his face nearly into the
pillow, breathing in the sweat, the sex, the fear and the rush. Cheap detergent
from foreign sheets, the oil of fingers pushed through Will’s hair, against his
body, inside of him where this other had spilled himself while taking fill of
this boy.
His boy.
Hannibal’s whisper is trembling with a thousand sensations all too intense all
at once when he snarls, “You are covered in him.”
The words are nearly spit, rancorous and sharp, and he releases the boy’s
throat to grab him by the hair instead and bend him, arching, and hear the
quaking moan that pulls itself from inside his shuddering chest. “What’s to be
done about that?”
Will’s hands grope for him, over Hannibal’s shoulders, down his back, arched to
present his throat to him, not twist away from the near-painful grip he knows
will bruise him, mark him; he craves it.
"Destroy him there," Will moans, shifting to curl his still-clothed legs around
Hannibal, the sheets caught between, all tangled and twisted together, messy.
"Like I destroyed him in his bed," he continues, a harsh whisper, "belt pulled
so tight it cut skin. Killed for considering, for daring to lay his hands on
something that doesn’t belong to him."
Will grits his teeth, bucks up hard, and moans, a low, guttural sound that
sends shivers over the one above him, now, the one, the only one, allowed to
touch, to bite, to mark, to fuck, the boy he has pinned. And it is such a rush
knowing that tonight Will had killed for two, in Hannibal’s name as well as his
own.
The sweetest, sickest revenge.
"I ached," he whimpers. "I ached for your hands.” A reminder, another harsh
buck up against the heavy, unyielding familiar body. “For your words, I crave
your seed to slick my thighs and leave me trembling. I want your bruises and
blood and pain -"
Hannibal sighs harsh against Will's mouth to feel the words fed to him - the
only satisfaction for the cavernous sensation black and empty that opened up
inside him, the only sustenance to sate this dire hunger.
"You will have it," swears Hannibal, low. "You will have me."
Rough hands, unyielding and curled as though they were claws, yank the boy's
jeans from his hips. A drawn breath, teeth clenched vicious, snarling to know
another was there, hands and mouth and cock against his boy.
He leans back just enough to slide free from the tangle of legs, sheets,
clothes, too many barriers between them when all they need is skin, sweat, heat
to join them together again. Will is turned to his stomach, hips pulled hard to
bring him to his knees, arms splayed across the sheets, ass bare above the
jeans still tight around his thighs.
Bearing over him, the length of his body curled over the boy, arch against
arch, angles against angles, slotted perfectly together, a smothering and
possessive weight over Will, small and fierce beneath him.
Broad palm sweeping against the boy’s bare thigh, to feel it twitch and shiver
beneath him, Hannibal’s fingers come to curl, to tug and press and drag sharp
along the scar that marks him there, the brand burned together between them in
promise.
His breath is warm, savage against Will’s ear as he bends over him further
still.
“The price for your company is death, by your hand or by mine.”
Will moans again, curls his fingers in sympathy against the sheets as though
the were skin, arches his back, spreads himself as wide as the restraining
denim allows. His entire body shudders when Hannibal digs against the scar, the
deepest pleasure.
"Yes.” Barely breathed but snarling, heavy, teeth bared against the sheets on a
low growl. Needy, aching for it, for the stretch and pain and claiming Hannibal
will give him.
"Paid in blood and breath.”
He rolls his hips back, cock twitching between his legs, growing quickly hard
from the words, the final hot, desperate closeness between them.
"Hannibal..."
A break of contact as Hannibal bangs open the drawer from beside the bed to
grab the lube, and his weight settles back heavier than before, bearing the boy
down, his to hold and his to keep here, safe and savage beneath him.
Hannibal slicks himself with functional strokes and a low growl is bitten hard
into Will’s shoulder as he drives into him.
Reclaiming what is his again, primal and brutal.
“Little wolf,” Hannibal purrs, wrapping an arm around Will’s waist to hold him
in place, to push beneath his shirt and feel the scar across his belly, skin
against skin as Hannibal withdraws and shoves roughly back against him.
He runs his other hand back through Will’s hair, to press there and pull his
head back, to deepen the bend in his spine, overtaking his boy with every inch
of his body that he can force against him.
Will pants, harsh things through gritted teeth that pull his lips up in a
snarling grin.
More, harder, deeper, now. His body spreads for him, taking in the familiar
width, the heat of him as Will keeps rolling back his hips, to meet and deepen
and claim Hannibal right back.
Then he twists, just enough, and the sound pulled from his throat is high,
almost like an animal in pain except Will is anything but. The pleasure coils
within him, twists, grips him tight and drives him back, all the while the
sweet little mewls fall from his lips, louder and louder as Hannibal drives
against him hard enough to make Will see stars.
"There - just there, just - please, harder."
Hannibal moves, shifts to where Will holds him with his words as much as
Hannibal holds Will shoved against the bed. A fierce rutting that pulls
primordial sounds from them now, beyond words - groans and gasps, whimpers and
moans, taking back his boy with every brutal thrust against him. Jeans
scratching his thighs, clothes half-removed in dire urgency to take and be
taken, each from the other.
Curling his hand lower, Hannibal grasps Will’s cock, curved and pink and
flushed hard, pulls against the soft skin in a hard, slow stroke beneath his
fingers, and when Will arches his back, bares his neck to let fall another
little cry Hannibal’s other fingers close against his throat, hold him there in
place, bent and begging beneath him.
“When I tell you,” Hannibal gasps, managing the words thickly past his tongue
in a low rasp.
Will whines, the sound hitching into little dry sobs as Hannibal drives into
him harder, holds him so restrained. He’s balanced, barely, on a knife edge of
pleasure and pain but he obeys, shivering and whimpering with need, unashamedly
loud.
He’s almost dizzy from it, skin hot and slick with the first sheen of sweat and
still he aches for more, to feel Hannibal beneath his skin.
He will always come back. To him. To this.
"Only then," he gasps, agreeing, words twisting sharply into another soft noise
as his body trembles hard, begs for him.
Hannibal’s hand draws higher beneath Will’s chin, pushing to perfect the boy’s
position beneath him, a beautiful bend, arching, aching, presented for
Hannibal’s pleasure and grateful to wait for his own, when granted. The boy
swallows, lips parted and Hannibal leans deeper, burying himself and thrusting
Will forward beneath him, to force his head to turn and chase his mouth and
kiss and taste the high and frantic sound that pushes out of him.
Without warning, he jerks the boy backwards, impaled on him, no relief from the
ceaseless, driving rhythm inside him. Hannibal sits back onto his knees, hand
firm around Will’s throat to hold him in place, nearly lifting him from the
bed.
“Now,” Hannibal snarls, fisting the boy’s cock as he feels his own release
spiral loose, uncoiling through his limbs, through the erratic jerks of his
hips, burying himself again and again, unrelenting even as dizziness breaks
white behind his eyes.
Will’s entire body pulls taut, the little whimpers drawn from him the only
sounds he makes as he loses himself entirely to this, to Hannibal within him,
against him, around him.
He settles back, trembling, drawing harsh short breaths between clenched teeth
as he slowly relaxes around Hannibal’s cock, brings up a hand to curl against
the back of Hannibal’s head and pull him closer still, turning his own to
nuzzle against his jaw, eyes closed in languid pleasure to be so near him
again.
Reclaimed.
Wanted.
Adored.
"I missed you,” he whispers, breathless repetition as his lips part to leave
sloppy kisses over Hannibal’s cheek, down to his neck.
Hannibal holds Will fast against him, hand dropping from his jaw to slide
instead around his chest and feel the racing of his heart in mirror to his own
as release - relief - unfolds itself around them.
He does not tell Will how he expected him to not come back, driven away by the
possession that now holds him ensnared even still. How in the instant that he
left, there was nothing left, a void so black and empty that it drew in all the
light around it. How Hannibal knew that no other boy could satisfy him even in
the most literal sense of hunger, left instead as a starvation that would never
be sated were he not to come home, whole, to Hannibal's embrace.
“You returned,” is the most that Hannibal can manage, and in the tightness of
his voice all confessions are heard.
He surrounds the boy in his arms, lowers him back to the bed without yet
drawing from inside him. Nose buried in his hair, lips parting warm to breathe
against him, to let their hearts still under softened fingers and gentled
kisses.
Will presses back, still bent awkwardly with his jeans around his thighs but he
doesn’t move, doesn't shift away from where Hannibal holds him, warm and safe.
Hands and mouths exploring.
He hisses when Hannibal pulls out of him, the stretch still new to him after
weeks of forced abstinence, and deliciously familiar. He savors every tug
against his muscles, twists to help Hannibal unclothe him properly before
turning to slide his arms over the older man’s shoulders.
He kisses him slowly, feeding his words to him in silence as Hannibal had fed
him his fears.
I'm here.
I returned.
I will teach you to believe that I always will.
He spreads his legs for Hannibal to lie between them, all movement now slow,
lazy, comfortable together, as he takes his fill of the man.
Hannibal settles into Will’s arms, his legs, heavy and familiar atop the boy
who squirms and then relaxes beneath him. Synchronicity in needs, desires, in
bodies and in breath. He ducks his head, presses it to Will’s temple to take in
the feel and scent of him, to lay kisses soft against one cheek as his hand
lifts to rest against the other.
There is only them, here, now, no others lingering as phantoms in smell or
taste, no others who matter to ones such as they. Hunters, both, and something
more.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Summary
     There is a sudden energy to Hannibal now, an enthusiasm that makes
     him seem younger. The same expression he wears when Will helps with
     cooking - to teach and to share the things that he knows, that make
     him passionate and lively.
     It only so happens that this particular hobby has never had a student
     survive the lessons.
     WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: choking and medium-level breath play.
Chapter Notes
     Deeper and deeper the rabbit hole grows, and more and more we all
     wonder: "how the fuck is this shit romantic?"
The warmth to which Hannibal awakens is overwhelming.
The early spring sun lays in long lines across the bed where they’re entangled.
Thin curtains diffuse it, soften it against their skin, and Hannibal shifts to
seek something warmer still.
Will, beside and beneath him, curled catlike under the twisted sheets. A small
sound, sleepy, as Hannibal moves just enough to lay beside him, humming when
Will follows the heat of Hannibal’s body, turns onto his side and draws against
it again with a languid stretch, fingers and toes curling before he settles.
Hannibal tucks his forehead against Will’s to watch him from even closer, to
observe as Will’s expression slackens again into sleep, long lashes resting
against flushed cheeks, lips parted on quiet sighs that pass over Hannibal’s
skin. This, the warmth to which he is most drawn.
His little wolf.
His hands move, following the curve of the boy’s hip, across his scar and
upward. Traces every rib that rises and falls with each steady breath. Follows
the bend of them to Will’s back, inward to the bend of his spine, and spread
across his shoulders. Strength, there, growing from the lean, undeveloped
lankiness of youth into something more refined.
Powerful.
He feels it there beneath Will’s skin, the thing that lives inside this boy and
drives him, so much a mirror to the thing that resides in the hollows of
Hannibal’s bones. It pushes him, guides him, has saved him time and again from
Hannibal’s hands and the hands of others in its fight to live and overcome.
Boundless resilience, and growing fiercer every day.
Continuing, Hannibal skims a hand along Will’s collar bones, his skinny arm
with reserves of strength beneath it, to the clever fingers, delicate wrist,
still boyish, young. Not yet grown as the rest of him has started to.
Hannibal lifts Will’s hand slowly, and brings it to his mouth. Eyes closed, but
lips lingering as he tastes, to his surprise, raw skin. A pause, pensive.
He draws it away. A cut, burnt deep enough to have scabbed overnight, and
bruising purple, swollen around the delicate bones whose movements Hannibal
knows so well. His brows knit, and he hums.
Will withdraws his hand in sleepy possessiveness and curls up against his side
again, shifting up in a nuzzle under Hannibal’s chin, enough to let the man
just lay there, hold him, not enough to make him forget.
It’s still early, but whatever motivations Hannibal would have had to go to his
office today have been faded away by the gentle breaths of his boy against him.
He can write his reports at home. He feels utterly selfish in that he cares so
little for what his patients feel, being told yet again that their psychiatrist
is indisposed.
Whether exhausted by his Will or tending to him, it matters not.
Another slow sigh and Will shifts again, the tendrils of sleep slipping away as
his body comes to terms with being awake, with being close to Hannibal this
way. Heavy hands part through warm curls and Will tilts into it, smiles before
he opens his eyes to regard Hannibal, so, so blue in the morning.
“You’re still here,” he mumbles, pulling away just enough to stretch, arch his
entire body up off the bed, lips parted on sighs and sweet little groans of
pleasure as his muscles stretch and flex. When he settles again, he crawls
close to Hannibal once more, presses sleepy, warm lips to his throat.
“You’re usually up for work now.”
“As though you’ve never skipped your classes,” Hannibal responds, chiding
gently.
Now awakened, Hannibal does not restrain himself from gathering Will against
him, strong arms securing the boy close as he rolls them both, he onto his
back, and Will atop. Small enough to settle there, legs twined loosely
together. Will grins, crooked and drowsy, and tucks his head beneath Hannibal’s
chin again, pleased.
“Would you prefer that I go?” offers Hannibal. Fingers lace through Will’s hair
again, increasingly shaggy, wrapping curls around his fingers and tilting his
head to watch the sleepy smile that appears when Will nuzzles against his
chest.
“It’s not too late for me to salvage most of my day, if I leave now.” The
barest movement beneath Will, just enough to unsettle.
Will doesn’t shift so much as presses closer with every part of his body he
can. One breath he’s relaxed, the next he’s curved closer, hands curled now
where they had been splayed, head turning slowly to rest his chin against the
warm chest under him.
“Don’t go,” he tells him, smiling before turning his eyes away to the window
and watching the light for a while, relishing in the soft touches against him
where the night before they had been anything but.
He wonders how he can thank Hannibal for his trust, for the moment he had been
allowed to go free, for the moment Hannibal chose not to follow him out the
door and drag him back, as he could have.
He can still feel the man’s heartbeat, slow beneath his hands, and shivers
pleasantly with the memory, feels his own speed up a little in excitement at
the memory. He feels good for it.
Slowly, Will stretches against him and ducks his head to bite gently against
Hannibal’s collarbone, eyes up and narrowed, pleased, as he watches the
response.
It draws a soft warning growl from beneath him, a rumble with no teeth behind
it, and Hannibal stirs in another way beneath the boy, feeling a pleasant
coiling low in his stomach.
Eyes closed, entirely content, even with the disapproving sound, Hannibal makes
no move to stop the boy from pushing lightly against his chest to scoot higher,
and press his teeth against Hannibal’s neck instead, grin widening.
“Is it wise to make such gestures at one who has an inclination for eating
little boys like you?”
He sinks his fingers deeper through Will’s hair, skims them along his skin and
down his arm, until his hand settles over Will’s. He does not lift it yet, but
holds it still, pressed against his chest.
Will licks a long stripe up Hannibal’s throat and tugs his earlobe softly.
“You also have an inclination for taking me entirely over for your pleasure,”
Will reminds him, “And for mine - little boy that I am.” A grin, wide, a
nuzzle.
He curls his hand against Hannibal’s chest and doesn’t move it when Hannibal
tugs for him to do so, keeps it pressed to him with surprising strength for
someone just awoken. His nuzzling turns a little more insistent, distracting,
but at length he relents, allows Hannibal to lift his hand, presses his cheek
to his chest and watches the man examine his hand, almost bored.
A genuine noise of displeasure, now, as Hannibal grazes his thumb across the
center of Will's palm. Following the wound rubbed raw, deep, surrounded by
bruises blooming blue and purple.
"Will you tell me what happened, or must I force it from you?"
There is a threat in the words, but not a promising one. Hannibal is settled,
comfortable and warm, allowing his concern in inches. Restrained.
Will can only imagine what the response might have been had he seen the wound,
however slight, the night before. He sighs, curls his fingers with Hannibal’s,
brings his hand down to draw his lips over it slowly, still careful, still
gentle.
“The belt slipped,” he explains at length. “Ran too fast through my palm when I
tried to hold it.”
He shrugs, flexes his fingers again.
“I didn’t notice it until later. It doesn’t matter.”
He knows it will be argued, knows it will be brought up for scrutiny again and
again until it fades to something near-invisible just passing through his
lifeline on the left palm. He swallows and directs his eyes up at Hannibal.
“Practice,” Will tells him. “I taught myself once, I can bring myself back.”
A thumb brushes across Will's lips, tugging softly to watch him chase the touch
and kiss Hannibal’s finger with a faint little sound.
"And how will you practice," Hannibal asks, "knowing what a poor practice could
cost you?"
His tone is precisely measured, muted o allow the warmth to linger with them,
rather than for the fire to consume them. He turns Will’s wrist to bring the
boy’s hand to Hannibal's mouth instead. Fingers unfurl and he presses his lips
to the injury, parting, tasting Will with a touch of his tongue.
Just enough, and he closes his eyes.
"You will practice on me." He hears the boy draw a breath, and continues. "I
will not have you unprepared, only to find you split in two again."
“The only reason I am out there, Hannibal, is because I can’t draw a belt on
you,” comes the terse reply. Will withdraws his hands under himself and turns
away, though he refuses to shift off of Hannibal properly.
It had been frightening, the moment when the belt had slipped. The man had
jerked back and Will nearly lost himself. A moment of freefall, imagining the
feeling of a fist to his jaw, the weight of the man on top of him, adrenaline
and anger fuelling him to cause the boy more harm than he had in play, when he
had thought him fragile, broken…
Will swallows.
He had gone into this entirely blind, when he had started, hoping for the best,
hoping for his own adrenaline, his own terror to save him.
He ducks his head to nuzzle against Hannibal’s chest again with a sigh.
The sound of agreement draws a smile, fond, to hear the boy admit his own
stalemate in kind. Hannibal kisses his hair, fingers wrapping through it, and
he lets them slide to rest against his neck.
"You asked me to teach you," Hannibal reminds him. "To show you."
His fingers tighten, just enough to tilt the boy's mouth to his own. Another
kiss, as soft as before despite the edge to what he suggests.
"Let me show you, then. You are not bringing a belt to me. I am allowing you to
do so."
A hesitation.
"I am trusting you to do so."
Will makes a sound of blatant displeasure but allows himself to be kissed, to
be caressed. He knows that if he refuses this, every hunt will be met with the
struggle that this one had the night before. He knows it will chip and chisel
away at them until they’re too tired and the instinct turns inward, turns
violent.
“You trust me to choke you, and stop in time,” Will sighs, brows furrowing. He
doesn’t want to. He remembers the pure animal strength that had met him the
first time - and the last - that he had tried. And that was when he had had
nothing stopping him from wanting the man dead at his feet - he was at peak
form, without a bruise or a scrape to dull his movements, no emotion to cloud
his senses.
Now he feels disoriented, discomforted by the thought of it.
He sighs again and considers, before sitting up, arching his back in another
stretch as his legs spread wide over Hannibal’s hips. He knows the room layout,
knows exactly where everything is and where he needs to go to get it.
All the belts are in the closet, now, Hannibal not in the habit of mess in his
space unless it’s spontaneously made, and the night before, Will had surprised
him. He has nothing to work with but a scene of his own setting.
He could use his own - a recent precautionary measure - but for that he would
have to reach, again, far enough for his intent to be clear.
He swallows. It’s an almost perfect set up to a situation he would find himself
in often, and here he knows he would not come to harm. Perhaps a strike,
several, but not death.
Will tilts his head and leans in to kiss Hannibal properly, a slow, lingering
thing, deep and needy and filled with a moan between them as Will rocks his
hips down, breaks their kiss with a sigh.
“Do you want me on my back or my stomach, sir?” he asks, tone innocent, softer,
a seamless slip into a character Hannibal has met before.
Hannibal's hands find Will’s waist first, broad enough to nearly surround it
were he to squeeze, and then slide lower. Holding his hips to pace their
movement in time with his, a rocking motion, one against the other, to see the
boy arch again and moan soft in feeling Hannibal grow hard.
No act, that, simply an unwillingness to not find himself as aroused as he ever
does when Will is twisting atop him.
"Your back," Hannibal responds, bringing a tension to his voice that he does
not feel but can readily affect, to play a game in which he no longer makes the
rules. "So that I can see your pretty face."
He turns and smoothly finds Will beneath him, legs wrapped around him, and his
arm tucked beneath the boy's body.
The discord is not lost on him, but simply set aside to do what he must. To
teach, and to show, what the boy might learn in time. But might is a precarious
word, and bears with it scars the likes of which Hannibal will suffer any
degree of displeasure not to see multiplied.
Another firm thrust down against him, drawing a breath as he meets Will's mouth
in a smoldering kiss. He tries not to imagine how many others have found
themselves in this same place before him, or how many yet will.
Will twists, legs spread around but no longer wrapped around him, a gentle
distancing, however he can get it. He kisses sweet, breaks them to moan softly
in pleasure, arches up, bends back.
In a motion, he sets his hands over his head, stretches, pulls his body taut
for the man to see, presented. The belt is at his feet, too far to reach, too
obvious to grab for. Still, Will pushes, turns and bends until they are further
down the bed than before, and Hannibal is kissing him along every part of his
body Will presents, misdirects to. His neck, his collarbones and chest, keeps
him entranced with the sweet noises he makes when Hannibal snares a nipple.
Slowly, surely, they've turned, perpendicular to the bed now, and Will’s arm
swings wide, head back, a falsity of ecstasy that allows him to catch the end
of the belt, to slip it closer, to draw Hannibal to him in another sloppy sweet
kiss before he flips the leather over his neck, momentum enough to carry the
tail around it, and catches the end.
Gone are the hooded eyes, the sultry smiles and flushes of innocence, now
Will’s eyes are hard, wrists turning to bend the leather enough to make the
struggle harder.
Hannibal’s breath is drawn and held before the belt cinches tight, the
wriggling movements not lost on Hannibal as they would be to anyone else so
blinded by having a particular beauty such as Will Graham in their bed. It
still cuts off the pathway for release or more, but Hannibal holds his air,
with a genuine pleasure catching the corners of his eyes as Will winds the belt
tighter around his hands.
A shift of muscle, enough to bring up his hand, and he plants it beneath Will's
chin. Pushing hard to force his neck backwards, tilted back off the bed where
he reached for his belt, forcing him into a slide that would land him on the
ground, on his head if particularly unlucky, if he did not move to compensate.
The adjustment is enough that Hannibal can bring Will's wrist together, one
across the other, an act of strength but it is not unlikely that whomever
bought Will would be able to overpower him in this particular way.
The belt loosens enough when Will's hands are pressed together that Hannibal
can draw a breath.
"Good," Hannibal sighs, and the mask falls away. Eyes dark, bright with
attention on the clever boy beneath him. He rewards him with a lingering kiss,
the same profound pleasure as when Will excels in his studies, as when he
recites something new in one of his dead languages.
"It is precarious to leave yourself to where you can be bent in turn. The
correct answer of anyone in the position of your victim is to not fight the
source of the strangulation, or try to pull from it," murmurs Hannibal, placing
the webbing of his thumb deep beneath Will's chin to show him the motion again.
"But rather to move towards it, and to force you to respond."
Another kiss, and a hum, quiet delight.
"You’ll remember that from our first night together," he adds, musing.
Hannibal withdraws from over Will, catches his wrist to tug him up to sit as
well. There is a sudden energy to Hannibal now, an enthusiasm that makes him
seem younger. The same expression he wears when Will helps with cooking - to
teach and to share the things that he knows, that make him passionate and
lively.
It only so happens that this particular hobby has never had a student survive
the lessons.
"But the same principles apply for your benefit as well. Put the belt around
again. Loosely, to begin."
Will hesitates, flexing his sore hand, having ignored the pain in it, before,
to continue his act, to set up the kill properly - and yet he had been stopped
so easily by Hannibal, like someone pushing a toy away.
He does remember that he had done the same the first night, but not by choice -
he had had no other.
Will remembers the struggle, the genuine fight that followed after, and the
mercy granted him that he knows was for the curiosity of his proclivities
alone, at the time it had not been him.
He rolls his wrist, regards the belt, the man in front of him who seems to just
shine with the idea of being killed, delight in the attempts Will makes on his
life. It’s odd to him, a juxtaposition to the man who enjoys taking life away -
he should not take pleasure in the mirror image of his own games.
And yet - he had been beneath Will, once. And he had moaned his pleasure there.
He adjusts his grip and sets the belt back against him, deliberate in the
application of it to his throat first, folding it over behind him as though in
an embrace next. He rests his wrists against Hannibal’s shoulders and leans in
to kiss him, slowly tightening the garrotte, almost loving in the gesture.
Hannibal exhales into the kiss, as the belt starts to sink against his skin. He
lifts a hand, an elegant turn of wrist to signal Will to stop, a moment of
relief when he does.
His fingers slide along the belt pressed fast against his skin, and his voice
is a little tighter as he speaks, instructive.
“Right now, your primary point of contact is the trachea, far from the most
efficient way to complete the act. It is why you struggled last night. It
relies on strength and endurance to maintain the proper tension to choke by
airways. More opportunities for mistakes, Will - for your arms to tire or your
hands to slip against the leather, and for them to escape.”
Hannibal swallows, harder than usual considering the circumstances, and lifts
his fingers to slide the belt higher, forced beneath his chin.
“Instead, seek blood,” he continues. “Placed so high as this, you have a more
significant chance of choking off the major vessels that carry blood to the
brain, which will bring about death in a fraction of the time. But,” he shifts
his neck, face flushed as he speaks, “there is an added benefit.”
Warm fingers close around Will’s hands, to cinch the belt a little tighter and
move Will’s arms to lean him towards one side, and then the other, and Hannibal
is moved with the motion.
“If you control the chin, you control the head. If you control the head, you
control the neck and the rest of the body that follows it. You stand a chance
then of not only killing by cutting off the flower of blood, but to control
their movements entirely merely by moving your own hands should they struggle.”
A slight smile, genuinely pleased. “All by adjusting the belt an inch higher.”
Will blinks, licks his lips and memorizes how his hands rest, where, how high
they reach. It’s a different angle, one he will have to perfect before he can
switch to it as quickly as he does to his chosen one now, but he takes in the
words, understands them, remembers.
Will shifts just enough, just so, to curl his legs around Hannibal where they
sit, not quite in his lap but close, open, a pretty distraction. He doesn’t
loosen the belt.
He meets Hannibal’s eyes and very gently tightens it. Slowly, slowly, until the
man’s breathing grows slightly more labored, face flushed brighter with the
struggle, and yet he doesn’t move to stop Will, here, now.
Will swallows, tilts his chin and turns the belt, just enough, to turn
Hannibal’s face to him, to brush their lips together, to breathe in the sigh he
exhales.
For a moment longer, Will holds, then he releases the belt entirely, slides his
fingers into the man’s hair and presses their foreheads together so they can
share air, but Hannibal isn’t restrained from taking in deep breaths by a kiss.
“I could have kept going,” Will whispers, eyes closed, jaw working. “It should
have been easy to keep going.”
Hannibal’s throat rattles as he regains his shortened breath, a spin of vertigo
dizzying him. The boy had followed his instructions, pulled the belt just so,
and Hannibal felt his blood stop and stars brighten behind his eyes as all
around them grew dark.
He nuzzles against Will, nose brushing nose, and smiles ruefully. He knows the
feeling all too well. A warm hand catches the back of Will’s head to draw him
into another kiss, the other grabbing his thigh to tug and bring him closer
over Hannibal’s legs.
“You will,” Hannibal comforts him, kissing down the boy’s neck, across his
shoulder. He doesn’t clarify his statement - content, it seems, with all its
implications.
“There is more that I can show you. How to work without the belt, as tools can
become as much a hindrance as a help. You risk dependency on them. But with
particular positioning, aided by physics rather than strength or weapons, you
can achieve entirely the same effect.”
Will smirks, tugs the buckle end of the belt to slide the cool leather over
Hannibal's neck before tossing it to the floor.
"Are you going to give me a physics lesson?" he asks, genuine pleasure deep in
his tone as he sits higher, closer in Hannibal’s lap. “Teach me how to tilt
someone’s head to snap their neck? Where to press to knock them unconscious?"
He bites his lip, eyes up to meet Hannibal’s before he slowly releases it.
"Will you show me?" he asks. “Lay me down and bend me to your liking? Press a
hand to my throat and hold me while I struggle, like you did before, like you
failed to make stick?"
He rocks his hips forward, body suddenly alight with the same fire that had
grabbed Hannibal before, the desperate, coiling desire to play with fire and
watch skin blister but not burn.
"Teach me," Will moans softly. “Make me learn it."
Hannibal closes his eyes as he works himself up against the boy's movements, an
entirely different sensation of dizziness now. Still sharing sighs between
them, close enough for lips to brush.
"I will show you," Hannibal agrees, more ardent in the words now than he's ever
been. Knowing the raw potential in Will just waiting to be shaped, knowing that
they play and fight not as a means to an end but in some greater context than
themselves.
A winsome sweet sound from the boy as he rolls his hips, met with a sighing
kiss, open-mouthed, tongues entwined, when Hannibal sinks an arm around his
middle.
He bends the boy, enough to feel his belly arch against Hannibal's own.
"You enjoy your knives, from time to time - you sate your need for the
grotesque on it. That is a death born of passion, movement, emotion. Beautiful
in its own right, but this," Hannibal pauses, hand riding a sinuous undulation
down Will's back. "This is how you best express all of that empathy you draw
inside yourself."
Shadows across Hannibal’s features, the play of darkness as though caused by
firelight, crackling in the consummation of young green branches.
“But in the kills you most prefer, you retrieve yourself again, no passions
lost on those who do not deserve them with their hollow words and
declarations,” breathes Hannibal, finding a rhythm against the boy, bare bodies
tensing in response to the other against them. “You are a strangler, Will. An
incubus. You steal the air itself that would fuel those words and choke them
where they are born.”
He slips an arm over the boy’s shoulder and catches his other hand to yank them
tightly together. Will gasps, eyes wide as his arm stretches unbending in the
grip, his other free but useless as his own shoulder digs hard beneath his jaw,
stopping breath and blood in kind.
“And so until such time as your nature shifts to some new pursuit, I will teach
you how to strangle.”
Will’s gasps are empty, little sounds that do nothing to draw breath past the
easy triangle choke that Hannibal holds him in, unable to pull his body away or
move to strike or do more than strain against it, fruitless struggle as his
vision starts to darken.
The scarlet that floods his cheeks is the most beautiful that Hannibal has ever
seen, and he catches the boy’s flushed and parted lips beneath his own in a
kiss of unmistakable tenderness.
But Death does not call here, not for them, and Hannibal does not feel those
cold tendrils wrap through him now. They are at play, and with a hum of
pleasure, he releases the hold and drinks in the shaking gasp that fills the
boy’s lungs again, nuzzling fierce against Will’s neck where moments before his
blood was brought to a halt.
“Cruel boy.”
Will moans, delighted at the words, at the motion that held him so near Death
to tease, to show it the middle finger before being brought right back to
earth. He’s dizzy, his body alive with the singing of nerves and the warmth of
the flush covering it.
He hoists himself closer, hooking his legs around Hannibal properly and near
toppling them to bed with a sweet, warm laugh.
He considers the embrace, the motion required to turn it into cruelty, as
commits it to memory, arching his body now, hot with need, against the man
above him.
He rubs his cock alongside Hannibal’s, growing harder and harder together in
play. He wants more. He wants to learn how to take a life in any position at
any point - cock leaking with the thought that he could.
"Like this," he pants softly. “Show me like this."
Hannibal smiles into the kiss, heavy weight above the boy again, hand skimming
up his side to guide his arm around him.
“Much the same way,” he murmurs, gaze hooded, dark with pleasure as Will
mirrors the movements, to wrap his arms around and force Hannibal’s shoulder to
his throat. Another little laugh and Will releases it, grasping Hannibal’s face
to pull him into another kiss.
A broad hand catches Will’s thigh now, and slides the length of his skinny leg.
“But for your size, this is a more difficult position if you are not fast
enough to pull the choke deep.” He shifts, leaning down to guide the boy’s leg
to wrap around his own. “The rules are only what you decide them to be, so
write them in your favor. Push against me, from your hips, and do not release
my leg.”
They roll, Hannibal’s weight displaced by the inability to stabilize his knee
against the bed, and despite the difference in strength Will finds himself
astride, again, Hannibal beneath him. He shifts, a languid roll down the length
of his back to grind their lengths together again, rumbling soft.
“A much better position in which to find yourself,” continues Hannibal,
watching with heavy-lidded adoration the excitement that burns bright through
Will’s cheeks. “I may still strike you from here, were you to only use your
hands against my throat.” He twines their fingers together, dragging Will’s
fingertips across his mouth in a gentle kiss before placing the boy’s hands
against his throat.
“Lean low, so that even if I swing for you it will be ineffective. Find the
carotid, the jugular, just here,” he instructs, guiding Will’s fingers to feel
his pulse beneath them, steady as it ever is. “Set your strength into it and
hold, your weight forward over your hands, so that even were I to buck against
you there is not enough resistance for me to unseat you, and not enough time to
reconsider a new strategy before your clever hands have done their work.”
Will grins, obeys, holds just long enough for his own heart to speed -
Hannibal’s does not - before ducking quick to bite there instead, one sharp,
another just a nip beside.
He's rutting against Hannibal now, transfixed, turned on, and entirely at the
man’s mercy as Hannibal is at his.
"More," he moans, no longer caring if he means more lessons or simply the
desire to fuck.
Hannibal meets his movements, sighing soft, neck bared beneath the boy's mouth.
He waits until a rhythm is struck, Will's hips not rising but simply rubbing
down against his own, and Hannibal bucks his hips suddenly, hard, driving Will
forward over him and forcing him to splay his hands against the bed to catch
himself.
With no more time than it takes for Will to gasp in surprise, Hannibal has
turned from beneath the boy's legs to wrap around his back instead. A smooth
gesture, well-practiced and fast. His arm wraps firmly around Will's throat,
settling the nook of his elbow beneath his chin, and resting his hand over his
own opposite shoulder.
A scant flex is enough to send stars behind Will's eyes again. Hannibal purrs
against his ear, rocking his hips against the boy's ass even as Will's
fingernails dig against his arm.
"You will grab your own shoulder, when your arm is deep around them. Hold onto
it and let them struggle. It will not be long."
But it is this time, almost too long, the darkness encroaching until the light
is a pinpoint behind Will's eyes, his heart staggering faster as the flow of
blood is cinched off effortlessly.
Hannibal kisses his temple, tastes the fright that his body sends through him
but that the boy does not truly feel or show, and turns his nose against him in
a gentle nuzzle.
"It should be easy to keep going," he echoes softly, and releases his arm
enough to allow the rush of blood to return.
Will coughs, draws in heaving breaths, trembles, too many memories flooding
back with the blood, of being so close to death this way at Hannibal’s hand, at
others… and then he flips, turns with incredible speed for the weakness he’s
showing, catches his leg around Hannibal’s and pins him just as surely as he
had in play, hands up to easily bat away the strong, masterfully fast, attempts
at dislodging him before setting his hands where he’d been shown.
“It should be,” he whispers, panting, cheeks still flushed trying to breathe,
eyes still wide with arousal and fear as his heart hammers through his bones,
vibrates to every appendage.
Without letting go he kisses Hannibal deep, bites his lips, tugs them, holds
until he can feel the body respond and then lets him go - no mercy this time to
catch his breath as he drops one hand to stroke him hard, the other up in
Hannibal’s hair to tilt his head and chase his lips with his own.
A hard exhalation, lungs burning, skin on fire from the rush of the fight, the
sex, the blood and the sweat between them.
“Beautiful, Will,” comes the rough-voiced praise, heady with a ferocious pride
for his little wolf, who learns and adapts so quickly.
Hannibal arches, shameless with desire now, beneath the boy’s hand and snatches
him by the hair. Fisting his curls hard he brings his other hand to circle the
boy’s throat.
He only needs one to find his pulse and press, lips parting in sympathy,
eyelids falling heavy over the black gaze that takes it all in. The soundless
gasps, the ruddy scarlet that darkens Will’s lips so beautifully, the motion of
his body.
Will does not stop stroking, even as Hannibal delivers him again so near to
death, and Hannibal wonders if he’s ever seen anything so beautiful.
His fingers tighten a little more, feeling the movement of pulse grown still
where its pathway has been stopped, and he brings the boy’s mouth to his own
even as Will’s fingers tingle numb, his rhythm uneven as he fists Hannibal’s
cock.
“I could have kept going,” Hannibal repeats, and releases him with a sigh as
the boy draws in his breath.
“No,” Will moans, forehead to Hannibal’s, breath panting, head spinning and so,
so close without yet being touched. “You’d’ve stopped… you’ll always stop.”
The kiss they share is sloppy, uncoordinated, both lightheaded and pleased.
Will’s still sore, still stretched from the few hours before when Hannibal had
claimed him back as his own, and he takes his hand off of Hannibal now just to
bring it back to stretch himself, fingers slick only with the pre-cum.
It will hurt, the stretch in preparation is enough to suggest it, and he
doesn’t stop, leans closer, brushes his lips with Hannibal’s, feeds him moans
instead.
“Will it be easier now?” he asks quietly, guiding Hannibal back and slowly
sinking down, lips parting, brows drawing in pain but he takes it, doesn’t
stop, blood rushing through his body so fast it feels like he’s falling - he
can’t stop. “To let me go?” It’s whined, panted, and Will rests hard against
Hannibal a moment before moving.
Hannibal growls low, a tight-throated snarl through his teeth as he resists the
urge to push up against the coarse friction. His nails are sharp against Will's
hips, allowing the boy to set the pace and instead focused, consumed by the
look of pain that courses sharp through Will's features, channeled through his
skinny body into ecstatic moans.
"No," Hannibal sighs, groaning. "It will never be easier."
Settling back into the bed, watching the boy work himself breathless, feeling
the push and pull of pulse from the disrupted circulation, even now, beneath
Will's hands.
"But I will not stop you. I will teach you and you will be better, and I will
not stop you."
Gripping the boy’s cock, curved and hard against Hannibal’s stomach, he twists
his wrist and strokes slow - the same fingers that would steal his breath and
stop his blood cold now teasing tight beneath the swollen head. Another groan,
curled at the edge of a rough sigh, as Hannibal watches a bead of precome
gather beneath his touch, and run slick and shining down across the flushed
pink length.
“I will wait for you,” Hannibal promises, sucking a breath through his teeth as
Will rides him down again. “Every time, and I will make myself mad waiting for
your call. Your footsteps. Your return to me.”
Hannibal grabs, fast, to pull Will’s hair again and bend him to his mouth.
“And then I will claim you as mine again.”
“Always.” A moan, low, almost guttural, as Will rolls his hips one way then the
other, the pain fading enough for deep enjoyment to come through in his eyes,
across his features as his jaw falls slack in pleasure.
He kisses Hannibal deep, settling into a languid rhythm, deep to feel for hours
after, and wonders how long he will wear his necklace of bruises before they
need to be remade.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Summary
     Chilton studies the boy at a much more scrupulous length now as
     certain pieces start to fit together. The sudden shifts of
     personality, introvert to extrovert, the weaponized body language,
     the entirely unjustified sense of preening self-adoration.
     “Do you do it for the money, or the loneliness?”
“Mister Graham? You can go in now.”
Will rises, nervous hands grasped around the edges of his sweater, glancing
towards the office door. The receptionist gives him an encouraging nod. He
offers a smile in return, ducks his head, and murmurs thanks as he passes her
by.
A shy boy, soft-spoken, astute in his studies enough to be brought up in
classes past where his age would have him and into a university that his
counselor determined must be overwhelming to someone with such a gentle nature.
The attack was documented, police reports filed on an assailant that Will knows
to be long dead but whose threat to him was determined to be psychological even
still. Scholarships on the line, at risk when the well-being of this quiet boy
must be so compromised by the vicious mugging that left him hospitalized for an
entire month.
Therapy, they decided, was not only recommended but necessary to ensure that he
emerge at least mentally unscathed, while his body still bore the scar that
could have seen him dead if not for the quick intervention of his mentor.
“Mister Graham, good morning.”
A slight man, seemingly friendly from the strength of his handshake and the
ready smile he yields, but with a shrewdness settled in the corners of his
eyes.
“I’ll be your attending psychiatrist,” he emphasizes, the title in particular.
“Frederick Chilton, but Doctor Chilton is fine. Please, have a seat. I assure
you, this won’t be nearly as scary as it all seems to be right now.”
Another winning smile, broad and shameless, as Chilton motions to the seat
across from his expansive desk, arranged with more decor than files at this
point. A forced grandiosity that seems to suit the enormous energy he beams
outward.
It had been a matter of personal dispute, Frederick decided, that found him
here again, busted down the ranks by the chief medical director to attend to
adolescent intakes rather than his previous work, angling towards psychotherapy
for more high-profile cases. He was too quick, it seemed, to jump on any
admissions that promised to carry a news story with them - celebrities in need
of rehabilitation, mass-murderers whose names blasted torrid across newspaper
headlines, anything, really, that he could stake his name on.
A mistake in judgment that lead one particular patient to raise a very public
fit about the alleged - alleged, he always emphasized - invasiveness of
particular experimental treatments he recommended, and brought down the ire of
the board.
And now here, facing a blushing boy who sighs under the scrutiny, for Frederick
to fumble around with and see what he can dredge up.
“We’re just here to talk,” Frederick reassures him, hands splaying across the
desk as though to pet it in appreciation.
Will laughs, a nervous little sound, and ducks his head.
"I know how it works," he murmurs, shrugging and settling to relative stillness
with his hands clasped flat between his knees where they press together in
obvious, closed-off shyness.
"I'm just not sure there is anything I can say that isn't already on record."
He directs a brief, apologetic smile at the man in front of him and then lets
his eyes quickly flick away elsewhere.
Rough, he thinks, the man wouldn't do more to him than fuck him raw, but he
would be relentless when he started.
It amuses Will to think of almost everyone he meets in terms of his little
hobby, a quick, usually utterly accurate reading of people to determine their
nature before they can do him harm or manipulate him. This man is not here by
choice, in that, at least, they can find common ground.
Will fidgets and parts his lips with his tongue in a subtle motion, one to draw
eyes to his mouth, then to the flush around his cheeks, to where it slips down
his neck beneath the collar of his thin shirt. From there their imaginations do
the rest, and Will can sit back and enjoy the show while they enjoy theirs, as
long as he lets them.
Dr. Chilton looks on with a restrained professional interest, whether because
Will is a student and underage, because he's his patient, or simply because
he's uninterested is something Will thinks he'll ascertain by the end of the
session. He won't need longer. He can already tell more about the man than he
knows the man wants known.
The doctor snares a notepad closer and flicks it open with a flourish. A golden
pen is snared up from beside it and clicked a few times as he looks over Will's
file, submitted from the school's counseling office.
"The most important parts are often left off the record. Not much room there
for anything beyond the bare facts."
Another click, and Chilton settles his elbows on the desk, pen held between his
hands. He takes stock of the closed-off body language, and its betrayal by a
more subtle dialect taking shape in the student across from him.
"It's the lines between the reports that we're here to discuss. What's followed
it. Just talking, to get you back to your classes and your friends in good
shape."
To get you out of my office, is the unspoken follow-up, bitten back behind
another attempt at a welcoming smile.
"How has your recovery been? Being away from school for so long must be a
relief. You have to work very hard for grades like these."
The pen is set to paper.
Will smiles, just as false and just as open as Chilton. A chess match.
"I missed school," Will says. "I was so worried I'd get behind on classes. A
lot of my time was spent catching up, I... Dr. Lecter was kind enough to help
me, around our study."
Will doesn't look at the doctor in front of him when he mentions the doctor
more often than not behind him. He doesn't need to see him to feel the tension
in the room with the mention of a colleague. Beyond that, Will remembers the
utterly amused curl of Hannibal’s lips when he had mentioned who he was going
to see.
"Yes.” A monotonous, slow, response masked by a flourish of the pen over the
pad of paper, and Will curls his leg under himself on the chair, chin atop, lip
between his teeth gently.
"It is very unusual for Dr. Lecter to take on a student. He has only ever had
one other," just as much disdain, it seems, for Alana Bloom, then. “He was the
first person you called after the incident."
Will pretends to squirm nervously, directs his wide eyes away.
"I was scared. He was the first person I thought of."
"In situations of extreme agitation - fear - our minds jump quickly to things
that matter most," Chilton notes, suddenly curious, on the scent of a scandal.
Will could grin for delight in it. "A woman would seek for her baby, most
children for their mother. But Mr. Graham - you called your mentor for aid,
before even an ambulance or the police."
Will slowly directs his eyes up to meet Chilton's, so starved for a story, for
something to sink his teeth into and cast his name over, a suffocating bag
masquerading as a safety net.
"Are you close?"
A swallow, controlled, lips parting after in a nervous gesture. Before the
psychiatrist, Will appears at a loss, scared to reveal something certainly
worth prying for. Moments tick between them and Will shakes his head, looks
back towards the door as though someone could be outside listening in.
"Is confidentiality in place, doctor?" he murmurs, watches the excitement light
up the man’s eyes, though he keeps his expression clear.
"Of course."
"I..." another play at hesitation, the tension now thick enough to slice
between them. Will wonders if the man will cut his page with how hard he
presses his pen against it.
"I called Dr. Lecter when my lover said he couldn't get me." It comes out in a
rush and Will ducks his head in a beautiful mockery of shame, hiding his smile
behind the bend. “He said if he couldn't fuck me when he showed up I was
worthless to him, so I called someone else."
The curl of the boy's body - leg drawn against his chest, hair in his eyes,
face hidden - hides behind it a lie, its presence clear as day but its nature
yet unknown. Chilton makes another note without overt reaction to the
confession.
"I'm sorry to hear that," Chilton responds, not entirely disingenuous, but
allowing his voice to lift in curiosity. "Unfathomably cruel for anyone,
really, let alone a romantic interest."
The pen finds its way between his fingers, winding between them from one side
of his hand to the other. He turns in his chair, a slow tilt from side to side
There are pieces missing from the story. The report sent to him from the police
department reveals very little of the scene, of the attacker himself - 'does
not recall' noted in several particularly prominent places, substantial
question marks left curiously unanswered for the case to have already been
closed out.
"Is he?" Chilton asks. "This man - is he your lover?"
He clicks the pen.
"Not anymore," Will replies, giving Chilton a briefly annoyed look from beneath
his fringe. "Supposedly for a time, I was his. I doubt he would want to be
anything of mine, though he adored adding ownership to me,” he shrugs, relaxes
his body and slips his foot to the floor before bringing a thumb up to his
teeth to bite against.
A much more open topic of conversation, apparently.
"Unfortunate, really, he was enjoyable."
A little more honesty, then, as Chilton watches Will's booted foot thud to the
floor. He settles into a slouch and the doctor follows the length of him,
skinny body draped with increasing openness, all the way to where his thumb is
pressed between his teeth.
Still hiding something behind the hand over his mouth.
Chilton tilts his head and steeples the pen between his fingers.
"'Adding ownership'", he repeats. "Ownership is an interesting word choice." A
pause, as he flips his file open again to check against his notes. Seventeen.
He makes a small, thoughtful sound.
The larger fish that neared his bait shadows away without Chilton's awareness
of how near it was, but still he drags his lines.
"Why would your lover not want to consider you the same?"
Will laughs lowly, shakes his head.
"He was forty-seven." He reveals, hand down, now, not hiding a lie, to tap
against the arm of his chair instead. "He considered me a conquest. A side-note
in his life."
"And what was he to you?"
Will grins, considers. The doctor wants to dig further, it's obvious. Perhaps
finally an interesting patient after years of study woes and family anguish. He
wriggles in his seat, brings a knee up to almost twist over the other, his legs
pressed together as he takes up fiddling with the hem of his sweater.
"In possession of rather a sensational cock," he offers. "Beyond that he was
far from stimulating."
Another note - 47 - sensational cock - is jotted down before the pen returns to
ambling back and forth through Chilton’s fingers.
“That’s a substantial age difference,” he notes, a mild surprise in it.
“Illegally substantial.”
He’s lost the pull now, the glimmer of something particularly interesting that
had caught his attention before, when the boy was curled up on himself playing
shy. All movement now, fidgeting to distract, a display to draw Chilton’s gaze
away from more fascinating matters.
It works, for a moment, and Chilton forces his attention away from Will’s
fingers playing against the bottom of his sweater, annoyance in the twist of
his mouth as he sets his pen between his lips.
“Do you generally prefer the company of older men, Mister Graham? What else
stimulates your attention, when you’re not so diligently focused on your
classwork?”
Will’s smile widens a moment then fades to something softer. He sets his eyes
on the pen that moves against the doctor's lips for a moment.
"Foreign affairs,” he says, that same flicker of amusement in the corner of his
mouth to mirror the twitch of annoyance in Chilton's. He decides, for the
moment, to allow the man a reprieve.
"I practice the languages I know. I read, frequently and widely. On nights I
don't seek out company I enjoy music. Clubbing." Another illegal pastime.
"I go to class, I come home. I've lived alone long enough to grow used to the
ebb and flow of a quiet life, doctor. The mentorship came as a surprise, a
welcome distraction."
He doesn’t address the question of his preferences, beyond -
"I get bored, Dr. Chilton, very easily. I find very little in common with my
peers. It makes me lonely."
“And yet you say you’re accustomed to being alone,” the doctor responds. “Your
habits are those of an only child, if I didn’t already know it from your
records, but very much an only child. Little connection to your parents,
although you continued to do right by them in your studies even after the
distance had grown insurmountable.”
He does not wait for an answer - the bare narrowing of eyes is enough, and he
scratches down a few notes.
“So you seek out contact, then, in places - and with people - atypical to your
age group,” Chilton confirms, tilting pleasurably back and forth in the chair
again, particular close attention paid to the student across from him. “Were
you seeking out company on the night of the assault?”
Will waits a beat, two, before grinning again.
"Oh, that is lazy psychiatry, Dr. Chilton,” he purrs, tongue just visible
beneath his lip as he runs it over his teeth. "Implying I seek out the company
of older men to fill the void left by my absent parents. I am more likely, with
my age, to fall to an Electra complex and yet I find myself seeking comfort in
the form of older men between my thighs."
Another laugh, genuinely pleased, before he bites his lip. A pause.
"What does your report say?" he asks at length, eyes on the doctor until the
other looks away to seek it, flip it open, skim. Will waits, then the man
clears his throat.
"They performed a rape kit at the hospital," he says. Will swallows, doesn't
move. Chilton continues. "Found there to be a tear in the anal wall. Traces of
semen."
Will sighs, lifts his chin in a reverse of a nod, eyes narrowed in this new
position.
"Then, I suppose, it's fair to say I was returning from having sought company
earlier that night. Yes?"
Chilton arches a brow to accompany the dry look he gives the boy, tossing the
file back onto the desk.
“That is, in fact, the precise nature of an Electra complex, Mister Graham.
Were you to exhibit an Oedipus complex,” he corrects, “it would be women’s
company you sought instead, as a stand-in for your mother.” He spins a little,
and points with his pen. “Lazy armchair psychology, Mister Graham.”
He wonders briefly why he feels a competition with this boy - an annoying
student, an adolescent basket case, the victim of an admittedly brutal attack -
until he feels the pull of Lecter there, idolized as ever, revered for his
nonsense theories about why he’s better than everyone else. Chilton’s eyes
narrow in thought, and at the personification of all that undue adulation
grinning, smart-assed, across the desk at him.
The look clears, back to a passive disinterest as Chilton clicks his pen and
sets it to the paper. “I’ll need to know if you drink alcohol regularly, take
illegal substances or legal medications in a nonprescribed fashion, smoke,
drink coffee, and the number of sexual partners you’ve had.”
"Of course I drink coffee, Frederick, I'm seventeen and in college,” he says,
delighting in the annoyance near-radiating from the man behind the desk when he
defaults to his first name. Will draws his legs to himself and crosses them
languidly beneath himself. He sets his hands against his crossed ankles and
stretches his long fingers before settling them.
"I drink when occasion calls for it,” he admits. “Smoke when the desire strikes
me. Enjoy the effects of X as frequently as I can afford it."
He licks his lips.
“Pretend that I’ve just admonished you for taking illegal substances and
smoking,” Chilton replies, dry, as he jots down the requisite answers.
The boy is every bit as insufferable as his mentor - both cocky and entirely
too aware of how charming they are, wielding it ruthlessly to their benefit
without even the common decency to pretend as though they’re not.
"Noted. But you will have to specify, sir, if you would like to know my sexual
history for the last year, month or week." He tilts his head. “Or its
entirety." Will's slow smile returns before he flips his hair from his eyes in
a practiced, almost petulant way.
Chilton imagines - for a moment - that he feels something like regret, for the
series of increasingly aggressive treatments that sent his last adult patient
complaining to the board and forced him back into this, surly adolescents with
attitude problems and more a need for a sound thrashing than actual therapy.
The feeling passes.
“Considering you’ve spent the last month in the hospital, I’m not particularly
interested in your more recent - solitary - sexual history. The last year will
suffice.”
Will hums.
"At a guess somewhere in the low seventies,” he estimates, head tilted
innocently when the doctor meets his eyes again with a look of obvious
disbelief. "This last year."
In truth, Will isn't certain. Before Hannibal his practices had ranged wide and
varied, once in a while content to just go to the club for a quick fuck or
several, sometimes in the company of more than one person.
After him... he can count on one hand.
The silence lasts, Chilton’s hand still over the page for what seems like
minutes.
Finally, he makes a note, clears his throat, and can’t restrain the tenor in
his voice that falls somewhere between shock and amusement.
“The low seventies,” he asks, as clarification, as emphasis, and makes a small,
thoughtful noise as Will nods.
Chilton flips the file open again, checks Will’s age for the third time so far
this session, and both brows lift.
“You’ve been busy, then.”
Chilton studies the boy at a much more scrupulous length now, as certain pieces
start to fit together. The sudden shifts of personality, introvert to
extrovert, the weaponized body language, the entirely unjustified sense of
preening self-adoration.
“Do you do it for the money, or the loneliness?”
Will bites his lip, just the corner, and his eyes narrow in amusement.
"Oh, very good, doctor, now you're listening to me." He rolls his shoulders,
his neck, sits comfortably back.
"I don’t need the money,” he says, honestly, blinks, "though it pays well
enough to keep me comfortable. I might travel after college, I have yet to
decide."
He smiles softly.
"And it helps with the boredom, Dr. Chilton. Scratches a mutual itch. I enjoy a
good fucking and they enjoy fucking someone good." He licks his licks in a
deliberately provocative way.
"Dyadic cooperation."
Visible irritation plucks through Chilton’s expression, a keen annoyance in the
twist of his mouth that he eases into a smirk.
“An outdated theory, irrelevant to anyone who lives in any degree of civilized,
modern society,” he returns, words clipped. “But it’s fascinating to see the
effect he’s had on you, Mister Graham.”
He taps his pen against the notebook. “Shaping you into another little Lecter.”
A squeak from Chilton’s chair as he leans back in it, sharply observant and
suddenly, seeming very pleased. Even with all of the correlations as
circumstantial, it’s scandalous enough just in the trappings of it. An
unexpected private mentorship of an underage boy, who moonlights selling
himself to much older men for spending money.
Yes, very pleased indeed.
“Did you find yourself thinking of it often, while you were hospitalized? This
itch, left unscratched for so long.”
Will watches, notes the pieces falling into place, notes how excited, suddenly,
by the prospect of a scandal, Chilton has suddenly become. It's entertaining,
really - the man can prove nothing, can tell no one.
"Every day and every hour within," he responds softly, brows rising in a gentle
longing. "I missed the touches, the whispered words. The stretch," he licks his
bottom lip into his mouth, "two fingers. Three. Sometimes four if they felt
cruel - four hurts so good, doctor."
Will squirms, a pleasurable sensation, hands down between his legs, now, not
rubbing but pressed there, clasped together, wrists against his cock, sweater
tugged down by his thumbs.
"I missed the deep slow push." He arches, sighs. "Very happy I can indulge
again."
“Satyriasis,” Chilton responds abruptly, turning his attention from the slow
downward grind of Will’s hands between his legs back to his notebook. A hint of
discomfort as he pushes the images out of his mind, mouth thinning into a terse
line.
“The male equivalent of nymphomania. Pathological sexual desire that drives the
sufferer to extremes so that they can - as you so eloquently described -
scratch that itch,” Chilton continues, each word brought to attention,
consonants clipped.
“Decisions that could negatively affect one’s career - schooling,” he adds.
“Compromise relationships. Compel the patient to engage in increasingly risky
behaviors.” A pointed look towards Will’s stomach, tongue snared against the
inside of his cheek in a wry expression.
“You feel no need to stop, after what happened to you?”
Will squirms again, makes a gentle murmuring sound of pleasure and shakes his
head.
"One can abstain from drinking, drugs and sex, doctor, and they will still end
up in the ground."
Another narrowing of blue eyes in utter amusement before he unfolds from the
chair, stands to stretch from toes to fingertips, shirt and sweater riding up
to reveal the taut stomach, the bare shadow of the scar where it is.
"Our hour's up, Frederick,” he says softly, bends to grab his bag and sling it
over his shoulder before leaning one hand over Chilton's desk and holding out
his other to shake.
"It has been a pleasure," he intones, leans just a little closer. “Could have
been an even more profound one, if you got bored."
Genuine amusement at the suggestion, at the boy’s shameless proposition, but
Chilton regards him ruefully, unable to see it as anything but a very carefully
laid trap.
“While I appreciate the spirit of your offer, unlike others, yet unnamed, I
have no interest,” Chilton responds, head tilting a little as he stands. “And
certainly none in being arrested, at least not any time soon.”
He withdraws his hand first, Will’s fingers curling to trace along his palm,
and Chilton clears his throat loudly in response. Watching Will bend a little
further over the desk, grinning, and then push up off of it to leave, he
interjects only when the boy has reached the door.
“Give my regards to Doctor Lecter,” he intones, tongue sticking heavy as he
eases a particular disdain into the words. “And please do check with Elizabeth
in the front about scheduling your next appointment with me. I trust that they
told you that it’s twice a week, ongoing, until such time as I decide that
these sessions are no longer necessary?”
A vicious pleasure, hands splayed against the desk.
Will’s eyes narrow, the bottom lids drawing up just barely in disbelief and
irritation, lips parted to breathe before he licks them and presses them
closed. He tilts his head, his smile almost genuine.
"Then, perhaps, you should rethink your approach to the spirit of my offer,” he
says, turning to open the door and leave, closing it gently behind him.
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter Summary
     “Satyriasis,” the older man intones warmly, unswayed by Will's
     squirms of frustration. “Sexual addiction of the impulsivity model,
     likely due to psychological distress formed in early childhood.”
     He could not sound more pleased as he hums a kiss against Will’s
     shoulder and decides, “We will perform a clinical assessment, then,
     to determine the severity of the condition."
Chapter Notes
     warnings for this chapter: spanking, cum play, orgasm denial, bad
     psychiatry
     (that said, we think it's pretty damn hot)
“Apparently...”
Will drops his bag by the door, kicks his boots off and meanders through to the
kitchen where he won’t have to raise his voice. He schools his expression into
something almost believably serious and concerned.
“...Doctor Chilton thinks I’m a nymphomaniac.”
He manages a beat, two, before he snorts and laughs, the same free, pleased
sound Hannibal associates with deep pleasure from the boy, in fucking and in
murder.
Will shakes his head, steps closer and kisses Hannibal deep, tasting the wine
from his lips.
“What a joke.”
He reaches for Hannibal’s wine and takes a long, uninvited sip of it before
licking his lips and setting it back down before walking away to sit in the
chair in the corner, drape himself over it with his feet against the wall and
his head tilted to see Hannibal working, upside down.
A brow lifts as Hannibal tracks the boy-whirlwind when it passes through his
kitchen, left holding a half-emptied glass of wine in its wake.
He swirls it a few times and spares the expensive Malbec a mourning glance
before taking a sip. The taste of childish impudence still stuck to the glass,
and the wine that much better for it, Hannibal notes with pleasure.
"Frederick is a well-respected psychotherapist," lies Hannibal. "I did not know
he had returned to adolescent work, however."
He masks his amusement at the revelation by turning back to his preparations,
and flips over the sausages frying against the cast iron skillet - the nearest
he could bring himself to Will's oft requested hot dogs.
“This diagnosis - how does it make you feel?”
Will groans, arches and has to catch himself against the arm of the chair so he
doesn’t land head first against the expensive tile floor.
“God, Hannibal, I just spent an hour - another hour - explaining to kind Doctor
Chilton that no one touched me inappropriately for me to turn to older men to
seek my comfort and sate my desires.”
He grins, tilts his head and narrows his eyes.
“I was reminded so often today I’m an adolescent that I couldn’t help but
remember how old you are, Doctor Lecter.” He bites his lip. “Cradle robber,
look at you. How does it make you feel that you’re obsessed with a teenager?”
He laughs, adjusts himself to be able to lay his hands against the floor
without having to support himself that way.
“How does it feel knowing that teenager is just as obsessed with you?” he adds.
“You love to fuck me as hard and as often as I like being fucked.”
Hannibal's mouth thins, until he draws his tongue across the front of his
teeth, close-lipped.
"It makes me feel as if I was premature in grinding the meat for these
sausages."
He settles them with a press of the spatula, and lifts his wine again to make
his way back towards the chair, drink and seat both older than the child spread
grinning across it.
"There is a fundamental difference in judgment, due to the formation of the
brain and the experiences that shape it. In all of my years," he intones, dry,
"I have developed enough sense of my own morality to make informed and capable
decisions."
Looming, now, as he swirls the glass and takes another sip. The boy is
positively preening beneath him, curling catlike and self-obsessed, entirely
too amused with his own impertinent declarations.
That much more pleasure, then, when Hannibal catches him unexpected with a
sharp slap. His hand does not pass the boy’s face but grips him by the jaw
instead as it connects, thumb pressing against his flushed lips.
"Unlike a teenager, undeveloped yet, and unwise in knowing what's best for
him." A thin smile. "You would do well to listen to Frederick, if only to make
your time there pass that much faster. Insolent boy."
Will blinks, parts his lips to take Hannibal’s thumb between them, sucking
slowly as he watches him, watches the response, mulls the words over. His cheek
stings where Hannibal’s hot palm still presses to it and he smiles.
“That’s why I have a mentor,” Will replies. “To know what’s best for me. To
feed me and clothe me.” He licks the length of Hannibal’s thumb, joint to tip,
and hums softly. “To make me study and sob his name into the carpet as he burns
my knees against it.”
Hannibal accepts the words with a shiver, unseen but for the particular light
caught in the narrowing of his eyes. It’s always a delight to see this
particular side of Will, another facet of a seemingly endless array, this one
far removed from the side of Will that speaks in archaic Greek and wears
bespoke suits.
A depraved, wicked thing now - a child, to be certain, but one entirely aware
of the profane temptation he provides in his depravity.
Expression shadowing, Hannibal works the tip of his thumb back into the boy’s
mouth, allowing a quiet sound of approval as Will’s cheeks hollow to suck.
“Maybe it is ill-conceived that a child such as yourself should be kept here
with someone as old as you think me to be. I’m certain Frederick would call me
a poor moral compass. Perhaps you would be better off living your life as
befits your age. Attend class. Study. Make friends. Meet a nice girl to take on
quiet little dates. Furtive fondling in the beds of dorm rooms.”
His chin lifts, just so, as he presses his thumb fully into Will’s mouth, and
smiles faintly when he feels the boy’s tongue curl against it.
“From the mouths of babes, as they say.”
Will moans softly, enjoying Hannibal's thumb as he so often enjoys his cock.
When he pulls back, his eyes are darker, hooded, lips now wet with spit where
Hannibal spreads it as Will speaks.
"I could have my first real kiss," he whispers, before his smile widens again
and he bites Hannibal gently. "I am a child in a far more advanced stage of
development than my peers. Sexually, certainly mentally,” he switches
effortlessly to his twisted, brash version of French. “It would be detrimental
to me to be sent back to that, not when there is so much you can teach me yet."
“You are precocious, and entirely impertinent,” Hannibal corrects him, leaning
low to brush a fond kiss into his hair, fingers curling warm against his cheek.
“In need of firm guidance, and a firmer hand.”
He steps away, to check their dinner, finishing his wine as he goes.
“I find myself, for the first time, in agreement with the illustrious Dr.
Chilton. You are insatiable, Will.” Pleased by how the meal is progressing, he
continues. “A night of more firsts than merely that - I have made you hot dogs,
or near enough, as requested.”
Will laughs, arches again, and folds himself gracefully to the floor onto his
knees before standing. He delights in it, what Hannibal does for him, how it
grinds on the man to do it.
He follows him to the kitchen properly and insinuates himself into Hannibal’s
arms again, his own up over his shoulders, mouth parting Hannibal’s lips to
kiss him again.
"You keep me very well satisfied, my mentor," Will sighs, "and it's been such a
trying day, with therapy. Opening up. Digging deep."
He wrinkles his nose in amusement.
"After dinner, I think, we should take a bath, and you should fuck me soundly
in bed after, all warm-limbed and sleepy as you adore me most, dirty old man
that you are."
A wicked grin and Will hums, pleased. He knows the slap is coming before
Hannibal moves, and tilts his head with it, hair in his eyes, a moan curling
his sigh when Hannibal’s fingers twist through his hair.
“Shall I show you the toll my age has taken on me?” he asks, forehead pressed
to Will’s, leaning over him to bear him back against the counter. Hannibal
thrills to hear the words, in truth, a profound and perverse pleasure coiling
in him, and he loves the punishment for them even more.
A hand drops to the boy’s hip and Hannibal turns him, bending the length of his
body over Will and working open his fly. Hannibal shoves Will’s jeans down past
his hips, baring him against his counter, and sighing rough against his neck as
he squeezes the curve of Will’s ass.
“Say it again, Will, and you will suffer for it.”
Will shivers, wriggling where he’s held, and bites his lip, pleased with the
turn of events already.
"I want you to bend me over, deep," he recites. “And fuck me so hard I cry, so
you can lick away the tears like the sick old man you are," Will purrs, rolling
his hips back hard on the three words he knows stir Hannibal to the bone.
Another soft moan, the arching of his back, trembling with anticipation as he
had been for the slap.
Needy, greedy, lewd little boy.
Hannibal grasps him around the throat. Deepening his bend, forcing him to his
toes as his back arches, stomach pressed to the counter, and Hannibal allows a
faint smile.
Old enough to be his father with years to spare, and yet entirely in the sway
of this insufferable boy.
His palm cracks hard against Will’s ass and he rubs it, slowly, a little too
firmly after the sting.
“If you insist on acting like a child, then I will treat you as one,” Hannibal
murmurs, leaning down to brush a kiss against the boy’s cheek, before bringing
his hand down again.
A harsh sigh, watching Will’s body jerk beneath his, down to the curl of his
fingers against the smooth granite.
It’s a pleasure, not a punishment. Will relishes every strike, feels his cheeks
color with it, parts his lips on the harsh gasps of pain as the sensation
crawls increasingly closer towards it. He spreads wider, as much as his jeans
will allow, curls in on himself against the counter. For a brief moment he
struggles, puts on a game of disliking the play, of wanting it to end; fussy
and immature and younger still, and so more deserving still, of this.
He moans Hannibal’s name, pushes back, and grins against the cool granite, lips
pressed to it, fingers curled there, tightening to fists with every harsher and
harsher slap.
“Who would put me in my place?” he whimpers, teeth bared in a grin, “if I were
to leave you?”
“None would have the patience for you,” Hannibal responds, snarling soft
against Will’s shoulder, nearly doubled over him and closer still with every
crack of his hand across bare skin. “It is a full-time undertaking.
Particularly demanding.”
He grinds harder, pushing Will’s thighs against the counter to force him
against it. Rubbing against his reddened ass, Hannibal’s hand drifts lower, to
curl between the boy’s legs and trace a lingering line down his cock, over his
balls to the soft bridge of skin and finally to his opening.
A low sound, as though resisting the urge to fuck this extraordinary and
infuriating boy right against the granite as he circles a finger.
“Whose hands would ever please you as much as mine?” Hannibal responds, teasing
a circle and dipping against him, scarce pressure, just to tease.
There are extraordinarily few in the world who Hannibal would allow to speak to
him in such a way and let them survive the experience, and none in his
recollection for whom it brings so much pleasure to him to hear. Coy and
debauched and ruthlessly beautiful, even - especially - in his insolence.
“Though I wonder,” Hannibal muses, another slow push, barely breaching the boy,
“if my hands truly do please. You are - clinically - insatiable. Perhaps you
require a more intensive treatment.”
Will moans, an obscenely loud noise.
He wonders if Hannibal cares that dinner is close to burning.
He also wonders how much he will suffer for it when he notices.
“Will the treatment involve your cock up my ass, because then yeah, I would
appreciate something more intensive,” he laughs, a low sound that devolves into
a whine quickly, warm and utterly debauched already.
“I desire you every goddamn hour. You satisfy me well,” he adds, breathless,
arching up harder to feel Hannibal’s hand against him more, to no avail.
Hannibal’s brow lifts, and he sighs, striking the boy with a particularly hard
spank, and then, decisively, a set of them, one after the other until he hears
Will gasp, fingers pressed to colorlessness grasping against the counter.
And just as quickly, Hannibal’s touch withdraws. He tugs Will’s jeans up,
settles them against his hips - pointedly ignoring the huff of displeasure as
Will watches over his shoulder - and zips them.
Profoundly satisfied, he leans over Will again, ignoring the boy’s hardness as
well as his own.
“Satyriasis,” the older man intones warmly against Will’s shoulder, unswayed by
his squirms of frustration. “Sexual addiction of the impulsivity model, likely
due to psychological distress formed in early childhood.”
He could not sound more pleased as he hums a kiss against Will’s shoulder, and
parts from him in time to save the sausages now smoldering.
“A clinical assessment, to determine the severity of the condition,” he
decides, plating the completed portions. Spiced sausages with hand-ground
mustard of two varieties, truffled mashed potatoes with minced garlic and
sweetgrass butter, and a fresh baguette that Will remembers smelling from the
oven when he woke that morning.
Smiling, Hannibal offers Will his own plate to take to the table. “I do not
typically see patients on Saturdays, but I hope you are not otherwise occupied
tomorrow.”
Will laughs, continues, pointedly, to stand at the counter as he begins to eat,
muscles tense from the spanking, skin hot from it - he doesn’t want to sit, and
knows he will be made to.
“The reason I was not allowed to be treated by your capable hands, Dr. Lecter,
is because you are biased towards me,” Will reminds him, considering his food,
feeling his mouth water from the smell, the presentation. He wonders who the
kid was, though it hardly matters beyond mere curiosity.
He grins, “They think you will be too kind in your assessment of my problems,
too close to the situation, worried about jeopardising the project I am so
diligently helping you with, if I were to… open up to you so fully.”
He licks his lips, deliberately runs a finger through the potatoes before
licking it clean.
“Taking me in for an unauthorized, impromptu session would be seen as obscenely
inappropriate by all those in your chosen medical field. Would you risk it?”
There is, finally, a look of mild horror towards Will’s behavior as Hannibal
watches him eat with his fingers. His own tense, just a twitch, as he takes up
his plate and Will’s and brings both to the table.
“I am not your doctor in any official capacity,” Hannibal agrees, although the
words burn a little on his tongue as he observes the lines of Will’s limber
body, stretching across the counter. “But that does not mean you are not free
to pursue other avenues of self-care - therapeutic or otherwise - in addition
to your ongoing sessions with Doctor Chilton.”
He stands, waits, hands planted on the table, and watches Will from across the
long stretch of mahogany.
“But I am your mentor, a fact well-known, and you are assisting me in a yet-
unnamed research project,” he adds, agreeably. “Perhaps the subject material is
more intimately familiar to you than either of us had anticipated.”
Hannibal tilts his head, a slow, deliberate blink, before he turns to look at
the seat Will usually occupies.
“Sit.”
A direct command, a dark delight in watching Will wince when he finally obeys.
Dinner passes quickly, quite enjoyably between them.
Upstairs they draw a bath, languid and warm together in it as the water slows
their limbs to laxity and brings their kisses to sloppy gentleness.
Hannibal makes Will spread his thighs with his hands as he fucks him into the
mattress after, kissing the sobs from his lips when he pushes him hard enough
to draw them.
-
Will has never been to Hannibal’s office, though he knows where it is and what
his usual hours are, when he goes, anyway.
It’s a large building, open, and the office itself is exquisitely furnished and
comfortable. Without a second thought he’s on the ladder and up, running his
hands over the books there, over the spines and pulling a few to browse, a look
of utterly genuine delight when he looks down at Hannibal below him. The man
watches him like a cat watches a mouse on a kitchen shelf.
“You need not take them all down at once. They will certainly be there waiting
for your return,” Hannibal informs him, before beginning to settle his things
out around his desk.
Heavy-bound black sketchbooks, dotted with spots of color in varying patterns
along the side. Another notepad, smaller than the others, is set nearby. Pens
and a cup of coffee, all arranged as methodically as if their places were
marked upon the desk.
Only when everything is in its place does he then immediately clear most of it,
most into the drawers of his desk, leaving half of the desk entirely bare.
Content with what he sees, he lifts his coffee and enjoys a sip, watching Will
stretch and crouch and scurry along the shelves.
Will is the sort of child who had always been excited by books, by knowledge
and ideas. For a time, books were the only ones that didn’t punch you when you
looked too close. Of course, that was before Will learned to punch back, and
much more besides.
He selects a textbook, heavy and leatherbound and not in English. He frowns in
being unable to read it, but he takes his time on the elaborate illustrations,
runs his fingers almost reverently over the pages. He treats books with the
utmost respect, Hannibal has noticed - he has never once seen Will damage one.
Satisfied with his lack of understanding but taking pure pleasure out of just
touching the thing, Will sets it back, and catches the look Hannibal gives him
before sighing, returning to the ladder, making his way down.
He walks up to Hannibal and winds his hands around his neck before pushing
himself up in a little jump to wrap his legs around him as well, pleased when
strong hands come up to support the motion. Hannibal’s arms tuck easily beneath
the boy.
“Please,” he murmurs. “Please tell me that your undisclosed research project
allows me to spend hours over this desk pouring over those books.”
Hannibal holds Will near for long enough to steal a lingering kiss. When they
part, he smiles, an amusement so entirely genuine that it immediately registers
as suspicious.
“A productive inquiry into the former may yield the latter as reward,” responds
Hannibal.
A moment more, like this. Warmth and nearness, an effervescent charm felt
towards the other’s peculiarities and traits of character. Hannibal draws his
nose alongside Will’s, until he he lowers Will to the floor.
“Your clothes, Will.”
Will raises an eyebrow, amused, and brings a hand up to start on the buttons of
his shirt. One Hannibal has bought him, tailored, careful to hug Will’s body in
the most fetching way. On certain days, Will deliberately wears his sweater
over it just to feel the ferocity when Hannibal yanks it off of him again.
He says nothing as the shirt falls open against his chest, as he tugs it from
his jeans where he had managed to keep it tucked for the duration of the drive
and the short time before it when Hannibal had made him tuck it in. Will just
watches, enjoys, as always, the way Hannibal’s eyes devour him in silence as he
reveals skin now marked by the man’s teeth, his lips… as he pulls his jeans
down, the mark Hannibal had left there, their personal oath and binding.
All the clothes are folded, set aside, and Will tilts his head towards the
desk, considering.
He remembers whispered promises and hot fumbling together, before Hannibal had
let Will talk him into being used properly again. He had thought about the
words often, if they would be put into action, rather than if they were meant.
Everything Hannibal promises is always meant.
Will rests a hand against the back of his neck, lets his elbow fall across his
chest in a gentle stretch, licks his lips.
“Do you want me to bend over the desk, Doctor Lecter?” he asks, coy, smiling
when it’s perfectly clear that’s exactly what’s expected. He pauses a moment,
bites his bottom lip.
“Ask me.”
A dangerous game, and a familiar amusement.
Shameless in the length of time Hannibal lets his gaze linger on the boy
stripped bare in his office - dirty old man, indeed - he resists the urge to
follow those sleek curves and sharp angles with his hands. Guileless blue eyes
track his movements as he circles behind Will, and Will, to his credit, remains
entirely still.
"In therapy, the time is yours to control. To question and to guide as you
need.” Hannibal draws a quiet breath along the boy's shoulder, and reaches to
curl a fist in the boy's hair.
"Treatment, however, is entirely mine to direct, to ensure the greatest
potential for success. I do only want what's best for you, after all," remarks
Hannibal, faint amusement before his tone curves darker.
"Bend."
Hannibal does not pull or shove, but merely guides the boy with steady force to
bow forward over the desk.
"Make yourself comfortable in this position. Your arms, your legs. This will be
a case study in satyriasis - a particularly appropriate name considering your
propensity for immersing yourself in all manner of carnal ecstasies."
He releases his hair and skims his palm down the curve of Will's spine, over
the swell of his ass, across bruises and scratch marks.
"To better grasp the severity of your condition, we will endeavor to discover
whether or not your endurance will outlast your need to be sexually sated.”
All but glowing over his fraudulent little experiment, Hannibal offers a
charming smile towards the boy, head tilted.
“We will see which breaks first, Will - your need for gratification, or your
need for rest.”
Catching the boy’s hips in his hands, Hannibal looms behind him, fingers
stroking affectionately along the outside of his pale thighs, a position that
seems both promising and menacing. Tremendous amusement as he leans lower, the
soft material of his expensive suit brushing against Will’s bare skin.
“Do you consent to be a part of this study?”
Will shivers. The exquisite need, already, to be touched, to be fucked this
way... for a moment, he say nothing, determined to fill his answer with this
overwhelming need.
"I consent,” Will manages in the end, not quite the groundbreaking answer he
had hoped for, but accurate regardless.
He leans, elbows on the desk and hips close enough to feel the edge to feel it
if he breathes too deep. He considers the threat behind the words, endurance
not brought about by any strain but that which the body brings itself.
He hums and makes himself comfortable as he is, before - inevitably - Hannibal
adjusts his position for him; not by much, but enough so that Will’s legs are
straight as he bends, a graceful arch to his back, a clear and obvious
presentation of his ass.
"Spread your legs, Will." The words are like honey, warm and soft against him
where Hannibal leans close, and he doesn't help Will obey so much as gently
slide his palms over his thighs when he does.
"Wider."
Will swallows, obeys that too, until he’s on his toes, bent forward, thighs
spread wide for Hannibal's pleasure, and suddenly the idea of endurance hits
home. The realization of the point of the game brings a smile to Will’s lips as
he ducks his head.
He’s not going to endure.
He can't.
"Stay still.” Gentle words against his neck, followed by a soft kiss there, and
Hannibal steps back and away, leaving the boy spread and beautiful against his
desk like a sacrifice.
An extraordinary new objet d’art to accompany the carefully curated decor of
his office, Hannibal considers, finishing his coffee. Will stretches,
incorrigibly pleased to have found himself in this particular position, and
Hannibal sets the mug back down to draw himself up behind the boy again.
“Well,” he chirps. “Shall we begin?”
The sound of a zipper fills the otherwise quiet office as Hannibal undoes
himself, untucking his shirt from his pants and shucking them down just enough
that he can slide his cock free. Already hard, seeing the boy hold himself in
place like this, he affects a pleasant professionality in taking up the lube he
brought from home for just this particular endeavor, and slicking himself with
a few long strokes.
Letting the anticipation linger, and bringing his expression to one of clinical
detachment as Will glances back over his shoulder.
“The first trial,” Hannibal announces, and cold, wet fingers find the boy’s
exposed opening, circling, pushing in as he rests his other hand on Will’s back
to hold him against the desk. “Your participation is greatly appreciated. Now,
hold still.”
A rough turn to his voice as he adds a third finger, hardly giving time to the
first two, and humming deeply when the boy squirms up higher onto his toes.
"'Still' is a concept you will need to grow familiar with, Will, for this to go
without fault or error." He twists his fingers, pulls a low note from Will,
another shift.
"Once more and you will get nothing."
At this, at least, the boy does still, just keeping himself held, open and
needy and hungry for it, as Hannibal's fingers spread the lube but don't
stretch him beyond what is necessary. Will’s quiet gasp at being left empty
brings a smile curling to Hannibal's lips.
Without a word, one hand against Will’s hips, he guides himself in, in one
rough quick shove that leaves the boy panting to catch his breath, trembling in
pleasure over the polished wood. Will groans, turning his head to rest his
cheek to the surface, and smiles wider as he’s taken, fucked quick and brutal
and held in place for it.
Like a toy.
Like a thing to use and discard later.
He moans, encouragement when Hannibal hits his prostate, demanding when he
doesn’t... and yet he doesn't know which is the worse torment, when he grows
harder and harder from this and Hannibal seems interested in only taking his
own pleasure.
Will keens, loud and pleased and wavering, when the man unrelentingly grinds
against his prostate, slows his pace.
A finger is drawn up the bottom of Will’s cock, feeling the weight of it, how
stiff he’s become, and Hannibal smiles, unseen, as the boy’s hands clench into
fists. Leaning over him, Hannibal plants both hands beside Will, and drives
suddenly hard, fast inside of him.
A brutal pace that bangs the boy’s thighs into the desk beneath him, forcing
him wider by bringing a hand back to Will’s ass and spreading him. Will’s moans
pitch higher now, pressed against the desk, a pained and eager sound that
betrays his youthful years, sweet little noises as reward for the rough
treatment.
Will shifts, just a bare adjustment beneath the weight of Hannibal over him,
and the doctor snarls low, catching Will’s wrist and bringing it together with
the other. Pinned and used and fucked, rough and perfunctory, and the sight of
his flushed cheek, perfect lips parted against the surface of the desk, is
enough.
A harsh sigh shakes itself free of Hannibal as he pumps his release inside the
boy, a satisfied sound pressed lingering into Will’s shoulder. The movements
slow, rocking gentler each time, until he holds himself there, still inside of
him.
No touch is given to Will’s leaking cock, no thought towards it at all as
Hannibal murmurs against the boy’s bare skin, sliding a hand back over his ass
to curl against it where it meets his thigh, still bruised in pale purple
shadow from the spanking he received the night before.
“A note, now that we’ve begun,” Hannibal breathes. “A single panel of this
floor is worth more than everything you own.” He rolls his hips again,
softening inside the boy but pleased by the clench of muscle there. “I suggest
you keep your mess safely away from it and inside yourself, or you’ll be
cleaning it up with your tongue.”
He hums, softly, as he finally withdraws.
Will shudders, toes pressing white to the floor as Hannibal leaves him filled,
filthy and forgotten.
Endurance, he reminds himself. It's a game of his patience against Hannibal’s,
trials and toying but ultimately a relief for him, attention and release.
He keeps still, breathing still shuddering, and feels Hannibal pull away,
another gentle stroke to his ass before the fingers tighten, grip, and Will
gasps with the effort of holding still as he's spread again, examined in a
distinctly clinical and utterly indifferent manner, and released.
Will turns his head, murmurs something against the table, and ducks to press
his forehead to the cool surface, lip between his teeth as he concentrates on
keeping his muscles tight, his body still. His attention is on the man now
deliberately circling him to find a panel in the wall by the window, adjusting
it to fill the room with the quiet violins of Beethoven's 7th, before stepping
out to tidy himself in the bathroom. He restores his former neatness and fetces
a fresh cup of coffee along the way back, and settles himself next to Will to
apparently work on something he had genuinely needed to do today.
And so Hannibal works. Notes taken first in the smaller notebook, set aside
then for the larger. Comparing medical records to the curling, elegant script
in the sketchpads that suffice as patient files, periodically interrupted only
for a sip of coffee.
He hums along with the movements of music, softly so as not to overpower but
merely to feel the vibrations sync with it. Content, it seems, to work as
though there were not a pair of particularly blue eyes focused on him from so
near, and occasional narrow looks given by the boy splayed across his desk.
Nearly an hour passes before he finally finishes a file, and sets it aside to
turn to Will. Curls of hair have slid into his face and Hannibal only just
resists the impulse to reach out and smooth them back.
One mustn’t contaminate the experiment, after all.
The smaller notebook returns, opened and turned so that anything inside is
facing away from Will. Hannibal leans back, legs crossed comfortably.
“And how are we feeling, Will?”
A slow blink, glare barely visible beneath the fringe. Will is trembling, body
still taut from holding himself still, splayed and on display only to be
utterly ignored by the man next to him.
He curls his fingers, wonders why he’s even obeying, and licks his lips.
“Fucken swell,” he mutters, lips tilting up in a smirk before he turns his head
enough to see Hannibal properly. Will’s cheeks are flushed with the effort of
holding himself back, and he groans softly, a needy noise, a quiet suggestion
that he wants to move, needs to, and will, soon, false experiment be fucken
damned.
“I wonder what others would think of your unconventional methods of therapy?”
he muses, licking his bottom lip into his mouth, arching his back just enough
to be invitation.
Hannibal makes a small sound, thoughtful, in consideration of the question.
Entirely in his element here, as much as he is negotiating the finer
intricacies of dinner parties or in twisting bone and sinews to end a life. A
doctor, a professional, with all the detachment that digging through the sordid
labyrinths of the human mind requires.
Nevermind that he’s doing anything but that, at this particular moment.
He stands unfurls into a taunting, languid stretch of limbs, small but
satisfying adjustments - a roll of shoulders, a turn of his neck. Sliding a
hand down Will’s ass, fingertips slipping across his opening as they pass, he
squeezes firmly before bringing down his palm in a stinging slap.
“Why do you wonder such things, Will?” Hannibal leans a hand against the desk,
standing alongside the boy and observing the tension coiling through his prone
body. “Are you considering sharing the results of our study prematurely?”
Another tracing touch of fingers against him, teasing inward, just enough to
induce a squirm.
A threat carries in his tone, not the overt menace he snarls in play between
them, but softer. The whisper of a blade as it is drawn.
“I would very strongly advise against it.”
Will sighs, almost uncoils at the words, at the contact after an hour without
either, moans. He splays himself a little further over the desk, brows drawing
gently up, eyes wide and huge and beautifully childish in their expression.
“We have done so little in the study I would have nothing to share,” he
laments, ignoring all instructions now to stay still and shifting back against
Hannibal’s hand, gasping at the feeling, at the sensation against sensitive
skin.
“Is this a blind experiment or a double blind?” he wonders idly. “Are you
testing me or am I, in fact, testing your patience? Your endurance? Your
inability to keep your hands off of me?”
Another moan, long, pleased, and Will raises his hips higher.
“Please.” It’s drawn out, warm, like butter in its smoothness. “Do it again?”
Hannibal smiles, faintly, at the plea, at the impertinence of the boy’s
questions and the beauty of the boy’s restraint even as his body drives him to
move and seek.
“Impudent boy,” Hannibal intones, and he draws his finger across the sensitive
skin again. “It is an open-label correlational study. We are both entirely
aware of your role in this, my administration of the testing, and we are to
determine if my hypothesis is correct - that there is a negative correlation
between physical exhaustion, and your condition.”
Will earns another spank, the same place Hannibal’s hand fell so many times the
night before, and Hannibal circles behind him again.
“I am concerned,” he murmurs, sounding anything but, “about the severity of
your condition. A satyr indeed, driven to gorge yourself on sex and violence.”
Kissing warm across the boy’s shoulder, teeth drawing against his skin, cool
from being laid bare in the chilly office, followed by the sound of Hannibal’s
fly being drawn down.
“Merely an hour has passed, and already you beg for more.”
“Mmm, you didn’t make me cum last time,” Will purrs, coiling his body and
shifting it in pleasing motions he knows Hannibal follows, tracks and
remembers. The skin against his ass, his thigh, stings still from the night
before, from the slaps now, and it makes him shiver.
“Perhaps had I been allowed release I wouldn’t be quite as insatiable for you
and your hands.” He bites his lip and adds, “Your thick, hard cock.”
His tone has fallen to something entirely filthy; it’s unusual between them
when their personal manner of dirty talk usually involves recitations in dead
languages and the appropriate punishments for the wrong use of grammar when a
passage is forgotten.
A curious development, worth noting, how Will’s language shifts to encourage
what he desires. The forceful ‘make’ in his demand, the praise in his
complaint. Skillful and particular word choice, whether intentionally or
subconsciously, born of an innate awareness of what moves others, and a great
deal of practice.
“The second administration, then,” Hannibal agrees, ignoring the boy’s
insistences as readily as he does the slight and pleasurable squirms of Will
beneath him. A sigh, long, as Hannibal works his hand over himself again, bent
over the boy so near that Will can feel shirt buttons pressed against his back,
the soft silk of Hannibal’s tie fallen loose.
A few moments spared to bring himself to hardness, slicking his cock with lube,
before firm fingers dip inside Will just enough to stretch, to splay and spread
him open again.
The entry is as rough as before, one hard shove that causes the desk to rattle
beneath them. Hannibal braces his arm against the desk beside Will, the other
hand caught hard on his hip as he thrusts deep, short jerks to keep Will
entirely full.
“And now,” Hannibal breathes, “how do you feel?”
Will makes a sound, like a choked gasp, and his entire body shudders in
pleasure.
Then, he laughs.
“Oh, God that’s good.” It’s a rush, words quick and warm and utterly delighted,
and he presses his chest to the desk and holds on as Hannibal moves against
him.
He’s close, pressed in such a way as to have his cock curving up just under the
desk, no friction, no pressure, nothing at all beyond desperate need, the head
leaking fluid and trembling for touch.
“Please touch me,” he gasps.
Hannibal drives, relentless in intensity and pace alike, bruises left in Will’s
thighs from the edge of the desk and marks drawn sharp from fingernails
clutching his hip.
“And compromise the experiment? I will do no such thing,” Hannibal responds,
breathless, eyes lifting upward from where he’s pressed his mouth to Will’s
shoulder. A smile appears when he sees the boy’s frustration knit his brows,
and the curve of lips is smoothed as quickly as it appeared, expression
detached once more.
“By giving you relief, you have no motivation to continue to test yourself.”
His lip curls in a silent snarl against his teeth as he leans back, both hands
against Will’s ass to force him into a harsh spread.
“You will endure with the promise of reward, not the granting of it.”
Will cries out and grips the desk harder, sounds shifted just barely from
wanton pleasure to needy desperation, the denial so final and so cruel that he
is, for a moment, unsure of what to do with it at all.
And still Hannibal fucks him, watches the way his cock disappears into Will and
returns slick, the boy already filthy with him, still aching and needy for him,
holding spread and so, so pretty in his struggles.
“Please,” he whimpers, curling his shoulders, pushing up only to feel a palm,
almost cruel in its warmth, press him back down, hushing him, reassuring in the
most obscenely calm way as Hannibal loses himself in the boy again, a second
time while Will suffers without release.
When Hannibal steps back this time, Will is shaking, looking back over his
shoulder with wide, dark eyes, lips parted to catch his breath.
“You’re not fucken serious?” he breathes.
Hannibal calmly returns himself to his pristine presentation of earlier, not a
hair out of place, before clicking his tongue, running the back of his finger
gently along the back of Will’s thigh, gathering a drip that was sliding its
way towards the expensive floor.
He licks finger clean before, in a movement Will can’t anticipate, striking him
hard against the same skin he had cleaned, a clear handprint there in red from
the force of it.
“I am quite serious,” he intones, bending to kiss against Will’s tailbone,
before stepping away. “You will not cum, Will. The consequences for
disobedience are dire, and I would not push your luck on the matter,” he
smiles. “You may have the luck of the Devil, beautiful, insolent boy, but even
he will not save you from me.”
-
Will doesn’t know how long it is before he makes another sound, shuddering in
discomfort and a little in fear, when a drip that has been crawling its way
down his thigh finally makes contact with the floor. He makes a gentle noise
and directs his eyes to Hannibal, the man apparently sketching at his side,
content to listen to Rachmaninoff now and enjoy the company of the boy
suffering so beautifully beside him.
When Hannibal meets his eyes, Will closes his own and swallows. Hannibal
watches him for a moment more, hand sweeping across the page, quick lines to
capture before he closes the notebook and sets it neatly aside. A slight turn
in his chair to face the boy whose cheeks are suddenly alight with a bloom of
distress, Hannibal clucks his tongue once, a single note of disapproval, and
folds his fingers together over his knee.
"You seem to have earned yourself a respite, of some variety." As though he
heard the sound of the slick warm liquid settle to the floor, as though he
could catch the scent of it heated by Will's shaking thighs. "You may move,
Will, enough to tend to your mess."
A clinical observation in the lift of Hannibal's chin, the tip of his head. The
shudder that grips the boy's body is not one of strain, now, or of frustration
or even anger. It is a far deeper fear in him than simple disobedience, and
Hannibal takes it in with an acute curiosity and an even tone.
"With your tongue. It is a particularly delicate marble."
Will lets out a long breath before opening his eyes and looking at Hannibal
carefully.
When he slips to the floor he winces, muscles so long stretched and tense that
it hurts now to have them bend and soothe out inasmuch as they’re allowed. Will
settles with his knees on either side of the perceived mess and looks up - a
flushed, mussed little nymph. A raised eyebrow, and Will allows himself a
smile.
“In therapy, time is mine to control, doctor,” he reminds him gently.
“And treatment is entirely mine to direct, as I see fit,” comes the stern
reminder. “Bend. Now. And use your tongue.”
Will hums, parts his lips before pressing them gently together and swallowing.
When he obeys, he keeps his eyes up, tongue dragging slowly through the mess
he’d made, cupping at the end to take it between his lips and swallow.
It doesn’t take long, but by the end, Will is panting with the need for
something. A touch, a strike, a fuck… something to break this unbearable
waiting he is being forced to endure.
He crawls closer, rests his chin against Hannibal’s thigh and whines, a soft,
low sound.
“Please,” he licks his lips, swallows, nuzzles his cheek against the expensive
fabric. “Again?”
Unable to restrain the look of pleasure that brightens the darkness of his eyes
- lightning through storm clouds - the corner of Hannibal’s mouth curves
upward, just a little. He brings his fingers to rest beneath Will’s chin and
lifts it, lifts him, drawing the boy’s mouth to his own.
A kiss, soft, for good behavior.
The sky darkens again with a sigh, and Hannibal releases him.
“Stand. Over the desk again.”
Hannibal stands before Will does, a moment of eye contact caught between them
as he looms above the boy, Will’s red knees pressed against the cold marble. He
does not move to accommodate Will as the boy pushes up from the ground, forcing
him to twist, a discomfort through sore limbs and the threat of a further mess
from the the awkward movement.
But he does as asked, with a narrow look and a sharp flush of color, but he
stands all the same and he bends again over the increasingly loathed desk.
Hannibal rubs a palm softly along his backside. Quiet and sincere pride in his
boy, incorrigible though he is, a strength not so much of body as of sheer
stubborn willpower. Determined to please. Determined not to disappoint.
“Spread.”
The words are ruthless despite the warmth that Hannibal feels settle through
him, and he slaps the inside of Will’s thigh to spur him back into position -
legs splayed, ass presented, pressed up onto his toes from the depth of the
lean.
Hannibal withdraws his touch, and Will can hear the click of the cap from the
lube again.
“Another method, to see if you are more sated by it,” muses Hannibal, as his
slicked fingers press inside of Will without warning. Will gasps, back bowed as
he presses his hips higher, subtle shifts to work himself down against the
rough fingers.
They pull out, and a slap cracks across Will’s ass before Hannibal presses two
of his fingers back inside.
“Do not move, Will. I have been lenient thus far but any further movement and
you will truly suffer for it.”
A whine, a long drawn-out noise, and Will spreads himself over the desk
instead, fingers stretched forward to curl up over the edge and hold there as
his breathing grows heavier, his eyes close and he trembles with the need to
move.
A third finger and Will hisses, muscles tensing, well aware of how filthy he
is, still aware that he will be on his knees once more to clean up something he
can’t even control if Hannibal continues this torment of him.
And he does.
And when Hannibal’s fingers find his prostate, sensitive already, Will makes a
series of weak little noises, wanting, needing, aching for this before he can
push another ‘please’ through his teeth.
Hannibal hums in consideration, easing away from that particular spot with
another brush of pressure across it, to work his fingers in a steady, forceful
rhythm instead. Watching the boy widen for him, the sensitive skin flushed red
from the day’s abuses, feeling the warm slickness still trapped inside of him
smooth and wet against Hannibal’s fingers.
He draws them out, observing the white stickiness still clinging to them.
“Four, I think.”
There is no question to it - no allowance for Will to agree or to fuss or do
anything at all before Hannibal presses inside him again. He leans a hand
against the desk, working in steady, twisting thrusts into him. First two
fingers, then three, and he draws a breath - a bare sound of decided delight -
before pressing in a fourth.
A fierce stretch now around Hannibal’s relentless fingers, enough to curl one
of Will’s feet from the floor, as they spread, splay inside of Will to feel his
body tighten uselessly in response.
Will makes a weak sound of genuine pain and trembles before pushing forward,
harsh, enough to have just the tips of Hannibal’s fingers in and enough to earn
him another harsh slap.
“No, no stop -”
He’s close, he’s so close with it he aches. It throbs through his blood and
curls his toes and draws that weak, soft little kitten-moan from him again and
again as one hand fists hard in his hair and pulls his head back. So bent, the
fingers return and stretch him again.
“Hurts - please… let me please let me…”
“Anxiety can be triggered when the addict cannot have their fix,” Hannibal
purrs. “Being near to temptation makes the struggle even more difficult.
Generally speaking, exposure to the addict’s particular substance of choice is
best avoided to minimize the chance of relapse, however…”
He watches, fascinated by the sight of his fingers disappearing inside this
beautiful boy, arched aching over his desk. Twisting them slowly to enter him,
spreading enough to elicit another whimper, to feel his muscles stretch hot and
the sticky residue of Hannibal’s release run between his fingers and down
Will’s twitching thighs.
“...there is a school of cognitive behavioral therapy that subscribes heavily
to exposure as a means to overcome the anxiety that such nearness to temptation
can cause…”
Pressing deeper now, Hannibal shifts his shoulders, still holding firm in
Will’s hair, and inside of the boy, his fingers bend, curve, press, and rub
against his prostate. Strong, slow rubbing against it, drawing his own breath
as Will gasps into silence.
“Do not, Will.”
Will makes a sound of genuine distress and struggles, ducking his head, trying
to twist away from the hands holding him so cruelly and so open.
It feels good, it feels so good…
“I can’t, Hannibal, I can’t!”
An abrupt release of his hair to strike against his thigh instead. Will sobs.
“No -”
Another slap, harder, and Will cums, hard and hot, cock entirely untouched and
body shaking. He presses his face to the desk and sobs in earnest, thick wet
sounds of anguish at having disappointed, at having disobeyed without his own
particular engineering to get there.
The release floods him and pulls his muscles, for just a moment entirely lax,
and Will parts his lips against the table and stretches to rest his chin
against it instead, eyelashes damp with tears, body shaking in anticipation of
more pain, even as pleasure courses through him.
There, again, Hannibal notes. That particular shudder, the note that falls
broken from Will's lips only when his fear truly holds sway over him. Never
when he's killing, never when he's being fucked or beaten. Only when he looks
at Hannibal with such devotion, such desperate desire to not disappoint him and
a looming terror that he has.
A child still afraid of being abandoned, and a fear of being anything less than
perfect.
Sliding his fingers free, Hannibal wipes them on a tissue and discards it. He
moves to settle back into his chair and as he goes, he pulls Will into his arms
from where he is prone, sticky and sweating and tearful and sore, and tugs him
down to finally sit, to allow the turmoil in his mind to unfurl itself with the
release of tension in his body.
Exposure therapy - to be forced into imperfection, and see that Hannibal yet
remains.
Will curls against him without hesitation, head ducked under his chin, one arm
up around him to hug him close, the other curled into a gentle fist against
Hannibal’s chest, feeling his heart, still slow, still steady, so Will can time
his own to it.
It takes a while for the shaking to pass.
He wonders if the hours here had been revealing. If Hannibal could understand,
with definitive proof now, that Will would endure any pain, any trial, but that
pleasure, delivered by this man, would be his end, always. He lifts his chin to
kiss softly against Hannibal’s throat, under his chin, moans quietly and turns
his head into a nuzzle against the warm palm Hannibal brings up to cradle his
head.
“I can’t,” he sighs, swallowing, licking his lips. “I don’t know how to resist
you that way.”
Hannibal adjusts, rests his cheek against the boy's hair, stroking the back of
his fingers soothing slow along Will's cheek. There is no trace of the doctor
now, in his cold and curious detachment. Instead he is warmth and pulse and
adoration, arms firm around the boy coiled into his lap.
"You resisted," Hannibal ensures him, and reminds him with quiet amusement, "I
had to force you to finish. Had I not, you would still be bent over my desk,
spread."
He ducks his head, nuzzling Will's temple and tilting his head with the
gesture. "It is a shame, though, that Frederick is left to only shallow
diagnoses, without experiencing the entire scope of how extraordinary you are,"
muses Hannibal, feeling none of the shame he mentions. Rather, he is entirely
pleased with the thought that there are no others who have seen so many
breathtaking angles of Will Graham.
"Remarkable boy."
Will arches against him in a languid stretch, still sore, still tense and
stretched and used entirely, and presses his smile to Hannibal’s neck, lips
pulling back to press his teeth gently against him before he pulls away with a
soft sigh.
“I can spread over the desk when we get home,” he teases, licking a line up
Hannibal’s throat to just behind his ear, tugging the lobe gently between his
teeth, already seeking to prove himself again. Knowing he can do better, will
do so if Hannibal demands it.
“I can show many people how remarkable I am,” he muses gently, just pressed
close, not clinging but taking the softness and warmth offered him, “but none
will own me.”
He hums, pleased, kisses the corner of Hannibal’s mouth.
“Just you. To use, abuse, play with and punish.”
The words fall, as ever, on an ego that is itself as insatiable as the boy who
feeds it, and Hannibal accepts the kisses, the bites, the fond little gestures
just as greedily. His fingers fall, touching tenderly across the boy’s legs,
muscles twitching sore beneath his fingertips, to find the brand they share and
trace its circle.
“And mine to take home again. Always,” Hannibal murmurs, returning the boy’s
kiss. A pause, and he adds, his tone unbearably serious in jest. “As well as
mine to force into a shower before I drag you back into bed, and hope you have
finally been sated sufficiently.”
Will laughs, delighted, and pulls back to look at Hannibal properly.
"Until after dinner," he declares. He leaves the man in indecision as to
whether his words are in jest.
***** Chapter 6 *****
Chapter Summary
     For all of his endless appreciation of the boy's youth, it had never
     occurred to him that Will would get older. They're not supposed to,
     these boys - they remain forever the age at which they met Hannibal
     Lecter.
      
     Based almost entirely on this_lovely_depraved_thing, it is very much
     NSFW so open on your phones at your own risk.
Chapter Notes
     This particular situation was requested often by a lot of people,
     amusingly so after we had actually written it. We loved seeing all
     the theories come up regarding this particular birthday. Let us know
     what you think of our interpretation, if you had one of your own ;)
“You’re Will Graham.”
The voice is familiar only in that Will has heard it before, though he has
never seen the person it belongs to. He’s distracted enough that it takes him a
moment to turn to it, brows gently furrowed as he prepares to tell the person
who spoke to kindly leave him alone. Then he changes his mind.
The girl is about Zeller’s age, maybe a little younger. She’s pretty, perhaps
Korean, the features too rounded to be Japanese, too defined for Chinese,
though he can’t be sure. Will smiles, tilts his head.
“So they tell me.”
“You beat me out by six points in our forensics paper,” she tells him, a smile
curving her lips that Will finds infinitely pleasing, despite his preferences
for… not her. He grins, adjusts his bag and leans back against the wall again,
for the moment, worries forgotten.
“So they tell me,” he repeats. The girl crosses her arms, hips cocked, and
raises an eyebrow.
“One of those genius kids, Zeller said you were mouthy.”
Will’s brow rises to match her and he licks his lips. “He should be careful
what he says about me, people will think we’re in love.”
The girl laughs, turns to look over her shoulder.
“Kid, you have no idea. I’m Beverly.”
Will takes her hand, shakes, withdraws his to cross his arms again just as she
does, body language mirroring, expressions amused on both. For a moment more,
they’re silent, Will sizing up Beverly as she quite clearly tries to read him.
Neither seem disappointed when neither succeed.
“We’re going out tonight,” she says finally, “A bar down on Main. It’s Jimmy’s
birthday. Zeller’s too much of a coward to ask you himself to he sent an
emissary.”
Will laughs, draws a hand through his hair and glances over her shoulder.
Thankfully Brian isn't awkwardly standing behind her waiting for an answer.
Thankfully Will’s life has not yet sunk so far into Sweet Valley High. He nods.
Beverly grins.
“I won’t even ask if you have a genuine ID,” she says. “Just bring one enough
to get you in. And enough to buy us a round.”
“What time?”
“Meet at eight by the main building, we’re walking down.”
Will nods again, smiles when Beverly walks away, and feels the weight of his
thoughts return tenfold against his shoulders.
No ID yet, no. Not at all legal to enter a club or a bar, to buy alcohol or
even consume it, and yet closer and closer to a number Will no longer sees as a
pleasing coming-of-age but as an inevitable, unpleasant puddle.
Eighteen.
He did not want to turn eighteen. And yet the date was crawling closer and
closer when he would, when he would inevitably have to tell Hannibal that the
boy he was quite happily fucking was closer and closer to legally becoming a
man. The word makes him wince. The implication behind it even more so.
He shoves a hand deep into his pocket and gently rubs the scar against his
thigh.
How many years are promises worth, in blood and fire?
-
It’s nearing 1am by the time Will gets home, pushing himself back against the
closed door and giggling when it clicks too loudly. He hears Hannibal move
upstairs, clearly still awake, clearly displeased by the lateness of the hour
of Will’s return. And yet, when the man comes downstairs Will launches himself
against him, limbs loose and clinging to be carried, and kisses him in a
sloppy, happy way.
He crashes into Hannibal nearly at a run, Hannibal thankfully aware enough to
brace for it. He staggers a little under the boy’s weight, humming disapproval
even as, dutifully, Hannibal lifts Will against him, arms tucked under his ass
to keep him hoisted.
“Been thinking about you all day,” Will purrs.
“Have you.” An aloof response. He would seem disinterested, if not for the tilt
of his cheek against the boy, turning his nose into his hair to breathe him in
with a warm huff of air.
“You smell of cigarettes and cheap beer.”
Uncommon scents to pick up from the boy and not find them paired with the
cloying stench of sex and blood from a hunt - a frivolity to it all, without
those carnal notes as accompaniment. He carries Will, shifting his weight with
a long-suffering sigh, and makes his rounds to shut off the lights in the
house, already clothed for bed in his boxers and a robe.
“Tell me of your evening, then.”
Will curls around him like a little kid might his parent, seeking the warmth
and protection they provide. He presses hot open-mouthed kisses up his neck.
“Got invited for drinks with some classmates,” he murmurs, rolling his hips
against Hannibal in a pleasing familiar motion, stopping only when the other
swats him gently against the thigh to stop, as they climb the stairs.
“Had to sneak in on a fake ID,” Will whispers, as though it’s the first time
he’s done it, as though it’s some big secret between the two of them, like
Hannibal hasn’t been fucking an adolescent for the last few months.
“I think,” he clicks the consonant, leans back to regard Hannibal with a wide
grin, with wide eyes. “I’m a little drunk.” He bites his lip, squeezes his legs
harder around the older man.
“I feel all pliant and warm and soft…” Another suggestive roll of his hips and
a kiss, almost uncoordinated. Even with Will’s inability to hold strong alcohol
or endure long exposure to it he has never been this… sloppy.
“You should take me to bed and peel my clothes away and spread my legs wide and
fuck me,” Will declares, and the tone is oddly familiar, again, but not of a
time they’ve shared together.
Hannibal has to adjust with a quick step to balance the boy again when he leans
himself backward, his gyrations unsteadying on the stairs. A warning sound,
grumbling low, that eases away when he reaches the top of the stairs. He does
not raise a hand to him yet for swearing, makes a mental note of it for use
when his shoulders aren’t so sore from carrying boys - plural, now - around the
house all evening.
Will is given a considering look, but Hannibal doesn’t find an immediate
familiarity in whichever aspect of Will has decided to make an appearance
tonight. Something known in the tenor of his voice, but not heard enough to
determine the nature of the mood more specifically than Will’s words would
indicate for him.
The night has been long for Hannibal, having retrieved a particularly squirrely
boy much earlier in the evening to coordinate his own activities on a night
when Will was meant to be doing the same. It had required a longer struggle
than anticipated before the boy finally gave way beneath Hannibal’s hands, to
say nothing of the makeshift quick butchery in the basement, and a round of
laundry to ensure that the sheets were clean for Will’s return.
Less because Will would necessarily know, but more because Hannibal would, not
in the mood for another fight or temper tantrum, and wanting in fact for Will
to return pleased and content, to lay in clean sheets beside him.
A matter of tenuous respect for the other’s proclivities and habits, each
making the first steps towards steering clear of the other’s sensitivities when
it comes to their mutual hobby.
A sigh, as Hannibal shifts Will against himself, stealing a kiss from the
corner of his mouth before dropping the boy unceremoniously onto the bed.
Amusement in a furtive smile as the boy blinks up in surprise, and then sprawls
limbs all akimbo and belly arching outward in a sprawling, languid stretch.
“In the morning,” Hannibal assures him, readily burying the curiosity in his
voice, but not keeping it from his eyes.
Will pouts, a soft noise of displeasure escaping him, but for the moment
refrains from much more than wriggling free of his clothes. Once bare, he turns
onto his stomach and arches, a beautiful, familiar bend in his back as Hannibal
watches. A warm hand passes soft over the boy’s thighs before Hannibal
withdraws, removes his robe to get into bed beside his boy.
Will presses against him, the childish game set aside as quickly as it had been
adopted, in favor of nuzzling close and breathing the man in.
He falls asleep, wondering why his heart is filled with panic that the man
hadn't taken the invitation.
-
The next two days are a whirlwind of worry for Will. Every opportunity he takes
to play up his youth, to present himself in a way Hannibal should find
irresistible finds his efforts for naught.
He wonders if perhaps the man knows, if he's just biding his time to remove
Will from him at the last possible moment, when Will has dropped his guard,
convinced himself it would be okay.
He wonders why he’s worrying so much, but what if Hannibal doesn't want him?
What if his entire appeal was his illicit youth that will fade with the coming
of another birthday?
When Hannibal does finally fuck him, free from the exertions of a hunt, of the
stresses of work, Will exhausts himself on enjoyment, falls asleep against his
mentor with a grin and heavy warm limbs.
And the next day the panic rises in him again as his birthday grows one day
closer still.
Hannibal observes him over breakfast. Will has hardly been sated by the
substantial amount of time that Hannibal spent inside of him the night before
after days of acting out, or the enthusiastic blowjob that Hannibal had allowed
Will to give him in the shower that morning. Sullen now, the boy sits prodding
at his cereal with a spoon, his own choice of meal after Hannibal decided
better than to try to figure out what he would prefer.
He ponders if the boy has taken offense, again, to the hunt that transpired in
his absence a few nights before. Of course Will would be wrong to feel that
way, Hannibal assures himself, but better Hannibal know so as to correct the
behavior, rather than to let it fester.
But that answer doesn't seem right either, insufficient somehow to explain
Will's sudden shifts of mood from childishly immature to clever beyond his
years, from desperate arousal to distanced apathy.
So he watches Will closely from over the cup of his coffee. Suspicious. Wary.
Dangerous sensations for Hannibal to ever feel, especially towards the boy who
shares his bed and eats his food and lives in his home. There are
understandings to their game, spoken and unspoken, and they both - Hannibal
hopes - know that certain moves would render the game itself moot, their
contract void immediately upon breach. Hannibal does not allow himself to think
that those things have happened yet, but in light of Will's anger about
Hannibal's hunting, the assault he suffered, his therapy with Frederick... one
wonders.
Hannibal hums, and stands.
"Go to class today. I will know if you did not."
He allows himself a moment to appreciate the delta blue in the boy's eyes as
they turn towards him, wide-eyed, and Hannibal brings his mug to the sink.
Unable to bring himself to stare down the boy's hastily erected walls again,
Hannibal leaves without another word.
One does wonder.
-
The feeling does not ease throughout the day. A cornered sensation caused by
the sudden presence of something unknown in his midst. Arriving home late from
the office, Hannibal decides summarily as he parks the car that if Chilton had
any hand in this, he will eat him whole, regardless of how unpalatable he may
be or how important he thinks himself amongst their shared colleagues.
But it's the boy that nags at him most, the shifts of mood, the sudden
childishness as though Hannibal were one of Will's clients, eager to play out
tedious taboos with their "daddy"s and "baby"s. He has never been that, would
never be, but it stings of an equally trapped sensation to the one cracking
tight through Hannibal's ribs. That the boy is unsure of how to handle
something yet unknown to Hannibal, uncertain how to proceed and so falling back
on old habits.
Unfortunately, Hannibal's old habits in such a situation bear far more dire
consequences than a tacky choice of pet name. His hands work against the
steering wheel, considering, engine clicking softly, otherwise unmoving.
After an unknown length of time, he releases the wheel, hands red from gripping
it, and he gathers his things to finally make his way inside. For the first
time since Will first spread his presence across his home, Hannibal hopes that
the boy is gone.
The house is quiet but the tension lingers still, like the ozone smell before a
storm. Hannibal waits, removes his shoes and hangs up his coat before making
his way upstairs. He has patient files to adjust, enough to work on in the
study for a distraction befitting the discontent until Will gets back and he
can drive out of the boy why this is happening. What it means.
By the bedroom door he pauses, a soft sound catching his attention, a noise
familiar in how forbidden Hannibal had made the act simply to amuse himself
with meting out punishments for when Will disobeyed to pleasure himself alone.
So he is home, then. Here. And there must be consequences, always.
Two fingers against the edge of the door to open it further, and Hannibal
stops.
Upon the bed, disheveled and flushed, Will lies curled. Knees up close to his
stomach, ankles splayed in a pleasure-seeking stretch as one hand deliberately
presses fingers into the hole held stretched and presented in the position Will
chose.
Briefs slipped just enough down his thighs to reveal his hand, his
indiscretion, socks up to his shins but already slipping from the way Will
shifts, arches into his own hand, flexes his toes in pleasure and want for
more.
For a moment all Hannibal can wonder is not why Will dug up his old uniform -
if it's his at all - but where from. Will makes a soft whimpering noise and
adjusts his position with an arch of his back.
A flagrant disobedience - deliberate, Hannibal assumes, from his timing and his
choice of location - that on an ordinary day would see him spanked until he
couldn't sit, made far worse in light of the last unbearable week.
The growl is heard first, but Hannibal is fast enough before Will can react to
catch his wrist, stilling his motions, his arching, keening display. He holds
the boy's fingers there, still pressed inside of himself, legs splayed, and
Hannibal’s jaw sets tight.
The school uniform half-peeled from Will's body, the regressions and the acting
out - coping mechanisms, grasping attempts by a child to deal with outside
pressure, forces beyond his control. Something - someone - else that threatens
him, and by proxy, threatens Hannibal. He has no delusions about the boy's
survival instinct, every bit as savage as his own. Knows that were the game to
be disrupted, either would be the first to declare the other exclusively at
fault.
The boy would sell him out in an instant if it meant saving his own skin, and
Hannibal's expression darkens, thunderous.
"What have you done, Will?"
He feels a twitch of movement beneath his fingers - it matters not to what
effect - and jerks Will's hand free of himself, climbing fast across his body
to pin him, and hold his wrists to the bed. There is no warmth of care, of
compassion, in his eyes - only a concern that's gone far past anything so
gentle as to be called it.
Paranoia. Alarm. Betrayal.
Will gasps, lays prone beneath Hannibal and tries to catch his breath, so quick
interrupted from pleasure to panic when his intention had obviously been to
continue the slow unhurried motions until Hannibal joined him. Now he licks his
lips, blinks, lets out a short breath and meets Hannibal’s eyes properly.
"Tell me, wretched boy, or I will flay the answers from your skin," Hannibal
snarls.
Here should be the monster, should be the one who tears boys limb from limb,
who feasts on their tears and their fear and their destroyed potential. But
instead, above him rests the man, expression one of genuine fear for himself,
genuine belief that Will has done something to destroy them, again, and the
genuine regret beneath that, that suggests Hannibal hopes that it’s anything
else but.
Will swallows, presses his lips together and parts them, unable to voice his
own worry, his own cold terror that creeps over his heart and through his
lungs.
“I’m turning eighteen,” he manages, “in two days.”
Hannibal holds him there, searches the boy's expression when the disguises and
the misdirections fall away, and sees the terror in him finally laid bare.
For all of his endless appreciation of the boy's youth, it had never occurred
to him that Will would get older. They're not supposed to, these boys - they
remain forever the age at which they met Hannibal Lecter - and Will is yet a
child beneath him, wide eyes and rumpled school uniform. An attempt to assure
himself, to assure Hannibal, undoubtedly, to gird himself against this great
invariable passage of time.
Slowly, his fingers loosen from Will's wrists, enough that he can tug him
upward further onto the bed and meet his mouth. Comforting the boy as he knows
Will wishes to be comforted, pressing assurances himself now between their
lips, while his own worry abates.
Abates, but does not vanish.
"Happy birthday," Hannibal intones, nerves still snapped tight, concern still
caught in the corners of his eyes.
“Is it?” Will mumbles back, eyes closed and lips parted to breathe before he
leans close and nuzzles against Hannibal gently, breathes him in, feels the
unfamiliar, cloying smell of worry seep from him.
It shouldn’t be there, it doesn’t belong on this man.
It doesn’t belong between them, there’s not space for uncertainty with the
lives they lead.
“I won’t change,” Will says eventually. “Nothing will, it’s just a number.”
It’s as soft a lie as Will can manage, and it’s frail as moth wings. But even
those keep a moth airborne, keep it alive through the short life it does lead.
They’re strong enough for that.
Will pulls back gently to kiss Hannibal again.
But, Hannibal considers, he will change, in increments. Days and weeks and
months and years, all form and erode, shape and alter his body, his habits, his
extraordinary mind. Lengths of time that Hannibal has never before considered,
let alone applied to another. Lengths of time that he has never applied to
himself. Enormities of days each of which in turn could be the last, and yet
somehow they've managed to survive.
They will both change, in manners unalterable, and the thought distresses
Hannibal in a way that he cannot put into words, but he shows none of the dread
that gathers cold through his limbs, returning the kiss warmly, palm sliding to
cup the boy's cheek.
"Why, then? Why this entire week -" An insistence, firm, as he shifts to settle
beside the boy and draw Will against him, even with the underwear still caught
around his thighs. "I could taste your fear," Hannibal notes in warning. "Every
day, every moment we were near."
Will swallows and sighs, eyes up.
“I was trying…” to set a scene? An image? Something to play on repeat over and
over as they both grew and though the age between them would not change, the
meaning behind it would.
17 and 48.
21 and 52.
25 and 56…
“I was trying to reassure myself that it wouldn’t matter. I will still act out.
Still earn your wrath, earn your trust and patience.”
He licks his lips, laughs, ducks his head against Hannibal again, laughs more.
A strangely reassured sound, though nothing has been said between them on the
matter. An understanding of how misunderstood the actions had been, how silly.
Will presses his lips to Hannibal’s neck and hums softly. Hannibal sighs,
tilting his head to allow the kiss, give it more room to follow, eyes closing
when it does.
“I have no doubt that whatever our time together, you will continue to be
entirely infuriating.”
He brings himself closer over his boy, meets his mouth with lips and teeth and
tongue, a claiming, fierce kiss to reassure himself that he has no control over
the future, but only the immediate. This, here, now with his boy squirming
pleased and decadent beneath him.
They part, breathless, and Hannibal presses his forehead to Will’s, nuzzling
against his cheek, his voice soft.
“Is it not the great comfort of death to think that we ourselves may end at any
moment?” Another nuzzle, another languid kiss, hands grazing the well-worn
fabric of the school uniform clinging half-assembled to Will’s lithe little
body. “This is the lesson we teach the world. Someday we will learn it as
well.”
Hannibal’s hands skirt lower, following the bend of Will’s back to grasp firm
against the curve of his ass.
“There is no need to think of the future beyond that. It is not ours to
control.”
Will bites his lip, closes his eyes, letting the words wash over him and hold
him still. He supposes he takes it for granted now: death. He deals it out so
often, without a thought to those that death leaves behind, without a thought
to the life he has taken with it. Seen it so much, experienced it, come close
to it that it no longer lingers, it’s not even in the room.
When it is, he’ll know.
“So what do we do with the now?” he asks, soft, lips curving in a smile as he
settles against Hannibal’s hands, feels his blood hum hot again from need and
not panic. His toes curl in the socks he wears, then relax.
Hannibal hums as though in thought, and catches Will’s hand in his own to bring
it down between his thighs, guiding his boy’s fingers to press against his
opening again.
“I believe you were already occupied,” he suggests, clucking his tongue once in
reprimand. Hannibal’s touch lingers there to feel Will arch and dip his fingers
into himself, teasing, and only then does he bring his hand down hard and
stinging against Will’s ass.
“Defiant boy. Continue, then, to please yourself since you would not wait for
me.”
Will makes a pleased noise, wriggles to rest closer to Hannibal as his hand
continues working slowly against his hole, just barely pressing in with the
tips of two fingers, enough to tease, the fabric of his briefs pulled tight as
he arches, tries to spread himself more.
“Where did you find this?” asks Hannibal, running his palms along the fabric of
the uniform. “Was it yours?”
It makes the boy seem that much younger, so attired, his schoolboy’s tie
loosened and shirt slouched down off one shoulder. The very image of youthful
debauchery, curls of hair and scarlet cheeks and sporting socks still tugged up
his skinny legs.
No mind for the future at all now, for Hannibal, when the present is so very
appealing.
“It’s mine,” Will replies, smile smooth, widening. Years and years he had
suffered in this thing, hated it, tore it off himself before he got home so he
could wear his jeans and boots. He’d skipped senior year, had very nearly
burned the thing and yet…
He’d first been picked up in it. It holds some strange sentimental value.
“It’s the only reason I can tie a tie,” he teases, lips parting wider as he
presses his fingers deeper, brows furrowing before his face relaxes, eyes
hooded and on Hannibal as he continues to stroke.
“You taught yourself that too, I imagine,” Hannibal remarks, drawing a breath
as Will’s entire body coils towards him. “One of many things, it seems.”
His hands, seeking to take in every movement, every shudder and twist, follow
the lines of Will’s body, the undulations of his hips, trailing fingertips
where Will’s own push inside of him a little deeper now, and down further still
to follow the bend of his leg past the rise of his socks to grasp him by the
ankle.
Holding it, he pushes, opening the boy wider and pulling his underwear tight
against his thighs.
He can see Will now, in defiance of his worry, the smoldering youth still
searing hot. Imagines Will even younger, when the uniform was forced on him - a
winsome little thing far too clever for his own good. Before he learned to hide
his beautiful mind beneath other personas, before he learned to play the game
as exquisitely as he does now - painfully young and excruciatingly intelligent,
insolent and stubborn and petulant.
“Would that I had known you then,” Hannibal murmurs with amusement. “Although I
will gladly have you now in lieu of it.”
Rough hands catch the stretched briefs and pull them down from around his legs.
He leaves the socks, leaves the rest of the uniform, and grasps Will by the
ankles again as he moves the boy to his back and spreads his legs wider still.
“Do not stop until I tell you.”
Will gasps, the air pushed from him as Hannibal holds him pinned, spread. He
doesn’t disobey, fingers pushing deeper, stretching himself for Hannibal to
see, face flushed darker at the thought of how he would have acted had Hannibal
found him then.
“You would have caught me smoking,” he murmurs. “Out in the back of the school
with the older kids… or alone…” A moan, as he’s spread wider still, to the
point of near-painful, on display, half-clothed and bared for the man as
Hannibal watches, diligently watches.
“I would have flipped you off - ah -” a gentle noise, weak, barely breathed,
smile widening. “If you’d followed me in your car I would’ve gotten in.”
Hannibal’s sigh falls in time with Will’s own, and he swallows, holding Will’s
legs in place behind his knees now, pushing against him, spreading the boy just
to the brink of pain, and holding him there to watch the tendrils of tension
coil across his brow, his jaw, the tremor of his lovely mouth.
“Wider, Will,” Hannibal clucks gently. “Good boy.”
Shifting nearer, Hannibal sets the boy’s socked feet up against his shoulders,
kneeling in front of him now, worshipping as ever at the altar of youth splayed
wide before him.
“Did no one ever teach you not to get into cars with strange men?” purrs
Hannibal.
He brushes his fingers down across Will’s stomach to draw twitches and shivers
down the length of his body, teasing past the open buttons of his shirt, before
grasping his cock firmly. A long stroke, broad hand wrapped tight, to pull a
gasp from him.
“I’d have bent you over my knee for your rudeness,” he assures Will, and snares
him hard by the tie to bend him from the bed.
Will goes, free hand flailing out to grasp against the sheets for balance as
he’s bent nearly in half, neck arched, teeth grit in a delicious mixture of
pleasure-pain, his own fingers buried deep but still as he catches his breath,
eyes on Hannibal’s, bare slits with how he’s held.
“You’ve had me over your desk for less,” he gasps, grins, before his mouth
opens wide on a cry of pleasure as Hannibal strokes him, a slow, deliberate
rhythm.
“I didn’t say stop, Will,” he’s reminded, rough voice, the feeling of the man’s
hot breath against his exposed throat. Will can feel Hannibal’s lips when he
swallows, when the sound clicks in his throat almost too loud for the space
between them.
“No, you didn’t,” he breathes, starts the slow rhythm again, between the
strokes Hannibal forces him to endure, he pushes deeper, curls his fingers,
hisses at the delicious sensation of it all.
“Three,” comes the low command, and, without a word, Will obeys.
A note of approval as Hannibal works his hand harder, twisting along the boy’s
cock, feet still propped over his shoulders. Will stretches, burns with the
sensation of being so full, arching up off the bed and pulling against the tie
in the process until Hannibal yanks against it, just hard enough to jolt Will
back towards him.
“Spread them,” he insists softly.
A whine, almost voiced into protest, but Will knows better, knows it will earn
him stripes, and considers doing anyway. Obediently, he stretches his fingers,
splays them and whimpers.
“Good,” murmurs Hannibal, himself breathless as he watches Will twist and
conform in lewd display to provide Hannibal’s pleasure, and taking his own from
that. Elegant boy, made debauched by hands other than Hannibal’s own at the
time when he was so much younger, but claimed as Hannibal’s now, again and
again.
As are the bad habits that Hannibal works at driving out of the boy.
As is the scar that winds its way across Will’s otherwise perfect body, the one
set against his thigh.
Hannibal’s now, and his alone.
“Ask me for it,” Hannibal insists. Will gasps, pulls his stomach in on reflex,
not from pain, and swallows again.
“Fuck me,” he breathes.
The slap comes as expected, hard, the hand curling in the tie after to keep
Will bent, close. He wraps the tie again over a large, rough palm, another loop
tighter still, and a thumb under Will’s chin to raise his face.
“Again.”
Will’s body twists, not to get away, but to adjust to how he’s bent, how his
fingers are deep, deep in him, stretching him for the pleasure of the man
before him. He licks his lips, gasps, parts them.
“Let me cum?” he tries again, earning a low laugh and a tilting of his head so
Hannibal can kiss his throat, almost dangerous with how gentle he is.
“No.” A hot press of lips and teeth and Will moans, his hand coming up to grasp
Hannibal’s shirt now, to hold himself closer, to feel the man’s heart pound
against his skin. “Curl your fingers, Will,” comes the command, and Will closes
his eyes, obeys even as his body jerks with it, trembles after with utter need.
“Do it again.”
Will whines, voice loud, needy. Obeys. He feels Hannibal’s laugh more than he
hears it.
“Insatiable boy,” Hannibal purrs. “Again.”
“Hannibal, please -”
Another slap, hard enough to startle a wide-eyed gasp out of the boy.
“Do not force my hand or I’ll do it myself, and you remember well enough how
that went during your treatment with me. I will not be so kind in the aftermath
this time.”
The threat is softly spoken, with the barest trace of a smile in the corners of
Hannibal’s eyes. The tie is still wrapped fully around his hand and he brings
his fingers down around Will’s throat. Holds him there for now, fingers
twitching in resistance to pinning him down to hear his strangled breaths.
Soon enough.
A whimper, as Will curves his fingers inside himself, fighting every response
in his body not to cum. His body shakes, socked toes curling with the strain of
it, and Hannibal hums in appreciation for the effort, for the sight of this
extraordinary boy fighting so hard to satisfy his unreasonable demands, even as
Hannibal’s hand squeezes a little tighter around his throat.
His boy, as he will ever be, regardless of years. His mind, his body, his
stubborn spirit relinquished to Hannibal in entirety. His to fuck and his to
worship. His to be charmed by and his to punish for insolence. His to share
breath with or his to kill, a thought that still draws a pleasurable shiver
through Hannibal in spite of both knowing that he won’t, can’t see himself
without this clever creature coiling beneath him.
“Please.” A weak breath, hardly heard for the heaviness of Will’s panting.
Hannibal leans low over him, lips passing together in a kiss far gentler than
the meeting of their bodies.
“You may stop,” Hannibal murmurs. “You will not touch yourself again unless I
tell you.”
Reluctantly, Hannibal untwists his hand from the tie and stands, so hard it
aches in his stomach. A glance towards Will, who holds his position still,
skinny legs splayed wide, body open for Hannibal and Hannibal alone.
Pleased, he begins to undress, taking far more time than necessary to do so.
Will watches, both his hands curled in the sheets now, behind himself, as he
trembles with anticipation, cock leaking against his stomach as Hannibal peels
his clothing away, reveals the body Will knows so well, now, has grown to adore
and worship.
He bites his lip, swallows.
It’s a show, now, this little display, a reversal of roles while being anything
but.
Hannibal holds all the power over Will here, watching the boy with a tilt of
his head, the narrowing of his eyes. He can see the little round scar, with how
wide Will holds his legs, and desire shoots sharp down his spine.
Mine.
“Your worry is charming,” says Hannibal. “Your concern about reaching - despite
my best efforts - the ripe old age of eighteen.”
He pauses, fingers against the buttons of his shirt, and notes that he’s never
addressed Will’s age so directly. He wonders if it should concern him, if the
normal reaction of someone to bringing light to such a thing would be
discomfort at the difference between them, the moral questions raised by it,
the legality of such things, at the very least.
Hannibal feels no such discomfort, and pleased by this, continues undressing.
Any degree to which he experiences an unsettling sensation is more from the
consideration of his own age, by compare, because as Will ages, so does
Hannibal.
A hum, to clear the thoughts away for another time.
“But age will not save you from me, dear Will. We have an agreement that you
will not be freed from by anything so minor as that. I do hope that was not
your intention in acting out, as you’ve been - to try to suggest to me that
perhaps I should release you.”
A note of warning, entirely for play but no less dire in tone for it.
“I would feel remiss, shall we say, that you would think so little of me.”
Despite himself, Will smiles, a wide, pleased thing, before catching his lip
between his teeth again, shaking his head.
"No, sir, I act out for attention," Will offers back, "for the feeling of your
hands against me, your cock inside me."
He wriggles on the bed, lies back, one hand tugging the tie absently, mangled
out of shape by Hannibal's harsh grip, the other adjusting the hem of his shirt
to lie around his cock, not cover it.
His cheeks are burning with the scrutiny he receives.
"I was attempting to appeal to your exact proclivities."
He arches up, but as per command does not touch himself, just the clothes still
clinging to his body.
“You, Will, are my proclivity,” Hannibal responds, dismayed at the thought of
it. “Since, despite your best efforts, I’ve yet to see fit to kill you, the
standards of those that I hunt do not necessarily apply to you. You are not
like them.”
A pause, noting the adjustment of clothing to present himself just so, knees up
and socks clinging to his calves, legs spread.
“You are better.”
Finally, Hannibal tears his attention away from the lithe lines of Will’s body
to hang his shirt, and remove his socks and their stays.
“That doesn’t mean that the effort is not appreciated,” he adds, wry, and turns
back to Will, unzipping his fly, chin lifted - an arch gesture, dominant and
powerful. “Would you have come to my car, then? Reeking of cheap cigarettes and
defiance.”
Will's throat clicks as he swallows, eyes wide and cheeks flushed from the
praise.
"I would," he whispers. “Much like I had the first time you stopped for me."
He shifts around on the bed, lip between his teeth as Hannibal draws his cock
free and strokes, slowly.
"I would have done anything you said," he laughs, a brief, breathless sound,
"and charged just as much."
He directs his eyes up again, shivering at the thought, the imagining of a
different course of a path of fate.
"Would you have taken me home or taken me in the car?"
Hannibal considers the question at great length, dutifully imagining both
scenarios with no small amount of enjoyment before settling on his answer.
He approaches the bed, stepping out of his underwear, and stands looming over
the boy, palm skimming in slow pulls along his own cock as he looks down on
him.
“In the car,” Hannibal intones. “I would find a quiet enough place to park,
little if any through traffic. We would move to the back seat for its
spaciousness and I would have you between my legs to attend to me with that
insolent mouth of yours.”
A tilt of his head, stretching his neck, eyes dark and gaze distant as it falls
on Will’s eyes, his parted lips, the curve of his throat.
“And had you not charmed me as sufficiently as you did on the night we first
met, I would have - upon my completion - strangled you there in the back seat.”
He pauses, with a musing smile. “With your tie wrapped beneath my hands.”
Will hums, shifts up the bed in a feign of escape, grips the sheets when
Hannibal moves closer still.
“I would have charmed you.” he murmurs, confident, sure. “You’ve seen me at
that age, you would have kept me around, even for an hour more, to use more
than my mouth.”
He sighs, tilts his head back, grins when he feels Hannibal’s hands against the
thin shirt of his uniform again, sliding up over his chest, fingers skimming
bare skin when they reach it. He keeps his legs spread, his muscles taut as he
lies on display.
Hannibal sighs, amused, and does not argue the point. He has seen his boy at
his work, long before he was Hannibal’s own, beguiling and winsome with a
skillful affectation of fear and apprehension, and an equally quick hand with
the belt, and devious grin to follow.
“Prideful,” scorns Hannibal softly, lightly twisting a pert little nipple
between his fingers.
Decadently slow, anticipation sparking between them both, Hannibal kneels onto
the bed and shifts forward, between the boy’s spread thighs and over him, hands
planted on either side. He does not touch yet, but breathes in deeply the
relief, the arousal that emanates warm and spicy as cinnamon from Will’s skin.
“And you, then? Would you have attempted the same?”
Will gasps, arches, eyes down at the hands that pull against his skin, that
send his senses sharp like electricity.
“Not immediately,” he breathes, voice hitching when Hannibal tugs the other
nipple and twists that too, just to the side of painful that Will’s brows
furrow and lips part on a silent protest.
“No, no I would have waited… for you to get back to the front seat… excusing
myself to make myself presentable. You would’ve let me, I would ask you so
nicely.”
Will presses his spread knees just gently against Hannibal’s hips, gets a sharp
slap in reminder and, with a laugh, spreads them again.
“Would have embraced you from the back,” he moans. “Little hands and warm lips…
and used your tie instead.”
“Clever boy,” Hannibal purrs fondly. “I wonder how many have fallen beneath the
temptation of your cruel mouth in such a way.”
His hands catch beneath Will’s knees to shove them high enough that his hips
raise from the bed. Watching dark-eyed, predatorial, along the length of his
writhing, uniformed body to see his expression as Hannibal lowers himself to
press a lingering kiss against the mark that Will wears on his thigh.
“Should I consider myself lucky, then, that I have not joined their ranks,
considering how your mouth moves me?”
Hannibal’s tongue is warm against the boy’s opening, teasing circles and then
pressing inward, sucking a soft kiss and delighting as his back arches in
response. He leaves Will’s legs over his shoulders, socks sliding against his
bare back, and hums in bemusement.
“Or perhaps my suffering is merely prolonged, to live with your incessant
swearing and stubbornness, while the others have been relieved of you.”
Will almost mewls from the feeling, hands grasping the sheets hard so as not to
touch himself, and trembles. And then Will laughs, a clear, pleased sound and
shakes his head, one hand up to press to his eyes as he grins.
“In the low seventies,” he offers. “This year.”
His laugh melts to a moan as Hannibal resumes teasing him with his clever
tongue, his cheeks paint darker, his hand falls away to grasp the sheets again
and he hooks his ankles together over Hannibal’s shoulders.
“You love my mouth,” he sighs, arching his hips closer, up, higher, more.
“It offers you ample opportunities for punishment - oh god please do that
again…”
Hannibal hums - growls, is a more accurate description, perhaps - as he repeats
the motion, mouth wrapping against Will's sensitive skin, sucking firmly,
tongue driving against him. He pushes against the boy, forces him up onto his
shoulders, and with Will's legs still wrapped around his shoulders and the
boy's whine still hitched in his breath, Hannibal slides between his thighs,
settles heavy against him.
A curl of lip, familiar to Will by now. An animalistic edge to the narrowness
of his eyes - the forward set of his jaw. Not angry, but possessive. Fiercely.
"I do," Hannibal assents, voice low, pressed in a snarling, biting kiss beneath
Will's jaw. "And if that number is remotely accurate..."
Hannibal settles heavy against him, shifts with a roll of hips to press inside,
a rough entry, unyielding.
"...then there is a great deal of work that must be done to replace it with my
own."
Another harsh shove forward, entering the boy entirely, leaning back from him
to drink in the look of pain, of unparalleled pleasure that parts Will's lips
on a gasp.
Will bends near-backwards off the bed, thighs tight around Hannibal’s hips,
breaths hissed through gritted teeth as he tries to adjust to the harsh shove.
It’s the friction, more than anything, Hannibal had forced him to stretch
enough before.
He feels heat pool in his chest, the strange sensation, now growing more and
more familiar, of being wanted, of being wanted to such a degree as to warrant
such cruel possessiveness. Will relishes in it, grips Hannibal’s hand with one
if his own, the other tight in his own hair, stretching the curls straight.
Then the soft laugh again, still pained, but warm, so warm…
“Rough estimate,” he teases, eyes open to just show slits of blue as he turns
his head to regard Hannibal properly.
The answer does not please Hannibal, but in that, both are somehow pleased, and
his teeth are bared in another snarl.
“Then we will overestimate our own endeavors to ensure we do not fall short.”
Working himself out and then driving in again to bury himself, Hannibal finds a
slow, deep rhythm, fucking so hard into Will that he drives the breath from his
boy, lips parted, a silent gasp that only after several strokes finds itself
again, panting quick.
It’s scarcely enough before Hannibal closes his mouth over Will’s again, taking
him there as well, every inch of him to be reclaimed from these invisible
usurpers, these undeserved many who have dared to touch what was not theirs.
“You are mine,” Hannibal insists, a breathless whisper pressed to Will’s cheek,
forehead ducked against his temple to turn his head aside. “Your age will not
free you from that, Will Graham.”
Will parts his lips wide to catch his breath, feeling the soft sheets beneath
his cheek where he’s turned, hands clawing over Hannibal’s shoulders and down
his spine, leaving marks, just as brutal and claiming as what Hannibal is doing
to him.
“Yours,” he whines, the sound desperate, loud. His name hissed that way,
another claiming, another possession.
He finds rhythm enough to clench hard around Hannibal as he moves to pull out,
drawing a gasp from the man above him as well, before turning his head and
framing Hannibal’s face in his hands and kissing him deep.
He’s shaking, body entirely tense and hot, sweat slick against his chest,
between his thighs, just visible against his throat.
“Just yours.”
His legs curl higher over Hannibal’s hips and he arches back to feel the man
draw his teeth over his throat, no bite but a reminder, a warning. Will grins.
Laughs breathlessly and jerks in pleasure.
“Please, please, Hannibal, please…”
Their mouths meet again, insistent warmth, each making their ownership of the
other known in every touch, every kiss, every breath. Protecting and laying
claim to this unexpected connection, both potential victims and both potential
killers, and none of those things now to each other.
He shoves one of Will’s arms down, lets the other continue to tear and rip red
lines into his back, each a mark that will be felt every time Hannibal settles
into a chair, moves, dresses himself, showers, each a reminder, each important.
His hand catches Will’s wrist against the bed and forces itself against his
hand in turn, palm against palm, fingers lacing, as their mouths meet.
“Yes,” Hannibal sighs harshly between their mouths. Before Will can act he
reaches with his free hand, shoulders forward against Will’s own as he strokes
him, long, curling turns of his wrist, eyes open to watch from even so near.
Will bucks up, shivers, body tensing and relaxing in a series of convulsions he
couldn't control if he tried. Lips parted on quick breaths and no sound, too
caught up in this, fallen so, so deep into pleasure now it hurts him.
It's only at the end, when Hannibal twists to milk the last of his orgasm from
him that Will moans, a low stuttered noise as his brows draw.
"Christ."
It's gasped, a word, perhaps, just to fill the space of an expletive, to allow
them just a moment more without violence.
Will keens, gentle now, pliant, and parts his lips for Hannibal to kiss him. He
can feel his shirt sticking to his back, tie long forgotten, somewhere over his
shoulder. One sock has slid further than the other and Will smiles, squeezes
Hannibal’s hand and drapes his other over him.
Hannibal does not allow himself to finish yet, revelling instead in the rolling
undulations of pleasure through the boy’s body, intense, uncontrolled at first
and gradually slower and slower, further apart, until he settles back with that
satisfied little smile again and Hannibal sighs.
Fingers squeeze tight together, hold Will’s there against Hannibal’s own,
slowing his motion in kind to extend the feeling, the warmth around him, around
them both.
“Beautiful boy,” Hannibal assures him, fed to him in praise, in adoration and
in a moment so inexplicably tender that both are held fast by it, wrapped
around and against each other, no mind for each others’ pasts or each others’
futures, no mind but for the pulse that syncs between them.
A rough, sudden drive, another, and Hannibal loses himself inside the boy with
a crushing kiss to take everything afforded him, and more surprisingly, to
yield himself in kind.
Will shudders, slips his legs to the bed, panting soft breaths against
Hannibal’s lips as they just lie together. His head is throbbing, his limbs
like water.
The strange sensation, warm, pleased, knowing that his age doesn't matter. Just
a number.
"So," a soft suggestion, lips licked, eyes hooded, "I should keep the uniform?"
Hannibal sighs, draws himself from out of Will, pulling the boy into his arms.
Heavy breaths, pinning himself beneath him.
A distant worry, a sound from far away, about what his age may mean to Will, in
time.
“Yes,” Hannibal murmurs in return, burying his nose in his boy’s hair, eyes
closed. “For nostalgia’s sake.”
***** Chapter 7 *****
Chapter Summary
     "You got me a gift?" Will asks at length, and the surprise, Hannibal
     finds, is utterly genuine - Will has too long spent birthdays alone,
     or with company he didn't know the name of, for gifts to be
     commonplace.
     "Perhaps there are several," Hannibal responds.
Chapter Notes
     warnings for this chapter: sex toys, spanking, suits, and one spoiled
     little boy
Will wakes late, and he wakes alone.
A happy coincidence of it being a Thursday to allow him to legitimately skip
class without incurring the wrath of the man with whom he shares his bed.
Genuine wrath, Will has found, Hannibal seems intent to keep Will in school
even if it kills the two of them.
It's a warm morning, quiet, and the sun already creeping high over the curtains
and not under them.
Will sighs, ducks his head against the pillows and breathes in the warm,
familiar, residual smell of Hannibal from them.
Eighteen.
Simply a number, he thinks, nothing else.
He doesn't shower, still warm from the one the night before, and instead dons
only his boxers before selecting one of Hannibal’s shirts at random from the
closet and meandering downstairs, hand up to rub his eyes as his feet stick
just gently to the polished wood.
He’s found that speakers exist in every room of the house, and while Hannibal
keeps the volume low enough to be a pleasant murmur, Will can turn it up loud
enough to shake windows, and often does.
He selects a song, turns the volume dial without checking its level and makes
his way to the kitchen, the beat already pushing his body to move by the time
he turns on the stove, reaches into the fridge for two eggs and a carefully
packaged container of leftovers of questionable origin but inarguably delicious
result.
"Cause if you're not really here,
Then the stars don't even matter,
And I'm filled to the top with fear,
That it's all just a bunch of matter."
A club track, quick, easy, warm, and Will sets his breakfast cooking before
allowing himself to succumb to the joyful, childish pleasure of dancing in the
expensive kitchen in his underwear, the long shirt loose over one shoulder,
eyes closed and hair a mess.
The sound carries through every room, filling the house that is normally so
still with life instead, as Will himself has filled the house with an
unpredictable energy. It is at odds with how the house was built and outfitted,
arranged for an absolute control, all things in their place, now rendered
somehow entirely different through this wild presence that has found its way
into every corner and nuance.
Much as Hannibal himself feels as music suddenly floods his study. He had
watched Will slump by a few minutes prior, earlier than Hannibal had expected
or he'd have shut the doors. The sight of Will tugging on the scarlet shirt
over his skinny body had brought a curve of a smile, unseen.
He had expected Will was on his way to make a mess of his kitchen, but hadn't
expected this. A precise fold of paper, tightened by the slide of a fingernail,
against the side of a package and he stands, listening with interest to the
music that now careens wildly through their home.
Footsteps silenced, he gingerly makes his way down the stairs, towards the
kitchen to listen and observe.
One track melds seamlessly into another and electro swing draws another quick
beat through the house.
Will is immersed in the preparation of his rather simple breakfast, and,
delightfully, not making a mess. He checks the eggs, the meat sizzling beside,
and spins away to catch himself against the counter opposite, body shifting in
quick, easy motions to just manage to compliment the music.
Improvisation with familiar motions.
Will laughs, just for himself, just in delight at the freedom of it all, and
pushes from the counter, eyes down to watch his feet as he works through an
elaborate set of steps as the music speeds, then gradually slows for a pleasing
building of tension.
Will pants, grins, hair in his eyes before he brings a hand up to tug it back.
The beat returns and Will turns with it, arms out for balance and grace, and
finally catches sight of Hannibal in the doorway.
His eyes wide, blue and clear, cheeks flushed with exertion, lips parted to
catch his breath. He swallows, the music spinning on without him now.
"I thought you were at work," he offers, suddenly apparently nervous at being
caught at such an unexpected activity, if the darkening of his cheeks is
anything to judge by. And Hannibal has made quite a study in the hues of Will’s
blush to know it certainly is.
"And I thought there would be a far more substantial mess than this," Hannibal
responds, entering the kitchen with languid steps, barefoot as well, dressed in
a more casual button-down, folded up against his elbows, and a pair of slacks.
"Is this a daily occurrence then? Do you make a habit of skipping your classes
when I must leave early in the day?"
The question is honed sharp around the edges of its general pleasantry, a
promise of later punishment, perhaps, but set aside for now as Hannibal circles
towards his boy around the counter to ensnare him from behind.
"Happy birthday," comes the soft murmur against his ear, pressing a soft kiss
there, and to his temple, and to his cheek, turning him aside from the sizzling
pan. "I apologize for interrupting your reverie. Please, do continue."
An amusement, quick, as he steals another kiss before reluctantly letting his
hands slide free of Will's stomach, taking their fill and squeezing down to his
hips before he moves to sit at the counter. A reversal of roles, as Will
blinks, still flushed, from beneath his dark hair.
Will watches him, blood still humming in his ears, hot against his skin, and
manages to save the eggs before they burn.
"I..." Will turns the stove off, makes sure no elements are burning, before
regarding Hannibal again. Around them the track switches to something a little
more calm, quieter, enough to speak easily.
It would be inexplicably rude to leave the room to turn off the uninvited,
unwelcome music.
"It's Thursday," he ventures, gesturing. Lip between his teeth, inexplicably
pleased that Hannibal remembered, though unsure how he could have forgotten.
"No class until tomorrow's evening lecture and therapy," he adds, amusement
curling his lips. He swallows, tugs gently against the bottom of Hannibal’s
shirt, tilts his head.
"It's also a day you should have back to back patients from early morning till
three..." The implication clear, the teasing gentle.
Hannibal hums, amused, and spreads his hands across the counter. He glances
towards the skillet as Will tilts the scrambled eggs onto his plate, and notes
the cubed meat cooked and mixed in. A pleasure hits outward, expanding against
his ribs so suddenly that a sound, soft, catches just on the end of Hannibal's
sigh.
"I should," he agrees. "But today I do not."
He rises, following Will towards the table to watch the way he moves, the
joyous youthful dancing still fresh in his mind. Bare thighs peeking from
beneath Hannibal's own scarlet shirt, yet unbuttoned and falling broad and
loose against Will's body.
"It is more than just a Thursday. It is your birthday, and I wish to spend it
with you. You're lucky that you do not have class today, would I have found
that you were skipping it would have added new meaning to the rather abhorrent
concept of birthday spankings."
"You probably still might," Will murmurs, glancing over his shoulder with a
meaningful look, both pleased and almost teasing enough for it to happen.
Hannibal does not pull Will's chair out for him as he normally would, but seats
himself and tugs the boy into his lap instead, careful to not unsettle his
plate.
His mouth is warm against the fabric that falls elegant across the curves of
Will's shoulders, ever stronger, broadening in increments.
"May I try?" Hannibal asks, brows lifting.
Will tilts his head, amused, and turns - a deliberate wriggle in Hannibal’s lap
- seeking blindly for his fork to spear some meat and eggs before offering the
morsel to Hannibal.
He watches the man delicately take the offering between his teeth, tongue
curling to support, before his lips curl over the fork and Will pulls it from
his mouth clean.
"Protein scramble," Will tells him, intensely pleased with himself, before
reaching to feed himself as well.
There is a pleasure to it that suppresses the inner voice that insists that the
crisp crunch of fresh scallions would add to the texture of the dish, freshly
ground pepper would bring out the egg against the sweetness of the meat that
had been left in a marinade, or any other number of insistences that flare so
immediately.
The pleasure, rather than guiding and correcting, instead comes from knowing
that Will himself made this. Chose to add meat rather than avoid it, and did so
thinking that Hannibal was not there.
"The eggs are not overcooked - in a scramble, most do," Hannibal murmurs,
burying his slight smile against Will's back, grazing kisses across it. "My
compliments to the chef."
Will almost purrs with the compliment, arching his back and rolling his hips
back against Hannibal. He takes another pleased bite of breakfast.
"Needs pepper." Almost absent, the comment, but enough that he will remember to
remedy the situation next time he cooks. Without a word he turns again, slides
one leg over Hannibal’s lap and straddles him, twisting to take the plate up
again and lifting another forkful for Hannibal to take.
"So," Will grins, sets his toes against the seat and draws his knees high
around the man in front of him, open, beautiful youthful boy.
"How shall we spend the day, with you playing truant?"
The bite is accepted graciously, a faint smile curling one corner of his mouth
as he finishes it. He draws his fingers against the pale thighs, dragging his
fingernails softly against them until he receives the much-desired shiver that
twitches down Will's spine and brings out goosebumps.
"That is entirely up to you, is it not? Your birthday, and you the one who has
found me absent from my obligations."
His hands ride back up again, fingertips teasing the join of his thighs to his
groin just beneath the hem of his boxers, and then slide to his back.
"So long as there is time to open your gifts, the day is yours otherwise to
spend as you see fit." Hannibal is unable to resist leaning in to let his mouth
follow the curve of collarbone on display beneath the sloughed-off shoulder of
his shirt. "I would suggest making the most of this opportunity. While you are
legally an adult today, you are still in my keeping," he adds. "Do not let it
go to your head."
Will's grin is glorious, wild curls of hair still untamed from sleep, from his
exuberant dancing. He rolls his hips once against Hannibal, as though in
response to this proclamation, and offers him another bite, blushing to watch
Hannibal take it delicately into his mouth.
"You got me a gift?" he asks at length, and the surprise, Hannibal finds, is
utterly genuine - Will has too long spent birthdays alone, or with company he
didn't know the name of, for gifts to be commonplace.
"Perhaps there are several," he responds, and Will’s blush grows beautifully
darker. Will takes another bite of breakfast himself and chews carefully, fork
pressing just barely to his lips.
"I would like to open them," he decides, curling one leg around Hannibal
further, directs his eyes down to select another piece of meat, chewing with a
grin instead of offering it to Hannibal, though the next bite goes to him.
"Then, perhaps, you can suggest how to occupy the time." Will grins fully. "I
trust you."
Hannibal watches as he spears another piece of meat. The acceptance, the ease
of it all feels comfortable, heavy, like a warm familiar blanket, and Hannibal
chases Will's mouth with his own. He returns a brief grin when Will leans back
away to tease him, and finally kisses the corner of his mouth as his boy
laughs, a youthful delight breaking as unexpected across the dining room as the
music had.
"They are in the study," Hannibal murmurs against Will's cheek, breathing him
in and surrounding him in arms. The expensive shirt feels extraordinary with
the heat of Will's skin beneath it, and Hannibal turns his cheek against Will's
shoulder to rest there.
"Shall I carry you? Or are you too old for that now?" A wry tone, biting back
the intense amusement it brings him to say it. "Spoiled boy.”
Will laughs again, coyly holds the fork against his lips again before pulling
it away and setting it against the plate. They have nearly finished breakfast,
and he fiddles with the remainder of it before feeding another mouthful to
Hannibal, picking up the last few crumbs himself. Stomach comfortably full,
warm, and all the more pleased to have shared the meal.
He considers the words, considers how much he genuinely adores being carried by
the man, how it doesn’t feel at all like a derogatory implication of his age or
maturity but more like a worship, a deep protection.
He spreads his thighs wide around Hannibal, for him, before pushing back
against the table and sliding even closer into his lap, coiling his limbs
around Hannibal’s middle. He can feel the heat of the man through the thin
shirt he wears, can feel the familiar stirring of interest between his legs.
“Carry me, please,” he requests, smile wide, before he leans in to kiss
Hannibal deeply, one hand against his face, the other down to grip the front of
his shirt.
Hannibal hums a pleased sound into the kiss that finds Will bent backwards
against the table with its intensity, satisfied with the answer in its gentle
demand.
“Imperious,” Hannibal accuses him gently, before sliding an arm beneath Will
and the other around his back to lift him, still light enough to do so. They
may both survive, themselves and each other, to see the day that it’s harder
for Hannibal to hoist his boy so readily, and he tries not to think on it, on
the lack of guarantee that they will ever reach such a point, together, and
what it would mean if they did.
Instead he merely sighs, long-suffering, to hide the profound pleasure it
brings him when Will slings his arms around Hannibal’s neck, pressing small,
eager kisses to his face. The plate is left uncleared as they find their way to
the stairs and up, to the study.
There are gifts - numerous - arranged artfully across his desk, all the sundry
paperwork and notebooks usually there stowed away instead to allow for room.
Each is wrapped in patterned, textured paper, hand-crafted washi folded to
close without the use of tape, in rich blues and bright shining gold, cranes
and leaves and blossoms against dark backgrounds.
He does not yet let Will down, surprised by the warmth he feels in seeing
Will’s eyes widen, and Hannibal leans into him with a squeeze to nuzzle against
his cheek.
“For you, little wolf.”
Will holds his breath, feeling like a small child again, five or six, when his
father had made the effort still on his birthday and set bright wrapped
presents out for him in the kitchen to discover in the morning.
These are beautifully wrapped, each individually, and so precisely that Will
cannot imagine opening them.
He doesn't voice his concerns to Hannibal, doesn't tell him how grateful he is,
regardless of even what they are, to have them at all, that the man would
bother.
When he’s finally allowed to the ground, Will keeps his arms wrapped around
Hannibal’s neck and kisses him again. Standing on tiptoes on the ground, the
hem of the shirt he wears just brushing the tops of his thighs.
"Thank you."
It's honest, earnest, and Will finally pulls back to go to them, run his
fingers over the intricate paper, to select the package on the far left first,
to open.
Inside is a book, a guidebook and phrasebook both for modern Greece.
“It would be very strange to speak only the archaic form when we are there,”
Hannibal offers by way of explanation. “Since I will be reliant on you as my
translator.”
He settles into the couch nearby, legs crossed neatly to observe the quick grin
that this earns, a flush of color. Will sets them aside with a care that
Hannibal notes as a little uncharacteristic, entirely and genuinely touched
already by what’s there, opened or not.
The next of the small stack is selected, and pried open with careful fingers as
Will takes great pains not to tear the expensive, soft paper, the careful folds
that hold it all in place securely and then come apart easily when tugged the
right way.
Another book, this one older still, a copy still bound together well enough to
be read but showing the signs of a questionable publishing and half a century
of age and use.
“One of Ausra Augustinaviciute’s early works on socionics,” Hannibal explains.
“Very few were published when she was writing them during Soviet occupation.
This was a work that preceded her ‘Dual Nature of Man’, little known but in the
vein of Jung’s psychological typology. Outdated now, but interesting enough
considering the time and conditions in which it was written, and not without
some lingering merit.”
Will’s hand skims the cover gently, and he pages through it slowly.
“It’s in Lithuanian,” he says, regarding Hannibal from beneath his hair. “I
don’t -”
“You will,” Hannibal assures him.
Something snags deep in Will and he swallows, continues regarding the book with
both general touches and alert eyes. So much promise is held in those two
words, Will finds it hard to move to the next package, the two books already
unwrapped lying carefully in their nests of unfolded paper.
This book is heavier than the others had been, a thick leather cover, thick
pages on heavy paper, and Will knows immediately that this book is worth more
than his entire being, yet he holds it in his hands now.
"Faust," he breathes.
"First edition,” comes the quiet confirmation to the unspoken question, and
Will would drop the book in surprise if he didn't know he would suffer greatly
watching it come to any harm.
"Jesus..." Eyes wide and fingers so careful they're nearly shaking, Will opens
the book to see, to breathe it in and hold it aloft, revering the beauty of it,
the pricelessness... a first edition of Goethe given to an eighteen year old
rentboy.
The thought makes him laugh and he bites his lip to silence it. He can feel the
smile from the man on the couch without turning to look, and allows his own to
spread wider.
"You admonish me for being spoiled, and yet you encourage it,” he murmurs.
Hannibal hums a little, and does not disagree.
“It gave me great pleasure to remove it from the negligence of an unworthy
curator,” he explains. “It gives me greater pleasure to bestow it on one who
will actually appreciate its worth and meaning.”
He rises now, to stand behind Will and hold the boy’s jaw just gently in his
hand, the other skimming - scarcely touching - the soft cracked leather of the
cover.
“Two-hundred and six years old,” Hannibal murmurs into Will’s ear. “Your
eighteen are fraction of what this book has known and survived, and yet they
mean far more to me than this ever could.”
A kiss, grazed across the boy’s temple, before Hannibal releases him to better
watch, setting against the desk.
Will shivers, leans back against the man’s warmth before Hannibal moves to
settle, and Will takes up the last package.
It’s smaller than the others but he takes just as much care unfolding the
delicate paper from it, beneath, a black box, no lock and silver hinges, and
within it -
"To help cope," Hannibal seems to almost recite, the pleasure in his tone
almost dripping like honey, "with your condition."
Within the box lies a solid steel plug, with grooves and bends in the smooth
metal, and, surprisingly, utterly beautiful to look at. He slides his fingers
over the toy and takes it up, heavy and cold in his hands, and a pleasant
shiver takes him.
"Oh."
His cheeks are intensely red now, smile bright, incorrigibly pleased with the
gift that appears so classy yet has a very simple purpose.
Will can feel his body almost unfurl at the idea of playing with it, and he
sets it back very carefully and closes the box before turning to Hannibal and
crawling into his lap.
"A treatment or a test?" he sighs, rolling his hips gently forward.
"Both, in time," Hannibal muses, leaning back enough to allow Will room to
crawl onto the desk, knees on either side of Hannibal's hips. "A reminder," he
adds, "for when I cannot be inside you."
Rough hands grasp Will by his backside, fingers curling to tug and spread him
as their mouths meet, and Hannibal lays back across the desk to allow Will to
sit fully astride him.
"A punishment, then," Will considers, brows lifting.
Hannibal's lips quirk. "Parting is such sweet sorrow."
Their mouths meet, spread, tongues tracing the taste of the other for long
minutes of this simple pleasure. Hannibal wonders, absently, if the next
birthday will bring about such distress as this, or if his approach nearer to
fifty will yield more alarm than Will's first movements into adulthood.
He pushes the thoughts aside and murmurs against Will's mouth. "In the bedroom,
amongst my things, you will find another suit, as well. It is uncouth to have
only one, and give the appearance of such."
Will shivers again, overwhelmed and breathlessly pleased, and kisses his thanks
against the man’s lips, down to his jaw and under that. He notices, absently,
that the music still plays around them, though the volume in here has been set
to near silent, perhaps with a dial meant for this room alone.
It makes Will laugh, at the absurdity of the situation, warmed by the pleasure
of it, intimate and perfect.
He rocks his hips down against Hannibal’s again and groans very quietly.
"How shall we spend our day?" he asks softly, nuzzling, pressing close and warm
to Hannibal in reminder that Will trusts him to take the control and make the
day worth the while for them both.
Hannibal wraps his arms around Will and holds him there, spread across his desk
with the boy’s weight heavy atop him. He tilts his head and Will follows the
movement with a quick nuzzle beneath his jaw, tracing the gesture with kisses.
“In truth, I am quite content to spend it like this,” he acknowledges,
“although this desk is not particularly yielding.”
He keeps Will pressed tightly against him as he sits up again, scooping an arm
beneath him to carry him again as he stands.
“We will read together in the garden,” decides Hannibal. “Enjoy the quiet,
spread ourselves peaceably beneath the sun. I will cook for you, whatever you
would like.” A pause, and another long-suffering sigh. “Anything, however
abhorrent.”
“But first, take up your new treatment. We will ensure first that you are able
to relax without so much energy that you are driven to dancing again.”
Another smile quirks at the memory, entirely enjoyed but subject to chiding all
the same, as all things are, and he tilts with Will as the boy stretches to
snare the little black box from the desk with a grin.
“I would like to ensure that it fits adequately, that as well as your suit.”
Hannibal presses a kiss to Will’s hair and lowers him, bare feet to the wooden
floor. “Go and change.”
Will goes, with a brief glance back at his books, not for fear that they will
be taken away but because he can’t quite believe he has them, that Hannibal had
given them to him. He wonders if he will ever get over the fact that he has a
first edition in his collection, he wonders if by the time he does he will have
more, and if that’s a good thing or bad, taking for granted something so
special.
He imagines Hannibal telling him not to think so much on his birthday.
In the bedroom, he finds the suit, hanging closer to his own than Hannibal’s,
this one a beautiful light thing, with a dark shirt beneath - blue. Will takes
it from the hanger and sets it out on the bed before taking up the little box
again.
He has had experience with toys before; some clients enjoying the fact that
they could sit back and put no effort into making their purchase suffer for the
night, or cry out in pleasure. He has had experience but never any particular
want to extend it to a personal level. Never enough time between his hunting
and study to warrant the money spent, and fingers always felt good enough.
But this…
He knows it’s expensive from the make, not simply because Hannibal had been the
one to gift it to him. It’s wide, comfortably heavy, bent in a graceful curve
to - Will assumes - allow it to be worn during the day, not simply in the
bedroom.
He swallows.
The lube is where it normally is, and Will settles in bed as he hears the music
shut off downstairs.
His boxers he slips free of his legs but the shirt he keeps on, warm and
familiar and getting further and further crinkled as Will moves in it.
Two fingers, three, and then Will takes up the toy to regard it, gentle fingers
over the steel to spread the slick there as well before arching up and pushing
it in.
The stretch isn’t unusual, isn’t painful, but it is different, something still
so cold, so heavy and unyielding in his hand, and Will gasps as it finally
slips past the widest point and his body accepts it, lets it settle, and then
with the first shift he realizes the toy will be both, indeed, a punishment and
a treat.
“Oh god.” He bites his lip, flushed dark, and presses a hand to his face with a
smile.
He remains there a moment more, feels the way it settles inside of him and how
every breath brings its memory with a static prickle up his spine. Goosebumps
tickle along his skin as Will finally stands, and laughs, a delighted little
sound every time he moves or tries to take a step. It is not uncomfortable, not
at all, but the bursts of pleasure are unavoidable as he slides into the suit's
tailored trousers.
"Jesus," he breathes again, flushed scarlet down onto his chest, already half-
hard as he zips the pants up and lets them rest on his hips. Finally peeling
out of Hannibal's now-wrinkled shirt, he puts on his own instead, careful
motions now made slower by the weight, like fingers curved inside of him, that
shifts a little every time he moves.
"He will not save you either," Hannibal intones, amused, from the doorway. He
carries with him a mug of coffee, the image of comfortable domesticity,
counterpoint entirely to the debauched and blushing thing changing into an
outrageously expensive - and very short-notice - bespoke suit in front of him.
"Tell me, Will," he muses, "how does it make you feel?"
He steps into the room as Will settles the tie around his neck, and moves
behind him to loop it gently into a half-windsor.
Will shivers again, licks his lips and smiles, ducking his head only to have it
gently raised again by a thumb under his chin.
“It’s very distracting,” he offers, honest and yet not accepting or outwardly
complaining of the toy just yet. Hannibal hums, adjusts the knot and pulls it
tight, lifting Will’s chin again.
“Just as you are to me,” Hannibal muses softly, pressing his lips just behind
Will’s ear, stroking away the long curls to get to it. “An aching, beautiful
distraction.”
Will makes a gentle sound and Hannibal slides his hand down his back to curve
around his ass, squeezing gently until Will gasps with the sensation of the toy
moving with such a small almost unintentional motion.
“Thank you for the suit,” he whispers, arching back to rest his head against
Hannibal’s shoulder, eyes only half open to watch him, pleased, “and the books.
And the delightful distractions.”
“You are welcome,” responds Hannibal graciously, running a hand along Will’s
hair to push it back from his face and draw them nearer together. “After all,
it is far rarer than any of this, that a boy who has shared my bed sees another
birthday.”
Amused, he takes the coat from the bed and slides it over Will’s arms,
smoothing it across his shoulders, ever-broadening, ever stronger. Hannibal
turns them both to face the mirror and works the buttons closed on it,
smoothing here as well - a seemingly accidental dip lower with straying fingers
to feel his increasing hardness - before drawing away to let them both look on
Will’s reflection.
His measurements haven’t changed significantly since the last, although
Hannibal can’t help but notice certain areas that appear a bit more snug than
before. Incrementally, only, but enough that they draw his attention. The
material is giving enough, softer than the wool of the previous suit to better
allow breathing for Baltimore’s summer humidity, that it would not appear to
anyone else but the one who has memorized this boy’s body so entirely.
“Your hair pains me,” he intones by way of a compliment, burying his nose and a
kiss in it anyway. “You are in need of grooming, little wolf.” Hannibal’s
fingers find their way into it anyway, curling and tugging to bend Will and
turn his boy towards him. The steps draw a quiet gasp.
Will smiles, leans into the hands that hold his hair back.
“I could tie it back,” he grins. “Let it grow out. Remain Dorian Gray.”
He knows the idea both delights and disgusts Hannibal in equal measure: the
concept of being able to grab Will that way, drag him, control him and tie him
back to reveal his pale throat… it’s almost enough to mask the worry of seeing
the thing an unholy mess every morning before Will tames it, if he even tries.
He stretches up to stand on his toes again, groans softly at the utterly
delicious way the toy follows, caresses against his prostate and warms to his
skin. Will tenses his muscles on reflex, finds that it makes it worse, knows
that his cheeks are flushed with heat, his lips just as dark from it, and he
licks them.
“Please be kind to me today,” he requests, though his smile doesn’t discount
the possibility of cruelty later. He has never feared it from Hannibal.
“As though I am ever anything but,” chides Hannibal lightly, but he doesn’t
tighten his grip in Will’s hair as he had seemed previously inclined. A curious
thing, this tenderness between them, still a far more unfamiliar ground than
his initial plan to drag him by his curls and splay him over the dining room
table, pants tugged around his thighs and ass bared for a particularly lengthy
spanking.
Hannibal sighs, indulgent, and draws Will against him instead, ducking his head
to meet him in a lingering kiss. Broad hands slide over the fine fabric now
clothing Will, to tuck against the curve of his ass, and tease there, minimal
movements required to unsettle the toy and draw a shiver shaking through his
boy.
“It is hard to tell the fit of a suit without movement,” Hannibal informs him,
not yet relenting in the squeeze of hands, the press of his forehead to Will’s.
“Walk for me, Will.” A pause, and the glint of amusement in the corners of his
eyes. “Sit down in it, as well.”
Will makes a sound that would be displeasure if he wasn’t so contented. He
meets Hannibal’s eyes and narrows his own, and for a moment they don’t move.
Then he steps back, one, then another step and turns to make his way to the
door, before turning on his heel and walking back.
He tries to keep his face impassive, expression neutral. But every motion,
every breath, draws sparks of pleasure though his body, up his spine like
electricity and warm familiar fingers, and he knows he’s giving away too much
by the time he reaches the man again, looks up to meet his eyes.
A parting of lips to release a long shuddering sigh before Will sits, careful,
on the edge of the bed, and here he can’t stifle a soft moan that escapes him,
gripping hard against the sheets, back arching in a deep curve.
“Fuck.”
Hannibal grasps Will’s chin gently in his fingers, lifts his eyes towards him,
towards the slight smile that appears, insufferably pleased with everything
about this particular moment.
“I had hoped by this age you would have learned to control yourself better,”
Hannibal purrs. “If you are to wear this for a day, you must not show any
discomfort.”
He doesn’t clarify if he means the suit or the toy, and his fingers flex as he
releases Will’s chin, a quick squeeze and a longer stretch. Shoulders drawn
wide, back straight and eyes narrowed just an increment - a body language that
Will knows all too well, restrained now only by the boy’s insistence that
Hannibal be kind to him today.
An insistence that will not hold water for much longer, with the joyous cruelty
begging to break free from Hannibal even still.
“Now, Will - stand, and do it again.”
Will stands, slow, and bites his lip.
“But it hurts,” he says softly, eyes wider, cheeks flushed and hair barely off
his face with how Hannibal had stroked it back.
He takes three steps back before turning, gasping and flexing his hands into
and out of fists before continuing to the door. He rests against the door frame
for no other reason than to show Hannibal his flushed and trembling profile as
he tries to gather himself to walk back.
In truth, the toy is exquisite, the best kind of torment without the pain.
He will grow to love and loathe it.
When he returns Will drapes his arms around Hannibal and kisses him.
“Hurts so fucken good,” he grins, breathing the words against his lips.
“Two,” Hannibal snaps, grabbing Will firmly by the jaw, fingernails pressing
into his skin just hard enough to leave pale crescents there, to stop him from
kissing Hannibal again. His other hand slides through Will’s mop of hair,
pushing it back from his face with a remnant of tenderness.
“You asked me to stay my hand. I have done so, and you have thrown it in my
face. The rules of this home do not cease because you think yourself an adult.”
He releases Will with the barest shove, entirely aware that what Will does is
deliberate, but unable to fathom why, after pleading kindness, after Hannibal
had been so ready to make him suffer for his beauty.
“Another misbehavior and I assure you, there will be no kindness found within
any room of this house.” Hannibal tilts his head, and stretches his neck - one
side, slowly, and then the other. “Again.”
Will bites his lip, eyes carefully on Hannibal’s watching him, reading him,
before taking a short breath in on the step back, exhaling on the other, and
turning, straightening his shoulders and running his hands through his hair as
he slowly makes his way to the door.
His body is alive with motion and trembling, blood hot in his veins and against
his skin, he knows he’s flushed, knows that every move he makes is catalogued,
observed, remembered. He can feel a thin sheen of sweat against his skin
already and almost laments the suit he’s wearing that it will sully it.
He stops at the door, forces himself still before he turns, smiles, cocks his
head.
“It would bring you the greatest pleasure to whip me, right now, like this,” he
tells him softly, watching the way Hannibal tenses at the words, that same
restraint, iron and unbreakable, that Will has managed to bend out of shape.
Dark eyes meet his and Will feels that familiar, delicious swell in his chest.
“And I really,” he sighs, “really fucken want you to.” A gentle bite against
his tongue and he grins wider.
A genuine smile catches the corners of Hannibal’s eyes for only an instant
before it's swept away by darkness again. There’s scarcely time for Will to
even start to move before Hannibal has him by the wrist, and then snares the
other, and catches both above his head as quick fingers work open the jacket of
his new suit.
“You have made your choice then. You might have had kindness. A rare tenderness
afforded only to those who deserve it.”
He snares Will by the jaw, pushing him back from the room to pin him roughly to
the wall at the top of the stairs, beside the suit of armor that waits and
watches.
“You deserve something else entirely,” Hannibal snarls, mouth drawing against
Will’s, snaring the boy’s lower lip in his teeth to bite until he whimpers and
only then releasing it. He pins the boy there, trapped beneath his weight and
the wall, and rocks a leg between Will’s, grinding a thigh against his cock.
“Do you think yourself grown, now?” purrs the older man. “Do you think yourself
free to act as you like with no consideration for the rules that I have laid in
place for you?’
He releases Will’s chin to yank roughly against the back of his hair instead,
revelling in the yelp that’s drawn in pain and pleasure both as Will’s body
bends sharply against the toy inside of him.
“You are a child. And since you insist on acting as one, you will be punished
as one.”
Will fists his hands, twists them just gently in Hannibal’s hold, pants how
he’s held, lips pressed together, and eyes wide and dark and bright for him.
His lips don’t smile but his entire body radiates it, pleased, proud, utterly
aroused and pleased with this.
“Always a little boy for you,” he manages, before he’s forced to arch further
and makes a helpless sound as the toy rubs against him harder. He moves to hold
his legs further apart to ease the pressure but finds that Hannibal’s body
prevents it, content to watch him struggle as he is.
It’s so hard to be good when he can see Hannibal like this, feel the way he
wants him, just as much as Will wants him back. Just as desperately and wholly,
just as hungrily.
“And I will never learn.”
“No,” responds Hannibal direly, “and so I will continue to teach you.”
Releasing Will’s wrists, Hannibal’s hand tightens harshly in Will’s hair. Down
the stairs he pulls the boy behind him, forcing him to take faster steps than
he normally would, each one jarring a moan from him as they shift the toy
inside.
He drags him towards the living room, and when he is center in the expansive
space does Hannibal finally release him.
“Remove your pants, down to your thighs,” Hannibal instructs, fingers grazing
against his belt but not unsettling it yet as he watches Will’s quick, preening
grin, when his fingers work his trousers open and slide them.
“Underwear.”
Will shifts, lip between his teeth, and lowers these as well, flushed brightly.
“Bend, and touch your toes.”
Will’s lips part and his eyes widen.
Over a desk, over the bed, on his knees, over Hannibal’s knee, but not like
this, yet. It makes him blush darker just standing and considering - and he
knows considering for long will not be tolerated. He swallows.
“I’m not sure I can reach,” he admits honestly, never having tried.
“I didn’t ask,” Hannibal reminds him, brow lifting just a hair. “I gave you an
instruction.”
He grasps Will by the hair again, by the scruff of his neck, and breathes
softly against his cheek.
“Should I force you? You’ll be left to hold it much, much longer if I do, to
ensure that you can, in fact, reach.”
Will sighs out, a harsh quick thing, and directs his eyes up before swallowing.
After a moment he shakes his head, just barely, just enough to feel, and
Hannibal lets him go.
A step back, another - a moan at the feeling of the toy within him - and Will
turns his back to Hannibal, sets his feet and bends.
It’s a tug he certainly feels, through his thighs and down his legs, but he
manages, fingertips brushing his toes, setting gently against them as he stays
as he is, watching Hannibal, upside down, take in the picture presented before
stepping closer.
He hums approval, fingers walking the curve of Will’s spine, down to his
tailbone. Half-clad in a suit that’s worth the better part of his yearly
scholarship, the boy stays bent, presented and bared for Hannibal’s pleasure.
“Very good, Will,” Hannibal purrs, “but there is still the matter of your
disobediences to attend to. I have been far too lax in allowing you to grow
comfortable enough to speak so freely.” He follows the cleft of Will’s ass to
find the base of the toy, and grasps it.
“My mistake, and one I will remedy immediately.”
Hannibal wiggles the toy as though to situate it, a smile catching and widening
as Will shakes from the sensation of it, the strain of the posture he’s holding
so stalwartly. Watching the pretty silver emerge from him, Hannibal tugs gently
on it, watching his boy’s hole widen as his mouth falls open to moan again.
He leaves it just there for a moment, suspended at its widest point, and
crouches, arms long across his knees, to watch Will’s expression.
“How many times, Will?”
Will swallows, eyes wide and seeking Hannibal’s upside down. The strain on his
muscles has grown uncomfortable now, but not painful, and he trembles with it.
“I swore thrice?” he offers, unsure if Hannibal wants to know that, or if he’s
seeking for any other and any number of other misdemeanors.
His eyes close when the toy is twisted and he pants, gasps, shakes his head.
“Three times, sir, when I asked for leniency and took advantage.”
A pleased, purring sound rumbles from Hannibal at the words Will so carefully
chooses for him, and he presses the toy back in with another settling wiggle.
“But three is hardly enough to even draw a sound from you, stubborn boy,” he
clucks, as though concerned by this. “And certainly not enough to appease me
for these flagrant violations.”
He runs a hand up the back of Will’s trembling thigh, squeezing the curve of
his ass as he stands.
A shift of shoulders, a turn of his neck, stretching as Hannibal decides, “Ten,
then.” A pause, and a faint smile. “For each violation.”
“Shit.”
Will groans, eyes closed tight and lips drawn in something that could be either
a smile or a grimace, it’s hard to tell for either of them and Hannibal would
hardly care.
“By all means, continue,” he murmurs instead.
Will just holds his position, shifts just a little to curl his fingers around
his ankles for more support, bent just as vulnerably as before.
“Will you make me count them?” he asks, instead.
“A recitation, of sorts,” responds Hannibal, pleased by the thought of it.
“Since you have volunteered for it, I will expect the same clear and crisp
delivery as if it were Plato’s Republic.”
His hand is warm against Will’s exposed skin, following the curve of his ass. A
moment’s pause, to take in in the perfectly presented posture of the boy,
before the first swat comes down hard across his cheeks.
The broad palm stings, leaves a pale rosy hue in its wake, and catches the edge
of the toy just enough to move it as the strike connects, and Will clenches
around it. A desperate groan rips itself from him, caught behind the teeth that
sink into his lower lip.
A pause, tension between the two of them, before Will parts his lips and
whispers,
“One.”
He manages to keep his tone even, his words quiet and respectful, until perhaps
the twelfth strike. There, he catches himself against the ground, hands out
resting on the tips of his fingers as his entire body trembles, head ducked,
breaths panted between his lips in genuine pain and underlined with the most
perfect need.
“Thirteen - nnn, Hannibal, please…”
Another slap, harder, and Will wails muscles tensed harder, body shaking.
“I’m going to cum… please…”
This one harder than the one before it, ringing with the crack of skin on skin
through the enormous living room.
“You will do no such thing,” Hannibal growls, curling his fingernails to scrape
against the reddened skin, to brush roughly over the toy still planted deep
inside. “Have you forgotten every rule, Will? Must I teach them to you all
anew?"
The boy is shaking now, trembling from the strain and stinging slaps, and
Hannibal rests a hand on his tailbone to steady him.
“You were at thirteen,” he reminds Will almost gently, neglecting the two
spanks that went uncounted. “You are lucky I do not make you begin again.”
The flat of his hand snaps hard across the boy’s ass, forcing his hands to the
ground again.
"Fourteen," Will gasps, digging his nails into the carpet and moaning freely
when Hannibal touches the toy again. He knows it's deliberate, that he will not
be able to outlast this, him, and it hardly matters, not to either of them, not
here.
Will loses the battle with his endurance at seventeen and laughs, knees
buckling so he's on all fours on the carpet, forehead down against the same as
the toy keeps rubbing, through the delicious convulsions of his orgasm.
"I'm sorry," he gasps, knowing the words are meaningless, knowing the torment
will not end. Saying them regardless.
"Harder," he whimpers, arching his back again, stretching cramped muscles.
"Please."
Hannibal observes the giddy collapse, the flushed breathless laughter and
intense satisfaction that curls Will’s toes as his release frees itself from
him. He hides a smile that appears despite himself, and tightens his jaw again
to bury it.
“You seem to have a psychic barrier around the number eighteen - your birthday,
this, now,” Hannibal murmurs, tone gentle even as his fingernails rake down
Will’s spine, crouched next to him. He slips the toy out enough to watch him
arch, to watch his little hole widen to accept the stretch, and works it back
in again, a brutally steady rhythm.
“Perhaps a more strict lesson is needed, since you are so determined to break
every rule in place now that you think yourself an adult.”
He stands, smile widening cruelly, and begins to undo his belt. “You may brace
yourself against the back of the couch.”
Will trembles, shakes his head but not in disobedience, merely to clear it.
He’s shaking, adrenaline and pleasure in equal power in his limbs, the toy
still rubbing against the spot inside him so sensitive now Will hisses at the
motion.
It's absorbed his temperature, now, no longer cold and cruel but a distraction
of a deeper nature.
He knows Hannibal’s intention by the sound of the buckle clicking against the
man’s thigh, he doesn’t have to look.
The belt Will still has a very mixed response to, body used to the pain it
causes, always remembering his cruelest punishment with it, and yet just as
eager, always, to arch his back to follow the folded leather as it strokes his
skin in a mockery of gentleness.
He stands on shaking legs and bites his lip with a whine as the toy turns
within him.
"An unjust cruelty," he murmurs, resting his hands against the couch but not
yet bending. "I will take exhaustion over pleasure's end, Hannibal, you once
did a study."
The words are almost aloof, but Will grins when he glances behind himself at
the man, leather looped in his hands. Will bites his lip, eyes briefly
narrowing.
Hannibal pulls the leather tight around his fist with a loud snap.
“One must always test their findings, Will.”
A hand rubs warm against the base of Will’s spine, a firm pressure there to
bend him deeper, to bring his ass higher in response. The leather is soft
against Will’s thighs, tickling upward before Hannibal draws it away, and
brings it down again, a firm flick across already tender skin.
The snap is met with a yelp and a shudder as his body clenches hard around the
toy, pleasure rebounding in quick shivering echoes following the pain.
“Eighteen,” Hannibal murmurs, a soft suggestion. “An appropriate number, from
which you will count back down.”
A moment taken to appreciate the welt raising red and swollen across Will’s
backside, the way the ruddy flush offsets the paleness of him, the way he
stretches his skinny body almost feline in its curves, toes and fingers curling
and spreading in turn.
“Beautiful,” sighs the older man, before bringing down the belt again.
Will is whimpering by eleven. Sobbing by five.
Entire body shaking, legs spread wide, now, encouraged by the gentle tapping of
the belt against his pale untouched skin, and cock hard again from the brutal
massage by the toy.
Will is bent entirely, body curved and arched, anticipating the strikes with
tight tense muscles that he is calmly told to relax. He does, cries out louder
with every subsequent whip against him.
This time Will holds out till one before he cums, hard as before and almost
painful with how he had gotten there, entirely untouched, his own body
betraying him and working hard to bring him to this level of pleasure where he
feels like he’s floating, above everything, over everything, where nothing
matters or should.
“Please.”
Will’s sob is met with a soft kiss to his damp hair, a warm hand over his back,
through the fabric to press gentleness to his skin there. Will nearly purrs his
pleasure, as though the beating had not just concluded, as though he can’t feel
his heart beat in his thighs.
A free hand slides down Will’s arm to grasp his hand, fingers weaving together
and he presses his wet cheeks to his shoulder with a choked little laugh.
“A torrid new meaning,” he mumbles, “to the concept of a birthday spanking.”
Hannibal allows his smile now, as satisfied by Will's relief as if it were his
own. He squeezes their fingers together, removing the toy as he leans nearer to
find Will's mouth in a kiss and turn his boy towards him.
A wince accompanies the movement, just as quickly followed by a grin, sleepy-
eyed and flushed.
"Entirely too deserved," Hannibal responds, feigning direness in his tone that
never smoothes the wrinkles from beside his eyes, before he adds with
unmistakable fondness, taking in the mussed hair and sheen of sweat, warm and
content. “Look at you.”
There is a word caught between them, in the way that Hannibal tucks Will's hair
behind his ear and in the way Will rests his hands on Hannibal's shoulders as
the older man undresses him in gentle gestures. In the way Hannibal is unable
to part from Will to return the suit to his room without pressing kisses into
his hair. In the way he immediately surrounds him in arms again to draw his own
rumpled red shirt around him, above the boxers that he settles up over his
stripes.
In every breath that lays praise on him - good boy, beautiful, extraordinary
boy - and in Will's acceptance of it, arms looped securely around Hannibal's
neck.
It is as natural as breathing now, so much so that no words seem necessary to
give form to what exists so overtly between them.
And so they find themselves, as predicted, in the garden for much of the day.
Will sprawls on his belly along the length of a deck chair, feet in Hannibal's
lap, and reads aloud for them both from his new book, working through the
pronunciations and meanings of the complex Lithuanian together, until - even
without knowing its meaning - Will's recitation is practiced and lovely.
A hand falls to rest on his ankle, thumb stroking softly, as Hannibal closes
his eyes against the sun to listen.
***** Chapter 8 *****
Chapter Summary
     He glances back up. Watches Zeller, trying not to stare at Bev.
     Watches Bev, arched and pretty, brow lifted towards Will in
     expectation. Anticipation. Energy, positive and eager, between the
     three of them, a bond forming without any pretense of romance or
     relationship, but simply from the novelty and fun of it all.
     "What was it you said earlier?" Will asks, with a nod towards Zeller.
     "Fuck it?" He relishes the feel of the word on his tongue, the
     freedom of it. "Yes. Fuck it."
Chapter Notes
     warning for this chapter: drug use and a threesome! not sure that
     really needs a warning, think of it more as just a HOORAY
The sun’s setting later now, but at this hour the sky still hedges towards
darkness. Lights flicker to life across the campus sidewalks like match flares,
sulfurous illumination to burn amber across the pathways winding. Few students
left, not unexpected for the dawn of a Friday night, picking their way across
the greens alone, in pairs, backpacks dropped across shoulders as each hurries
to be free of lecture halls and study groups for the evening.
Few enough people that Will slows his steps when he hears others coming up
quick against the pavement behind him. Fingers curling against the straps of
his bookbag, counting the footfalls as they approach, and just as he draws a
breath, she’s there, and he turns fast, startled to face her.
“Hey,” Beverly laughs, hands up. “Sorry, you’d think in a school full of
wannabe FBI agents I’d learn my lesson about that.”
Will quickly eases away the narrow gaze he turned on her, sighing to release
the coiled tension snared up his spine as she settles into pace beside him.
“I swear, you and me - and Zeller, because of you and me, really - are the only
ones in the entire school who would bother to show up to a goddamn Friday night
intro level,” Bev snorts, eyes rolling skyward in amusement. “Especially when
the weather’s getting nice. Or when that intro level is - ugh - History of
Psych.”
She sighs, stretches her arms above her head, and mutters towards the sky. “My
kingdom for a fucking beer right now.”
“You got a kingdom to give?” Will laughs, tilting his head. Without pause the
reply is shot back:
“You got a beer?”
-
The bar they find is off campus, too many people at the ones closer to school
know Will is underage to allow it, despite of how few of them genuinely care.
It’s a place one would read about in a hipster novel, dim lights and old
chairs, a heavy bar that runs the length of the place and wooden kegs behind it
that no longer serve their initial purpose.
Will buys the first round, beers for each and a whiskey for himself as well,
which Bev eyes with amusement before flicking her long hair back behind her
left shoulder.
“Where’s my kingdom?” Will asks, grinning around the lip of his bottle. Bev
waves him off.
“Buy me a decent beer,” she says instead.
It’s strangely easy to talk to her, Will’s found, over the last however-long
he’s allowed her company - endured would be inaccurate - and he doesn’t feel
any pressure to be anything but the genius kid who keeps beating her in their
joint paper. It’s nice. She’s smart, she’s beautiful, and she is the only one
who doesn’t buy any of the shit Will feeds her.
“So why are you here really?” she asks. Will shrugs.
“Apparently I’m not allowed to be a mechanic with a mind like mine.”
"Says who?" she scoffs, taking a swig and bringing the bottle down to press
condensation rings into her jeans. "Wouldn’t you want someone who knows what
they're doing for stuff like that?"
Settling back into her chair, Bev watches Will with curiosity.
"What kind of mechanic?"
"Nothing fancy. Motors," Will shrugs. "Any kind really. Cars. Boats."
"Taking things apart, putting them back together again," Bev notes, brows
raising. "You the kind of kid who used to break all your shit to see how it
works?"
She grins, crooked and quick, when Will smirks from behind a sip of whiskey.
"Thought so. Since that's been verboten, what are you going to do now?" A
pause, smirking. "Beyond waiting 'til you graduate so that you can go back to
fixing boat motors."
Will laughs, showing white teeth in a brief grin, and finishes his whiskey in a
single swallow, lips drawing back in a brief grimace at the sharpness before
relaxing.
“I’m going to take apart minds,” he says, blue eyes narrowed in amusement.
“Break apart actions to see the meaning behind them, the cause of them.
Deconstruct and reconnect.”
He takes a sip of his beer and watches the response. For a moment, Beverly says
nothing, then she purses her lips and takes up her own beer again.
“Damn, kid, what’s your damage?”
Will laughs again, softer, and leans back, drawing a hand through his hair.
“I could always see people.” he explains. “Beyond actions and words - what they
thought. Why. It was so easy to relate I didn’t even have to try I just… closed
my eyes and let the pendulum swing.” He finishes his beer, motions to Bev if
she wants another, she nods and he goes to get them.
By the time he returns she’s turning the empty bottle meticulously on its
bottom rim, over and over to draw spirals and circles within circles with the
condensation on the table.
“Neat trick,” she offers, “always acting this way so people can never know
what’s wrong.”
Will sets her beer in front of her and leans back to sip his own.
“What do you want to do?” he deflects. In honesty, nothing is wrong, not at
this moment between them, when he can rest and breathe and step away, for just
a breath, from what his life actually is.
“Or, did that turn forbidden?” he grins. “Don’t tell me - cellist, with a side
job of being the world’s greatest neurosurgeon.”
"Close," she shudders. "Violin, but I hated it. I wanted to do percussion but
my parents wouldn't let me. Too much noise. Not very becoming for a girl to
bang around like that."
Bev picks at the label on her beer, peeling it off in long strips.
"If you were the kid who breaks crap, then I was Harriet the Spy. Always
snooping around in other people's business, solving imaginary mysteries,
digging up dirt. I guess not a lot's changed," she laughs. "I don't really know
what I want to do, yet. Something in a lab."
"FBI?"
"If Quantico'll have me," she shrugs and pushes a hand back through her hair,
unharried by the thought either way. “Better that than running screens for some
big pharma megacorp.”
"Doesn't sound like the words of a Type A overachiever," Will grins.
"I'm not, really - just enough to feel bitter about having my grades constantly
beaten by a mechanic."
Will laughs.
"You're cute when you smile," she informs Will, tilting her beer towards him.
"You should try it more, cut out that dark and angsty 'poor me I'm so smart'
shit. Nobody wants to be friends with that guy." A quick grin. "Except us,
apparently, but I think we’re the only ones who aren’t buying it. Well,” she
hedges, leaning back in her chair. “I’m not, anyway. Zeller’s bought it hook,
line, and sinker.”
"You're a hard sell," Will laughs, and she just shakes her head in a solemn
way, as though understanding the universe. She peels another strip, grins.
"I could always charm it out of you,” he considers, and at that, she does
laugh.
"You're a textbook Kinsey six, Will. You could charm but it would fall flat in
its illegitimacy."
For a second, Will looks utterly taken aback, eyes wide and lips parted in
surprise. Bev just shakes her head and takes another sip of beer, eyes narrowed
in amusement.
"I don't need to peel back actions, kid - girls have this sixth sense thing."
"I could be a four," Will argues, but there's no heat in it, just soft
amusement and being called on his shit. He thinks of the times he's gone to
clubs, the time he had taken Hannibal to them. He had never told girls
explicitly he wasn't interested, but they never stayed long enough for him to
have to.
He’s interrupted from his thoughts by Bev.
"No, sweetie - a four is what Z ends up being when you look at him with those
baby blues. Falls right over the fence. And it’s pretty fucking funny watching
him clamber back over again."
Will can't help it, he laughs. It's such a normal conversation, with such a
normal person, he feels both free and at a loss.
Bev leans in a little further, conspiratorial in her sly grin and narrowing of
eyes. "In the interest of full disclosure, I have a confession. This wasn't
entirely unplanned. I was sent after you on a mission."
A brow arches as Will returns the lean, glancing either direction as though
they may be overheard, and he returns the smirk.
"Zeller?"
"Of course."
"Let me guess."
She laughs. "Nothing too torrid, he just can't manage more than a complete
sentence to you. To me, though, no problem, so maybe he's further along the
scale than I thought." She pushes her hair back behind her ear, lips pursing in
amusement. "You smoke?"
Will shrugs, an easy roll of shoulders, a coy tilt of his head. "What, in
particular?"
"You asking that is answer enough," grins Bev. "It was just going to be us but
he got all dreamy-eyed and suggested, clumsily, that I should invite you along.
I told him only if you didn't seem like you'd be a buzzkill."
“There is no test I can’t fail, Katz, you share three classes with me.”
“That pride’s gonna bite you in the ass one day,” she grins, finishes her beer
and shrugs, setting the bottle down on the table between them. “Or get you
laid, either way.”
Will smirks, brings his beer up to his lips and finishes it slowly.
“Let’s see.”
-
Zeller, as Bev, lives in a dorm not far from the college, and, according to
Bev, taking full advantage of his roommate being away for the weekend to do -
“Anything he can think of. And he needs help, Will, he’s smart but he’s not
creative.”
Will snorts, pushes his hands further into the pockets of his jeans. He’d sent
a message but had no reply, yet, from Hannibal. Though he’s unsurprised, the
man rarely keeps his phone on or responds to it when he’s hunting and Fridays
are particularly special days for playing with his food.
“You sure you wanna throw him into the deep end?”
“For personal amusement? Certainly,” she laughs, turns to walk backwards as
Will walks properly. “I’ve known him since high school. He’s green but it’s
more acid than candy.”
"So what should I do?" Will asks, allowing a faint grin.
"Like you haven't done this before," she chides him.
"Who, me? I'm the picture of innocence."
"Right," Bev snorts, laughing. "And I'm Mother Theresa. Look, just don't come
on too strong. Follow my lead. He practically asked for this but there's no way
he thinks it's actually going to happen. And whatever you do," she adds,
turning her back against the door to the dorm, "let him smoke first to take the
edge off."
She raises her brows, almost challenging in the curve of smile that appears,
and mashes the buzzer to his room beneath her thumb. She holds it humming,
allowing the buzz to continue shrill and annoying until it suddenly cuts short.
"Bev?" The crackle of a voice through the speaker.
"Z," she grins, glancing sidelong at Will and bringing a finger to her lips.
She sighs, audibly. "It's just me."
"Oh."
"I told you he was a buzzkill," she adds. "Let me in."
A sigh filters back through the speaker, and another buzz opens the door.
Will shakes his head, laughs.
“You’re a sadist.”
“I’m bored,” she holds the door open for him, smirking, and Will catches it to
lean closer.
“That’s how they’re born.”
They make their way to the fourth floor - Will makes a note of which way to
turn for the stairs when he has to leave, high and drunk and potentially
limping. Left.
The door’s unlocked and Will pushes it open, keeping his boots on, unlike at
Hannibal’s house, and grinning when he’s met with wide eyes from the main room.
“You,” he says, “are gullible as fuck.”
Bev laughs when Zeller just blinks, then he smiles, shrugs, holds out another
beer that Will takes and clinks easily with his before taking a sip.
“Corruptors,” he murmurs, licking his lips. “The both of you.”
The room is the same as all the others - small, with a bed along the wall that
suffices as couch as well, a bookshelf and a desk, mirrored on the other side
for the currently absentee roommate. A window, facing out over campus, a mini-
fridge packed deep with beer, a small bathroom to the side. Just large enough
for two people to live reasonably, but not so big that it can comfortably hold
many more than that.
"You're the one who's going to get us high," Bev declares, slumping down onto
the roommate's bed and pushing off her sneakers with her toes. "Why would we,
star students, really - brilliant, genius even, ever do something like that?"
"Outside influence is the only possible explanation," Will agrees, brows
lifting as he drops his bag beside Bev's and settles into the bed across from
her. "Temptation." The consonants click, each pronounced as he turns a glance
to Zeller, who sighs, put-upon and looks between them both.
"This isn't fair. You've got me surrounded."
"Now there's wishful thinking if I've ever heard it. Stop complaining and roll
it," Bev teases, folding her legs beneath her. He returns her slight smile,
shaking his head, and pulls open his desk drawer to grab his materials.
"You see what I have to put up with? Since high school," he complains to Will,
amusement in his voice as his smile widens, briefly, and he turns away with a
quick sigh.
“Must be tough,” Will agrees, smile aimed just a little softer, gentler,
another game. And yet, here, he feels no need to be malicious. Why should he
be? “I can see why you ran away to college and took the exact same classes.” He
keeps an innocent expression long enough for it to register before he grins,
stretches, lies back against the bed, eyes up, watching the quick and practiced
movements of someone who - despite Bev’s insistence - does not lack creativity.
He has nice hands.
“Funny,” comes the dry reply, and Zeller looks at him a moment before holding
out the joint and a lighter. Will takes the first, sets the thing between his
lips before leaning up with the obvious intention that it be lit for him.
Across the room Bev shakes her head and waits.
“You better move before you won’t be able to,” Will tells her, exhaling slowly
and watching the tendrils of smoke linger in front of his eyes. He grins, a
slow thing, and pushes himself up on his knees to hold the thing out to the man
who had lit it.
Casual if not for the way he holds himself, relaxed already, soft and pleased,
long fingers and heavy limbs.
“If I don’t move you two are going to finish the entire thing without me,” Bev
sighs, a long-suffering sound as she drags herself across the very short
distance between the two beds.
She watches, tries not to laugh at the way Zeller struggles to keep his cool,
knowing him well enough to know he’s over the moon and frantic with excitement.
“She follows me,” Zeller declares, leaning in to whisper loudly to Will,
finally sighing out the long pull of smoke. “All through high school, now here
- takes the same classes, you know how it is.”
“Oh please,” laughs Bev, reaching out to steal the joint from between them.
“You should be so lucky. You’re the one who’s always schlepped after me, all
‘oh Bev I don’t know how many hours I need help me put my schedule together
just put me in all your classes.’” She takes a long drag, eyes closing
pleasurably as she parts her lips and curls the smoke deeper into her lungs.
A cough, short, with her fist against her mouth before she motions towards Will
to move nearer. Unrestrained amusement dancing in her eyes, and Will knows -
knows with a laugh - exactly what she’s after.
He leans close to her, hands against Zeller’s bed, and his eyes fall hooded,
lips parting as he leans in towards her and she shifts in kind. Mouths nearly
touching, Bev sighs the long-held smoke out and Will drinks it up with a deep
breath, trying not to grin as he does it.
“Shit,” Zeller mutters, and Bev laughs, coughing smoke to break the moment,
half-hysterics and half-sputtering as she hands it back off to Will.
Will takes it, grins, turns back.
“It’s sweeter if you share it,” he says, already feeling the pleasant
heaviness, the lulled sort of peace that comes with this. “The smoke - it,” he
gestures, it hardly matters. He doesn’t even know what sort of shit he’s
spilling anymore and he knows that it hardly matters.
He takes a long drag, practiced to hold it in his lungs and in his mouth with
minimal effort, and smiles wide at the other boy. Without a word he sits up
higher, yanks Zeller down by his collar to hold him just there, just close
enough, and sighs.
It takes a moment for Zeller to open his mouth but when he does his eyes close,
breathing in the smooth curling feathers of it. Will’s smile remains, pleased
and already wearing the effects of the drug as it slips into his system.
“See?” he breathes, delighted when the only response is for the distance to
close between them. Will hums, holds out the joint to Bev until she takes it,
laughs when Zeller makes an indignant noise and turns to her.
“Missed it,” Will shrugs, pressing his nose softly against the older boy’s
cheek before pulling back and making himself comfortable.
Zeller starts to reach for the joint, an awkward lean to not draw away from
Will if he can help it, and Bev sprawls backward across his bed, sliding her
feet - striped in bright rainbow socks, usually hidden amongst her otherwise
unassuming outfits - into Will’s lap.
“You have a choice to make, Z. You can either have this, and then I get to let
Kinsey six here try to make himself into a five, or I keep this for now, and
you can keep him safely on that side of the spectrum,” she muses, grinning.
He blinks at her. Blinks at Will. And snorts a loud laugh.
“So you want the joint, or you want him, and I’m just leftovers?”
She sighs a cloud of smoke upward, watching it disperse.
“Don’t be so dramatic,” she grins and settles back into the bed, propped up
against his pillow. “Like I could get rid of you that easily.” She points her
toe towards him and he bats it away, and she presses her foot into Will’s
thigh.
Will watches them, takes it all in, the banter, the teasing, the softness and
history and wonders who the wingman is to whom in this situation; Bev to Zeller
or Will to her.
He snorts.
“If she keeps it, just roll another,” he purrs, sliding his hand gently over
the front of Zeller’s shirt, enjoying the way the fabric feels against his
fingers, the way the heart beneath it suddenly beats much faster than it had
been.
It’s a sweet sort of nervousness, this - indecisive.
A desire to see rather than possess. It’s new to Will, exciting, sends his own
heart to match.
“You might as well,” he adds, leaning closer, sharing the hot breaths that are
panted against him. “She’s settled in for the long haul.”
“For a show like this? You bet your ass,” she chuckles, happily taking another
drag.
He laughs, a pleased, warm sound, and tugs Zeller’s collar gently.
Zeller swallows and leans, suddenly, an awkward kiss pressed firm and fast
together, each high enough already to feel their limbs tingling pleasantly, a
sleepy weight to them, fumbling soft. Will’s hand sliding against Zeller’s
neck, cradling his jaw to slow him, to pace and settle. Zeller stretching
closer, excited little sounds, eyes opening just a crack in disbelief, concern
perhaps that tonight was the night that he had finally gotten too high.
Sighing, Bev arches a brow, watching as Will tilts his head just so, lips
parting to allow their tongues to tangle. Zeller moves, finally, loses the
weight of weed enough to push his hand through Will’s hair, another soft sound
accompanying it.
“Jesus,” Zeller gasps when Will parts from his mouth with a grin, remaining
close enough still, foreheads touching. “And I’m not even - I mean, maybe,
like, a little - but,” he shakes his head, closing his eyes with a groan when
Will’s fingers twist through the tight dark curls of his hair.
“Fuck it,” he decides, content enough it seems to just kiss - utterly thrilled,
in fact, to be doing so.
Will amuses himself by leaning back, further, further, until his shoulders hit
the wall, and Zeller leans just that little bit closer until they both topple,
a laughing pile of bodies, young, carefree.
Will holds his hand out for the joint and takes a deep drag of it as Zeller
seeks his hit from the slow meeting of lips with Bev, curled catlike and
pleased and much more content to join in, now that her plan is working itself
out.
Will crawls closer, straddling Zeller as he lies back against Bev, body between
her legs and head tilted back against her shoulder as her fingers stroke over
his throat, down into the shirt that’s slowly growing less and less buttoned
but by whose hand no one can say.
“Right,” Will sighs, grinning at Bev, holding the joint out to Zeller finally
so he can breathe in a proper hit. Then he ashes it, taking delight in doing so
onto the floor, before taking a drag himself. “No creativity whatsoever,
amateurs.”
This time when he sighs, it’s against the skin being presented him, their hips
pressed close, one hand out to keep any of them from getting burned, and smoke
running smooth and warm down Zeller’s neck, to his collarbone where it pools
and dissipates, and Will follows the motion with a soft laugh and the tip of
his tongue.
“What, like you’re a pro?” Bev laughs, taking her chance then to wrap her
fingers through Will’s hair and tug gently. “You’re barely even legal.” She
returns the kiss that meets her mouth when Will makes his way up the length of
Zeller’s neck, leaving him shivering and cursing beneath his breath.
“You’re not a bad kisser, Kinsey six,” she grins crooked, before ducking lower,
her cheek pressed to Zeller’s, her tone affectionate, chiding. “You’re
welcome.”
Will sighs a laugh, body languorous now, every shift and bend pleasingly heavy.
He places the spliff back between Zeller’s lips, and waits for him to drag from
it before rocking his hips once down against the other student. It pulls a
pronounced silence from Zeller, breath caught in his throat at the sensation,
the lithe movement against him, and he coughs sputtering, once, before Beverly
starts to trace soft, slow kisses against his cheek again, teasing the rest of
his buttons open with careful fingers.
“This can’t be fucking real,” wheezes Zeller, torn between watching Will above
him - lip caught between his teeth in a mischievous look - and settling with a
soft groan beneath Beverly’s familiar - and not often enough felt - touch.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” he insists softly. “I’ve finally gotten so high that I’m
just going to be high forever, asleep, dreaming about this.”
Will hums, glances up at Bev who no longer seems far too high and far too
amused to care to direct one way or the other, and directs his eyes to the man
between them instead.
“Apparently if you pinch yourself you wake up,” Will suggests, but catches the
hand that tries, to bring it to his lips instead, other hand working the button
and zipper on Zeller’s jeans, eyes half open but intense against the dark ones
that meet his.
“But there are so many more pleasurable ways to wake up.”
A slow, long rub of his palm over the boxers holding the semi-hard cock trapped
still, a gentle turn of his head to take the joint from between Zeller’s
fingers and arch back to breathe it in.
Will leans closer to pass to Beverly, accepting her kiss, sloppy and warm and
lazy now, as his hand works down to press against Zeller’s bare skin instead.
“Fuck, oh fuck.”
A laugh follows, warm and surprised, and Will wonders if that’s what he sounds
like to Hannibal when he laughs, if that’s why the man relishes the sound.
Hands slink up Will’s middle, not as large as those he’s used to, but enough to
hold him, to slide down his sides to his hips as Will moves them again, starts
a slow rhythm with his hand and parts his teeth to take another toke.
They are a creature with many limbs and many lungs but their hearts match, just
a little too fast but not enough to slow time entirely.
Bev catches Will, slender fingers curved beneath his jaw to bring him near
again, kissing him open-mouthed and warm, precisely where Zeller’s attention
falls as he groans beneath Will’s hands. She skims her own down over his chest,
curling her fingernails to graze along his ribs and force a gasping shiver from
him, and she smirks against Will’s mouth.
Enjoying the warmth, the intimacy of it, the friendship dawning between them.
Entirely aware of course that he’s not just a Kinsey six in nickname, but
gaining no less pleasure from the experience - and from watching Zeller squirm
- for knowing that.
“My turn?” she asks Will, tracing her tongue along her teeth in a wicked bright
grin.
“Oh god yes please,” breathes Zeller from beneath her arms and she arches a
brow down at him, before looking back towards Will.
She makes a pleased little sound, head tilting precociously with satisfaction
at the answer, and steals the remaining bit of joint away from Will. A quick
puff, and she untangles herself from beneath Zeller to knock the ash off in the
ashtray on his desk, and let it rest.
A sigh, smoky, and she slinks back up behind Will, straddling Zeller’s thighs
and curving her body against Will’s, a softer echo to the shifting of his hips.
She smiles, almost beatific, as Will tilts his head back against her shoulder
and presses his mouth along her neck, sending a look with raised brows and an
incorrigibly smug smirk down to Zeller, watching wide-eyed.
“Try to be a five,” she murmurs to Will, amused as she rests her chin on his
shoulder, seemingly more entertained by what this is doing for Zeller than
anything else, but certainly enjoying herself in the process. She pulls her
shirt off over her head, lets it fall to the floor, her bra following. From
behind Will, she slides her hands around him, tugging his shirt off in a
practiced motion, and then working down his fly.
“I’ll be your fucken four,” Will murmurs, tugging her earlobe gently when he
leans back against her again, hips up, forward, eyes down as he’s unclothed,
cheeks flushed more from inebriation than the nervousness he can feel beneath
him, around him.
He thinks of Hannibal’s words, four weeks ago, of how he should go to class,
live a normal teenage life, find a nice girl, fumble awkwardly in the dorms…
and it draws another rough low laugh from him when Bev’s hands slide cool and
gentle against him and stir him to undeniable attention.
Beneath him, another intake of breath, another low sound of pleasure and a
murmuring of how he’s high enough to believe this is happening for the moment.
Will hums, pleased, bites his lip and releases it on a sigh. His hand continues
the slow, deliberate pull, feeling Zeller’s cock twitch in his palm, all senses
overloaded with the taste and smell and sensation of them all together. Will
turns his head to kiss Bev again, mouth against her cheek to her jaw, to kiss
under it and move to her lips again, free hand splaying against Zeller’s chest,
curling in to press his nails in gentle points when he seems to be misdirecting
his attention.
He wonders again, who is wingman to who, when Bev’s hand around him twists just
so and Will makes a soft pleased noise.
He could grow used to this, this innocent play with no pressure to plan or kill
or prepare for something… just touches, the warmth of drugs and alcohol and the
promise of a good fuck.
He shivers, curves his shoulders, and grins at Zeller before leaning down, back
arched, to bite gently under his jaw, shifting to rock their hips together,
feel Bev’s hand unfurl to take them both together and stroke just as slow, as
Will brings both his hands up to work against the body beneath him. Nails
lightly scratching down his sides, up to a nipple, around it, up into his hair
to tilt his head back…
Sighing against Will’s shoulder, her own attentions certainly stirred now, Bev
kisses him there, drawing her lips along pale skin, attention briefly drawn by
a bruise, round, against the top of his shoulder. Teeth, she knows from her
classes, from the obvious shape of it, and she grins secretly, ducking her head
against Will’s back when she leans over him.
So maybe the kid does get some action after all.
Zeller groans beneath the attention, almost motionless from the overload of
hands and breath and mouths and sighs, rolling his hips into Bev’s hand,
feeling it stroke hot, hard against Will’s cock. He reaches up to tangle his
fingers through her hair, dark glossy strands hanging against Will’s pale skin,
and lets his hand slide down as she leans low over Will, nearly grinding
against him herself, and letting out a surprised noise, a rough moan when
Zeller grasps her breast, teasing a nipple, hardening it against Will’s back
where she’s pressed.
“This is the best fucking moment of my entire life,” Zeller exclaims softly, as
though he’ll disperse the dream if he speaks too loudly. Another groan as Bev
strokes them together harder, nuzzling Will’s neck, pressing soft kisses there,
up to his ear, watching Zeller beneath them both with immense amusement. “I
could actually just die right now and it would be fine.”
“Please,” Bev sighs, “please don’t. That would make this really weird.”
Will laughs, a genuine and utterly delighted sound and leans up to kiss Zeller
to shut him up.
“That’s not an experience I want to gain today, no,” he agrees, brushing their
noses together, lips parting on a silent sigh he releases slowly as he presses
closer to both bodies against him. So hot, so nice, and yet his attention is
wavering - between the clever hands and the soft breasts against him, the
shuddering heartbeat beneath him…
He moans softly and the response that draws is almost enough to keep him here.
“Fuck,” a low, long sound, pleasurable, as Will draws his body, fluid and cat-
like out from between them, tugging Zeller’s lip when he kisses him this time,
murmuring something about joining him on his side of the fence some time, or
something of the sort he hopes makes sense, before he staggers to standing, and
catches Bev’s shoulder before sliding to hold her chin gently.
“And you, master manipulator,” he grins, kisses her just as soundly, just as
pleased and enjoying it just as much without need for pretense or play.
“You’re fucken welcome.” He draws a thumb against her lips and meets her
answering grin with his own before grabbing his shirt - he hopes it’s his, oh
god - from the floor and staggering a little until he can press his shoulder to
the wall.
“I gotta -” he licks his lips gestures vaguely in a bow, straightens. “I gotta
go, see about a guy. If you’ll excuse me.”
Bev slides across Zeller and pushes up into a comfortable straddle across his
lap, his attentions torn seems torn between Will leaving and Bev still
shirtless on top of him.
"You can't go yet, I was going to make Z do the thing,” Bev exclaims.
Zeller blinks. "What thing?"
A breath is drawn through Will's teeth, a hesitant sound as Will plays happily
along with Beverly's vagaries.
"Well..."
Bev sighs, rolling her eyes entirely before she smirks at Will from beneath her
mess of hair. "I knew you were a buzzkill."
Will laughs, still pleasantly high, a comfortable warmth and settling feeling
now, like being beneath a pile of warm blankets when it's cold outside.
Like being with Hannibal, when he's gentle.
"Nah," he replies, grinning. "I'm just a hopeless six, remember?"
Zeller rests his hands - hesitant at first, like testing an electric stove in
the riskiest way possible - against Bev's thighs, watching Will with longing
now that he's whole feet away instead of there, pressed against them.
Will sighs, chews his lip, and pulls his phone from his pocket. No answer from
Hannibal, a couple hours after messaging. He frowns, tries not to dwell on what
the man is doing, doesn't want his jealousy to carry over and taint this too.
He glances back up. Watches Zeller, trying not to stare at Bev. Watches Bev,
arched and pretty, brow lifted towards Will in expectation. Anticipation.
Energy, positive and eager, between the three of them, a bond forming without
any pretense of romance or relationship, but simply from the novelty and fun of
it all.
"What was it you said earlier?" Will asks, with a nod towards Zeller. "Fuck
it?" He relishes the feel of the word on his tongue, the freedom of it. "Yes.
Fuck it."
He'll confess himself and take his penance later.
Bev’s laugh is downright wicked, a victory, but for whom, it’s unclear, and
Will removes his shirt again, tosses it away, and flings himself into bed
beside the two of them.
“Cruel, tempting creatures,” he sighs, grins, turns to bite against Zeller’s
chest gently before his hair is tugged and his head moved up.
It’s a strange sort of sensation, this, being wanted in such a way. For a
moment, for a time, for just this and not forever. An ease of no strings
without having to cut them or snap them with the dead weight of another body at
the end.
He grins, brings a hand up to cup Beverly’s face, a hand back to card his
fingers through Zeller’s hair, caught between the two of them but just to the
side, until two sets of hands bodily shift him to lie pressed in the middle and
Will laughs, tilting his head back against Zeller’s shoulder, curling his legs
around Bev’s in front of him.
“I should be behind you,” Will nuzzles softly against Zeller’s ear.
“You have more… practice here.” Another bite of his lip, his hand exploring the
unfamiliar territory of breasts and subtle curves, up to the bend of Beverly’s
neck, to her hair, long and smooth like oil or silk. Her hand finds the front
of his jeans again, Zeller’s slips to join, and Will moans, pleased, and warm,
and low, arching up against her, down against him.
“Okay,” a sigh, a laugh lilting it a little. “Okay, I can stay a bit… here… for
now… mmm.”
"I was going to have some serious questions if you actually left," Bev intones
against Will's mouth, freeing his cock from his pants again and shifting up to
straddle across both their thighs.
Zeller affects a pained grunt, groaning, "You're too heavy."
"Overburdened by my sexual prowess," she agrees, before arching a brow at Will.
Without a word, she tugs out a few condoms from her back pocket, tossing them
onto the bed beside, and leans low over Will.
"You should take the back," she murmurs to Zeller with a grin as her fingers
tease along Will's cock.
An entirely new energy than any he's used to, maybe a little like some of the
other boys he's played with but with far more patience, biding her time,
unhurried. Will watches her, fascinated, and skims his hands over her breasts,
taking in the weight of them as he kisses her and lets one hand ride lower
still to undo her jeans so she can wriggle out of them, so that she’s the first
of them - of course - to find herself entirely naked.
He skims his fingers over the curls of hair, lower still to the warmth between
her legs. She draws a breath, clipped, sighed long on a low moan, easing into a
steady rhythm down against Will's fingers as he draws them against her. Heat,
slickness beneath his fingertips, watching her astutely as he finds the
particular spot - it seems so obvious, for as often as he’s heard men
complaining - that makes her moan again, shivering.
“You have practice too,” Will grins at her, and cheeks flushed, smiling, she
shrugs, the movement carrying down to rock her hips against his touch.
“You’d be surprised the things you pick up in Hebrew school,” she laughs, and
Zeller chuckles as he presses kisses, firm and seeking against Will’s shoulder,
up to the back of his neck, enjoying the tickle of Will’s hair against his
face.
He follows her guidance, squeezing a hand between his and Will’s bodies to work
Will’s jeans lower and squeeze his ass, sighing hard.
“Just - over, down a little,” Will instructs softly, turning his head and
easing back onto his shoulders against Zeller’s chest, body arching up from him
to allow more space. Zeller nods, eager as ever, and slips his fingers down to
rub against Will’s opening. A groan, earned for this, and another murmured
instruction.
“Softly,” breathes Will, sighing against Zeller’s cheek as his hands work in
small circles against Bev, mirroring the surprisingly gentle touch he feels
against himself.
It’s careful, but excited - so intimate between all of them, exploring with
just enough nervousness between the three to seem so sweet that Will can hardly
stop from laughing, little fluttering sounds, entirely pleased by so
comparatively less than what he’s used to any other night.
“There,” Bev sighs, her voice roughening into a purr. “Fuck - yes, there.
Inside.”
Will listens, and draws a deep breath as he presses a finger inside her, and
then a second.
“Can I -?”
“God, yes,” Will laughs. “Wet, first,” he adds, and Zeller blinks and seems at
a loss for a moment as to how, before Will suggests against his ear, drawing a
shiver from him. “Your mouth. Or mine.”
A low sound, another disbelieving swear, as Zeller tugs his hand free of Will’s
pants, both boys wriggling in unison now to free themselves of their remaining
clothes, an awkward clumsy shifting that Bev watches with a wide grin.
“Jesus,” breathes Zeller, a sudden stillness to the proceedings, shirt still
tangled around one arm.
Will follows the line of his vision towards his stomach, scar stretched wide
and pale across from hip to hip.
“That’s brutal.”
“Z,” sighs Beverly.
“I’m just saying.”
“It’s fine,” Will insists, shaking his head at one or both of them. “Wrong
place at the wrong time. Could have happened to anyone.”
“There’s a happy thought,” Zeller replies, dry, and Bev rolls her eyes before
wrapping her arm around Will, letting her fingers trace the imperfection.
“I think it’s cool,” she shrugs, and this seems enough to satisfy Zeller’s
curiosity.
They settle again, murmurs to make sure that everyone is okay, still good, can
I, yes, little utterances all increasingly breathless before Will works his
hand harder, fingers deeper inside her again and she arches, lifting her mess
of hair back from her face to drape over a shoulder, and watches as Zeller
slides an arm around Will, who eagerly draws one of Zeller’s fingers into his
mouth, sucking slowly.
He watches Bev, the way she enjoys this without a blush, her skin a little too
dark to properly carry it, but with a grin. Hungry for them both, for the
warmth between them, the unspoken agreement to stay with this, keep it simple.
Will arches, rocks his hips back in a languid, slow shift until Zeller curses,
until he moves to slide his finger free of Will’s lips and he nips him with a
grin.
"Up," Will suggests, for no other reason than to change position, to feel hands
slide slick against skin. And between them, he turns, lips gentle against Bev's
neck, her collarbone, nosing at her shoulder before he adjusts and rests his
head back against it instead. The way his hand bends with the change of angle
draws a gasp, a pleased little moan from her and her teeth find his shoulder
instead as Will grins, languid, and watches Zeller carefully.
"Here," Will takes the seeking hand and slides it around his waist, almost like
an embrace and mirrors with his own to splay and keep him close. Caught between
the two of them, shivering pleasantly at hints of teeth and tongues over his
skin.
He adjusts, sets Zeller’s fingers where he wants, and spreads his thighs, an
obvious invitation. It's simple enough, for the other, to press in, close
enough to what he's used to, when Will finds himself playing blind, by ear
only, by touch. His hand slides away and back, down, and both he and Bev
inhale, slow, pleased, as fingers slip within them again.
"Fuck," Will sighs, laughs, leans in to kiss the older boy before pulling back
to murmur in his ear, "I won’t break" and kiss down his neck instead, as Bev
leans over to pull Zeller to her and kiss the pleased moan from his lips.
"I would," mutters Zeller, eyes closing as he pushes his fingers deeper into
Will, groaning low when Will tugs his cock, just once, enough to pull color to
his cheeks. "Fuck, it's - you're - " he stammers pleasurably, licking his lips
before they part open in another curl of sound. Body plucked tight with
pleasure, his fingers follow the sweet tension and now Will's moan joins his. A
lovely thing, young and almost a little pained, but undeniably a sound of
satisfaction.
"Does it hurt?" Zeller asks, forcing his eyes open again, just enough to watch
Will above him.
"Mmm," comes the agreeable sound, as Will's lips curl into a grin, little
kisses peppered between his words. "Just a bit. In a good way, though."
Will and Beverly both kiss against Zeller's neck, an awkward twist of bodies -
all shifting, all writhing together, against and away, together and apart,
drawing moans from each other, breathless pants and long sighs. She brushes a
kiss along Will's shoulder, contentedly twisting her hips down against his
fingers, moving herself where she wants to feel him, and she grins, leaning
further, against Zeller's ear.
"You should try it."
He seems to consider it, for only a moment, before laughing, groaning, all at
once when Will curls his wrist up firm over the head, grin widening as Zeller's
breath hitches short. Unable to keep up with all the movement, trying to work
his fingers in Will, to enjoy Will's fingers on him, to watch Bev curving and
twisting bare, dark hair spilling across her breasts, as she rides breathless
against Will's fingers.
"I'm good," Zeller finally declares, leaning up to kiss Will soundly, no
hesitation now in doing so, and snaring Beverly gently around her neck to bring
her near again and let his tongue part her lips as well.
Will laughs, draws his hand from Bev for just one moment to direct another
finger against himself, gasping the boy’s name when he takes the hint, before
returning to tormenting Bev behind him, perhaps - he decides, in a mix of drug-
haze and drunken pleasure - his only exception to his rule.
“Don’t you fucken dare,” he groans, bites harder against Zeller’s chest,
tilting his head for Bev to nose behind his ear, affectionate, not claiming,
and so, so pleasant. “If you cum you’re the fucken buzzkill, we’re both relying
on you here.”
He laughs again as Bev brings a hand up his chest to tug a nipple.
“I may be the kid’s temporary exception, Z, but you’re the one who’s gonna fuck
me.”
Before them, Zeller stills, even breath held as his eyes widen, flick between
the two of them as they both grin, twist, bend together - a two-headed creature
of temptation and pleasure.
“And she lacks the… necessary equipment to fuck me well enough.” Will reasons,
relishing in the shock, the gasp he finally manages to draw when it dawns on
Zeller what both of them are implying.
“Oh you’re fucken kidding…”
“Hell hath no fury, Z,” Beverly purrs, twisting her wrist as Will shifts back
against the fingers in him and stills, tense in pleasure, little mewling noises
of need escaping him that send both his partners to shivering, pleased,
delighted by it.
“And how can you leave the kid wanting? Look at him.”
Will bites his lip, whimpers, and leans close to kiss Zeller with a smile.
“Who needs fucken sleep, right?” he grins.
***** Chapter 9 *****
Chapter Summary
     “Are you mad?”
     “Should I be?”
Waiting.
The text was short, counter to the long sigh that Will was relieved to release
when he left the dorms. Another joint shared in parting, although Will left
most of it to Bev and Zeller, content at the time to rest between them,
touching both, decidedly satisfied despite the negotiations of positioning that
had them all laughing throughout, before happy moans replaced it.
He had left them there, still wrapped up with each other, smoke as dense in the
room as the sweet muskiness of sex, Zeller in particular scarcely able to keep
his eyes open through his exhausted contentment, enough to wave a hand towards
Will in his exit.
Spring now, but still cool at night, a brisk breeze against Will’s bare arms
where he’s shoved up his sleeves and hasn’t bothered to put on his sweater
again. An almost unbearable warmth now, boiling into an eager roiling
excitement in his stomach as he skips up the steps to the house and waves the
cab away that picked him up from campus.
He scarcely cares for the time as he fumbles, grinning, with the keys to let
himself in, the only certain concern in his mind the simple pleasures of the
evening, shared with friends. The smoky heaviness in his limbs. The message
that he checks again on his phone just before entering.
Waiting.
Inside, it’s predictably quiet, dark, and Will works his boots off his feet
with his toes before leaving his bag by them - he can pick it up in the
morning, later in the day, it hardly matters.
He stretches, muscles pleasantly sore from a familiar activity, pleasantly
heavy from the drug. Will grins, another smooth, slow pleasurable expression
before taking the steps on light feet two at a time to get to the bedroom.
Hannibal is in bed but not sleeping, the light is on and his tablet is
predictably up, braced on his knee. He’s in glasses today and Will feels
something too warm, too full spread in his chest when he sees him.
“You are waiting,” he comments, from the door, waits for the man to look at
him, to bring his hand up to slip the glasses down his nose and off, expression
both tired and feigning indifference, and Will launches himself to the bed,
like an excited kid, like someone his age, high and drunk and recently fucked.
When he kisses Hannibal it’s deep, eyes closed and lips parted and a soft moan
between them.
There is, as both know there must be, a hum of disapproval as the clumsy boy
clambers against him and mashes their mouths together. A hand lifts, to spread
through Will’s hair - long enough to truly be considered shaggy now - and push
it back from his face, settling against the back of his neck.
“I missed you.”
Myriad tastes, smells, familiarity beneath the cacophony of information that
presents itself to Hannibal much as Will does now, full lips flushed scarlet
and parting in a grin.
“I missed you so much,” he insists again, and without releasing him, Hannibal
sets aside his glasses and the tablet in favor of tugging Will closer, atop
him, to bury his nose in Will’s dark curls as the boy scrambles clumsily to
straddle his lap and press the whole length of his body so close, so quickly,
that Hannibal grunts beneath the weight of his boy.
Hannibal is tired, after the evening’s activities. A lovely little ginger who
giggled too much, high on something Hannibal couldn’t begin to guess. Giggled
so much while Hannibal was fucking him that he put a hand over the boy’s mouth
to quiet him, and just... never let go. Whatever he was on had put a fight in
him then, and to his surprise, Hannibal ended up with a bruise against his
thigh.
He had not been especially kind after that, and the result had taken longer to
resolve than he would have liked.
Fresh sheets then, clean and soft and expensive and smelling just distantly of
lilacs that Hannibal keeps dried in the linen closet. All buried beneath the
thick piney sweet fumes of marijuana clinging to Will’s every inch, beneath the
smell of sex that differs, drastically, from the scent that drives Hannibal
into a fury of hands and teeth when Will has returned from one of his hunts.
He hums another soft note, turning his nose against Will’s, a gentle nuzzle,
unable to keep the pique of curiosity from his tone.
“You are in good spirits.”
Will laughs, the soft sound Hannibal loves, the warm one, the sound he makes
when the man gives him the ultimate pleasure, lets him enjoy it, and presses
their foreheads together.
“I’m really,” he takes a deep breath, “really high. And a little drunk. But
mostly high.”
He wriggles in Hannibal’s hold, thinks again of the softness of the two bodies
pressed against him not an hour before, of the almost shy way he’d been fucked
there, enjoyed, allowed to enjoy himself… and yet he had missed this, he had
come back here - to Hannibal.
“Some beer,” he sighs, framing Hannibal’s face with his hands. “A lot of weed
and…” he sighs, again, “two very accommodating friends. In a night of utter
debauchery.”
He kisses him again, soft.
“Happy to be home.”
A brow lifts but Hannibal does not have time to ask, merely murmuring, “You
are.” Happy and home both, here and whole, in defiance of the thoughts that
still appear as shadows in the corners late at night, wondering if some other
had Will’s blood on their hands, as Hannibal had blood on his own.
None of that now, dispersed, beneath the little hands that curl against his
cheeks, beneath the rain of kisses that fall across his mouth, his cheek, down
to his jaw where Will tucks his head beneath and settles his weight out, heavy,
against Hannibal’s chest.
Some distant thrum of discord, a missed note among the duet now playing as
Hannibal curls his arms around the slight boy curling his fingers through
Hannibal’s chest hair.
“Tell me of your friends,” Hannibal suggests, unreadable beyond a distinct
curiosity.
Will hums, uncurls against Hannibal, small body pliant and heavy against him.
“You’ve met one, he took the paper your thesis was studied in,” he murmurs.
“This is the guy who wanted your autograph,” Will giggles, pressing warm lips
to the familiar skin beneath them, the familiar warmth. His entire body is
relaxing here, fully, in the presence of Hannibal, feeling his heart slowly
match to his again.
“The other is six points behind me in forensics.” Will bites his lip, pushes
himself up, smiling. “She’s very smart.” An unnecessary addition if not for the
gender involved, and Will feels himself flush a little before Hannibal even
says anything. “Kinsey six, Kinsey five… four three two one,” he laughs.
Hannibal wonders, as Will’s laugh shifts into a sweet, low moan against his
chest, if perhaps he should feel more envious than he does. There is a vicious,
tearing sensation in him when Will goes out hunting - thorned branches twine
through his ribs, every breath tearing them deeper until Will returns and
Hannibal can fuck the smell of them from him.
The vines do not unfurl now, and Hannibal tilts his head enough to regard Will.
Perhaps he is merely too exhausted from his own particular struggles of the
evening, that tittering boy whose laughs were as sandpaper against his skin
rather than the flutter he feels fall against him when he hears Will do the
same.
The smell of smoke is overwhelming, though, pungent and dank, and Hannibal
forces a breath quickly through his nose, an attempt to clear it.
“An age-appropriate experimentation,” he murmurs, resting his cheek against
Will’s hair now, wrapping his fingers in it. “Not at all out of the ordinary
for individuals in your age group to begin to branch out, and feel new
sensations. She?” adds Hannibal with faint amusement.
“Is an exception,” Will mumbles, parting his lips over Hannibal’s nipple,
drawing the rough flat of his tongue over it before sighing over the damp skin.
“The navigation there requires further study I’m not sure I ever want to
undertake,” he adds, amusement in his tone as well, warm, comfortable. He
pushes himself up to kiss Hannibal again, lingering and drug-lazy. “Came back
to you,” he reminds him, utterly unnecessarily. “Missed you. Want you.”
Will settles his hands on either side of Hannibal on the bed and he pushes
himself up on all fours just to watch him, to fulfil the strange desire to both
move and not, where he is, how he is. He meets Hannibal’s eyes, smiles again,
softer.
“Are you mad?”
“Should I be?” Hannibal suggests in return, and runs his hands over Will’s
shoulders, down his arms, to snare his wrists and bring his boy’s arms up
around his neck. “It seems a surprisingly wholesome activity compared to where
you normally find yourself,” he chides him, again that distant amusement.
Imagining Will exploring a woman’s body, possibly for the first time, a whole
new set of roles to play, of pleasures to give and to take.
“Delinquent boy,” sighs the older man, content enough it seems to leave it at
that for now. “You smell of smoke.”
Will grins, a sleepy wanton thing, ducking his head beneath Hannibal’s chin
again, cheeks ruddy bright scarlet.
“Can’t have me sleeping in bed like that,” responds Will, arching pleased, hips
settling over Hannibal’s own. “Clean sheets.”
He wishes he hadn’t said it as soon as he does, tries hard not to think of why
this would be because he knows, with certainty, but the drug helps to ease the
thoughts away, pull them from that place far forward in his chest where they
settle, and he moans soft against Hannibal’s mouth as the older man moves.
It takes a moment, to work out the weight of boy sprawled across him, and still
manage to stand, but through a brief displacement of Will to the bed - met with
a little whine - Hannibal manages himself up and lifts Will after him.
Long legs, limber and lithe, slide and lock around his waist, and Will loops
his arms around Hannibal’s neck again.
“I’m glad you are home,” Hannibal finally responds, chasing the words with a
lingering kiss.
In the bathroom, Will is set down to undress himself, and he does, in slow
languid pulls of the fabric from his body. This time, Hannibal ignores the
messy pile in which the clothes land, and simply gathers them to wash later, to
pull the smell of drugs and sweat from them as the water will from the boy when
they shower.
He encourages Will to step into the shower first, to relish in the way the
water falls over his head and presses his hair against his forehead, down in
long heavy strands over his shoulders.
Hannibal should get him to cut it, should trim it himself to something
presentable and befitting the lordling he will make him when Will sits still
and behaves long enough. Instead, he finds his fingers sliding up between the
strands, against the boy’s hot scalp and under the warm water, and Will groans,
in the most pleasing way, before turning to press himself into Hannibal’s arms,
his own bent against the man’s chest.
They’re quiet, no need for words here as white noise steals their thoughts and
leaves just their hands, wandering warm and slow over the skin of the other,
remembering them again, finding new things to catalog, simply soaking in the
touch the other offers them.
Will’s fingers linger over the new bruise, brows drawn, and he presses the tips
against it long enough to pale the skin and for Hannibal to hiss, less in pain
and more in warning, and Will lifts his head, grin wide, and licks his bottom
lip into his mouth.
From the flicker of tension in the corners of his eyes, it's evident that
Hannibal is none too pleased by this.
"A less relaxing night than you enjoyed," he remarks, closing his eyes to turn
into the water, letting it run hot against his skin. "A shame, that you never
got to enjoy the one you left inside my thigh on our first meeting. It was a
very particular shade of purple. I'm sure you would have taken great pleasure
in later pressing your teeth against it."
A sigh, as water passes down across his eyes, his mouth where he runs his hand,
across his chest where Will runs his.
"I'm lucky that your intended target was out of reach."
Amusement, just there in the twitch of his lips, before he suddenly snares Will
with both hands around his ass, to hoist him again and feel his skinny legs
wrap slick around him.
Hannibal leans him against the wall for support, slippery boy, and mouths
slowly against his throat, his collarbone raised curving beneath pale skin.
A gentler reclaiming, but possessive all the same, a smothering warmth to feel
nothing but the boy against his front and the water down his back.
Will sighs, pleased, arches his head back and bites his lip. His body is
throbbing with his pulse, feeling more and more languid in the heat of the
shower, the heat of the man pressing against him. The man Will had returned to,
for this, for company, for the pure knowledge that someone gave a shit that he
existed. That he mattered.
He tugs Hannibal’s hair gently and slides his other hand over his back, no
marks here, not now, but pressing firmly enough as he traces Hannibal’s spine
for the man to feel it.
“Mmm, I could make others,” he points out, smile lazy and warm when Hannibal
lifts his head again. “Suck them into your skin and bite them to remind you why
I made them.”
He rolls his hips forward, twists gently just to feel Hannibal hold him
tighter.
“You are just as mine as I am yours, Hannibal,” he murmurs.
Hannibal squeezes the boy closer to stay his wiggling, his slippery movements,
head tilted back to allow Will as much room as he desires to kiss his neck, and
traces his slender fingers across its curves.
"Am I?" Hannibal muses, resisting a smile to instead furrow his brows, feigning
a mild dismay. "Claimed by an errant and awful boy who spends his nights in
debauchery, as I wait obedient and patient for his return?"
He pushes his hips against Will, to feel them grind together in languid, deep
movements. A hand slides across his thigh, to trace the scar there, and finally
grasp their hardening lengths together.
"Held in my place by a little wolf."
Will’s lips part wide, jaw slack and eyes barely open and he makes a sweet,
soft noise of pleasure as Hannibal touches him, still sensitive, still buzzing
from every high imaginable, and now exactly where he wants to be.
“You were disobedient before I came home,” Will offers, but his tone is utterly
weakened now, by the strong, rough hands coaxing him to quick and pleasing
hardness again. He leans into Hannibal, wraps his arms, both, secure around his
shoulders and kisses him, rocking his hips slowly into the grip, slowly towards
another anticipated and wanted session of sex.
He wonders who in their right mind calls this a disorder, a disease, he grins,
nuzzling against Hannibal until the man finds the perfect rhythm and Will is
set gasping against him in quick pants of warm air.
“Nnn,” a shiver, nothing to do with the temperature around them and everything
to do with their proximity, their shared space, and Will moans.
"Insatiable boy."
The words and their disapproving tone come as predictably as clockwork, drawing
another grin from the boy that Hannibal holds splayed against the wall.
A rhythm found now not only through Hannibal's hand wrapped tight around them
both, but in a grander sense. Patterns created unspoken to allow each other
space enough to play, and to always come back together again, reunited with
ferocity, as though they had been years apart.
Both worked to hardness now, Hannibal tugs his hand free, wrist rolling to turn
his fingers against the heads of their cocks, sighing as their pulse adjusts to
matching.
A steady frottage, firm and insistent, shifting in languid rolls against each
other. Hannibal's groan deepens, wrapping a single arm beneath Will's thighs to
support him, and bracing the other against the wall beside him.
Water streams across their skin, surrounded each by the other and the rush of
heat.
Hannibal wonders, as Will's arms tighten around his neck and he begs for more
more please Hannibal yes there more. Wonders if Will had ever been with a woman
before tonight, or if had always known his proclivities. Wonders if he had
enjoyed the experience beyond his own drive to control pleasure - his own and
that of others.
Wonders if this is perhaps an attempt at a normalcy that Hannibal cannot
provide his boy, but there is no scent on the wind of any such threat and his
boy is here pressed against him and begging for attention.
"Cease your whining," Hannibal murmurs affectionately, ducking his head against
Will's temple and turning the boy's cheek to the tile to breathe him in.
His fingers press searching against Will's opening, one hand spreading him open
as the other arm supports his weight.
"Stretch, Will. For me."
Will swallows thickly, parts his lips to allow that sound past them.for a
moment he doesn't at all obey, just watching Hannibal, his eyes, his
expression... he's curious but not angry, content to his own wonderings as he
waits.
Will brings his hand up to his lips, sucks three fingers in a slow, deliberate
pull, before letting them slip free, sticky and glistening with spit.
He doesn’t lick his lips dry as he drops his hand to finally do as he’s told,
eyes hooded and on Hannibal’s, the blush growing darker as he pushes one finger
in, then two, deliberately slow and unchastised for it; Hannibal enjoying the
vision of Will flushed and arching against him.
Three fingers and Will leans to kiss him, an open-mouthed hungry thing, a soft
noise between them as his thumb brushes the hand holding him open for his own
fingers to work loose.
Hannibal closes his lips firm over Will's, a hunger in the sound that wells up
from behind his ribs, up from his stomach, the base of his spine. He parts only
to trace the tip of his tongue along the trail of spit that rests delicate,
debauched against the boy's chin, a distinct pleasure caught in the corners of
his eyes.
Rubbing himself slowly against Will, shuddering now when their cocks brush
bobbing together, soft skin pulled taut and flushed, warm and pink with the
heat of arousal, the heat of the shower running over them.
His thumb extends, and snares Will's beneath it, only just restraining the
motion of Will inside his own body, to keep their fingers locked fondly
together, to feel him work. Hannibal stretches out another finger as well, to
rub against the sensitive skin parting wide for him, by his request, beneath
Will's touch. Their eyes meet, an instant of connection that draws a wild
shiver down Will's spine.
"Wider, please," Hannibal requests, gently, not letting Will lose his eyes, the
fierceness of their shared gaze, so that even when Will's eyelids fall heavy he
keeps them open, nodding slack-mouthed in response.
Another swallow, cheeks bright and hot, now, as Hannibal holds him pinned with
just a gaze. This. This is power between them, now. The fucking, brutal and
deep, is always there, always theirs, but this... this is when Hannibal’s power
over the boy in his arms is fully apparent.
Will adds another, gently hisses at the stretch but keeps going regardless.
It amuses him that one of Hannibal’s favorite hobbies now is to watch Will
stretch wide for him. Spread, aching, the skin rimming his little hole flushed
with the abuse against it.
A swallow clicks in Will’s throat and he trembles again.
"Anything,” he breathes.
And Hannibal knows this to be true. Knows that there is nothing he could ask of
Will that Will would not do, unless acting out in deliberate defiance to earn a
punishment. As he keeps his eyes open now without Hannibal asking, as he
presses and spreads his own fingers to the point of pain and discomfort.
His ego purrs, and it carries past Hannibal’s mouth as he presses his forehead
to Will’s, studies from up close the scarlet spread across his cheeks, the
redness of his mouth as he moans, flinching just a little.
“My beautiful boy,” murmurs Hannibal, closing his eyes to kiss him gently, a
tenderness out of place with the rough stretch that he demands of Will, the
hardness of their bodies in sustaining this careful position. He curls a finger
around, past where he can feel Will’s fingers pressing delightfully past
sensitive skin to fill himself, and caresses his scar instead.
“Always.”
Will shudders, bucks, and arches his chest forward, his head ducked bent and
eyes only barely open now.
"Please," he sighs, watches Hannibal relish the obedience, the question, feels
his tongue touch Will’s own where it seeks to wet his lips, to lick away the
thin droplets from the shower.
Will gasps again, shivers with need and whines until he feels his hand stilled,
a silent permission, and withdraws it to curl over Hannibal's cock instead. He
guides him just enough to press the head past his opening, trembles with the
way his skin feels so sensitive slowly tightening over it again, just enough.
He doesn’t demand of Hannibal in turn, though he could, could beg him to fuck,
to take his time, to make him feel it... it hardly matters to Will, now, the
knowledge that he could ask just as arousing as the way he refrains from doing
so.
Blue eyes meet brown again, blink, and a warm, sweet moan of Hannibal’s parts
Will's lips.
He holds himself there, breath shortened as he feels Will tighten around him
again, resists the urge to simply plunder him against the wall, rough and
primal as they so often do. Hannibal waits, the hint of voice caught on his
sighs, until Will whimpers and wriggles against him, seeking movement,
stimulation, anything but that delicious sustained suspension of sensation.
"Greedy," murmurs Hannibal, dragging his lips against Will's, leaving them
there, scarcely touching, to taste the choked, ecstatic moan pushed from him
when Hannibal buries himself entirely.
Both gasping now, from the sudden fullness, the sudden clench, a cascade of
goosebumps despite the water, gentle fingers curling against Hannibal's face, a
wondering touch and a dreamy, heavy-lidded gaze that makes him appear so much
younger still.
No, not younger. Innocent, entirely. Something ethereal and inhuman, superior,
as Hannibal knows him to be.
"And you will return, to me?" Hannibal murmurs, breathless himself, disheveled
with hair wet in his eyes and lips parted slack. Uncaring about his demeanor,
the power play, the roles they so often settle into.
Lovers, in this moment, nothing more or less, as Hannibal brushes his nose
alongside Will's.
"Tell me."
Will moans, bends into the series of shivers that wrack his body like slow
nails up and down his spine.
They’re pressed so close, both out from under the stream of water now, the
stray drops that land against Hannibal’s back burst, disperse, send a sheet of
thin, light drops against Will’s skin and he smiles, arches up, laughs softly.
“Yes,” he sighs. “Every day I will return to you.”
Not a petulant teenager agreeing to seemingly outrageous terms, not a student
demanding something of his mentor.
Lovers. Nothing more or less.
Will gasps, the sound almost swallowed by the white noise when Hannibal starts
to move, a slow, deep motion that sends Will shivering every time, sends his
hands slipping over Hannibal’s back to hold on, to press closer, to leave
gentle marks of his own.
“After every kill,” he whimpers, grasping Hannibal’s hair and laughing when,
for just a moment, he pushes harder, presses Will against the wall and sets his
teeth to his throat on possessive reminder. Keeps them there, gentled, as he
keeps fucking him.
“Because I’m yours.” Words soft, shared between them only, no one else in the
world but them, late at night or too early in the morning, pressed every way
they can be in the shower, joined in the most intimate way possible.
Will’s limbs are still heavy, still drug-filled and languid and he wonders if
these words will feel as powerful the next morning when he’s clear-headed. He
wonders if they will feign again, and go on doing it. He wonders if drugs alone
make him honest.
“Because I l-”
The sound is stolen by a moan, high, and followed by deep, quick gasps of need
as Hannibal holds him still and torments that one spot within him that sends
Will entirely speechless.
Some part of Hannibal is starved to hear this confession made whole - a gnawing
longing snaring tight inside his stomach. Something he knows, in his bones,
that Will feels as genuinely and fully as he feels all things. A beautiful boy
who blooms from blood and who flourishes from violence to leave in his wake
something more wondrous than what existed before.
That word, that concept, found here, between them.
But in a lower register, the louder, ravenous part of Hannibal will not hear
it. It is a lie, an untruth, a mockery of normalcy. Hannibal tells himself that
while Will feels it, he does not - cannot - feel it himself. It does not exist
in him, the capacity to form this word, and he cannot tempt himself to think it
does by hearing his boy's sweet high voice give it life.
"You know not what you say," Hannibal cautions him softly, unrelenting yet in
his pace. Torn desires, to save the boy from being overrun by his own emotions,
to see it happen and watch him unfurl in beauty, to save himself from the taunt
of hearing what Hannibal knows evades him.
To consider it.
Perhaps it could be so simple, after all.
Hannibal sighs, rough, and buries himself in the boy, a relief from working
against his prostate, to feeling the entire length of Will, as much as Hannibal
can consume when he grasps the boy's cock again to stroke slowly. His free hand
curls to feel Will stretched around him, to feel the push and pull of muscle as
he works in a hard, steady rhythm.
A whimper, high and pleased, and Will does not speak again, doesn't allow
himself to dwell on it. Too high, too tired for this to be anything but
falsities and jest, certainly. Really. Will arches back harder, one hand out to
splay against the wall, the other gripping Hannibal's arm tight for balance, to
keep them close.
He moans, sweet and long, and bites his lip, desperate to cum again, by
Hannibal's hand, sensitive from losing himself to pleasure before.
"Hannibal please -" a deeper arch in his back, fingers dragging along the tile
behind him as Will pants his pleasure and watches the man enjoy his struggle,
as he always does, as he always encourages.
"I'll come back," he gasps, licking his lips quickly and leaving his lips
parted. "I'll always come back."
The words that hold as much gravity as those interrupted, and Will whimpers in
need as the pace does not relent, as the hand against his cock tightens and
stills, a warning, an unspoken command.
Hannibal’s breath, his words are cut short by the ferocity of how deeply he
fucks Will, supporting the squirming boy against the wall, groaning low to feel
Will stretch and tighten around him.
He watches, eyes hooded, as Will burns so brightly, fights himself, suppresses
his most primal drives for release, for gratification, to please Hannibal. An
extraordinary restraint for an irrational whim, control from a boy who is so
entirely wild, tamed to Hannibal’s hand by his own choice and yielding. By his
own adoration.
Perhaps he did mean it, Hannibal considers, and in this thought, Hannibal loses
himself, shoving Will hard against the shower wall, teeth sinking claiming into
his shoulder to hold him in place and hand loosening to allow Will to follow
him. Both panting, trembling, clinging to the other as relief pulls itself from
them both in stripes of white heat that leaves them gasping.
Hannibal does not let him go, does not pull out of him or let their bodies
separate yet. He lifts Will from the wall, the boy’s weight heavy in his arms
and legs wrapped tight around his waist, his own arms secure around Will in a
fierce embrace.
“If you did not,” Hannibal murmurs low, “I would find you, Will. I would hunt
you down myself and bring you home again. This is where you belong, by my hand
and by force, were it necessary.”
Will sighs his pleasure against Hannibal now, held as he is, body still taut
still coiled at the edge of need and fulfillment. The water feels so good
against his back, down his shoulders, just as warm as the man he presses to,
just as enveloping and cleansing.
With as much ability to drown and kill as to comfort and soothe.
Will nuzzles, brings a hand up to tug Hannibal’s hair just gently and tilt his
head to kiss him. Slow, deep, parting his lips to him and pulling back with a
smile when the water runs between them and into their mouths.
The smile is returned, readily, before it disappears beneath another kiss as
Hannibal finally lowers Will back to the ground, both unsteady now, leaning
into the other, immersed in warm water and warmer arms.
“You have had a busy night,” says Hannibal, amused, as he reaches for the
shampoo. A dollop dropped into his palm is soon worked through Will’s hair, a
shaggy mop of lank wet curls that he gathers between firm fingers to wash the
smell of smoke away from him. “And it is far past your bed time.”
Chiding, gently, as he enjoys a moment more of Will shivering beneath the light
scrape of fingernails against his scalp, before he snares his hair just a
little tighter to tilt Will’s head back beneath the water. His mouth finds
Will’s again, kissing him beneath the comfortable torrent, and he reaches for
the soap - the faint scent of pine tar, warm and masculine - to glide the bar
against the boy’s skinny body.
No pale plane or ridge, no curve or stretch of skin avoids Hannibal’s touch,
chasing the bar with his fingers to leave bubbles in their wake, sliding down
the length of him beneath the shower. Across his neck, his collarbones, down
along his chest and ribs, further down still to where Hannibal lingers a moment
longer on the scar across his belly and the spots of suture scars alongside it.
The scar inside his thigh receives particular attention, until Hannibal finds
himself on his knees in front of the boy, dark eyes turning upward and soapy
hands grasping pale calves.
The devout, worshipping at the altar of youth, in absolute adoration and
unrestrained reverence.
Will stands, hands in his hair, curled and pulling it hard enough to narrow his
eyes as he watches Hannibal on his knees for him. The white noise takes on
patterns, of heartbeats and unspoken words, and Will’s smile grows.
He slips his hands down over his shoulders, eyes unblinking at the man before
him.
"Then take me to bed," he murmurs, tired, the drug still clinging to him even
as the smell of it is chased from his skin to belong to Hannibal again.
"Please."
His boy. His little wolf. Licked clean and set back where he belongs.
***** Chapter 10 *****
Chapter Summary
     "Didn't think the FBI followed up on genius delinquency," Will
     intones, allowing a smile at seeing his companions from the night
     before, as well as Jimmy Price, seated already. Bev looks as
     exhausted as Will feels. Zeller deliberately avoids his eyes, but he
     looks awake, at least. "Anyone want to tell me what the fuck?"
Chapter Notes
     We'll be on hiatus for a few days while Blood is at Monster Mania,
     and should have the next chapter up early next week. In the meantime,
     feel free to share thoughts, opinions, or anything at all with us in
     the comments below! <3
The call comes early, and at first Will convinces himself that all it is, is a
badly set alarm he'd forgotten to remove.
A groan, a groping towards his cellphone to shut the stupid thing off, before
Will settles against the warm body behind him again, sighing and feeling
himself slip back into the welcoming tendrils of sleep.
But the phone still emits sounds, soft things, but frequent, repetitive, and
slowly Will realizes that he hadn't quite managed to shut off an alarm as he
has managed to answer a call, the person on the other end determined to have
him hear.
Another groan, another shift, and Will presses the thing to his ear.
"Mr. Graham, are you there?"
"I suppose it depends who for," Will mumbles, behind him, Hannibal breathes a
long, slow sigh against his boy’s back, a hand up to stroke through his messy
hair, silk-soft from the shower the night before.
"An interesting, and perhaps appropriate answer for an early Saturday morning,"
the voice sounds genuinely amused.
"Mr. Graham, my name is Jack Crawford, I head the behavioral science unit at
the FBI."
And in one moment, Will is utterly awake, muscles tensing and heart throbbing
in his chest.
"How can I help, sir?"
"By fulfilling, perhaps, a cruelly inappropriate request." Will's breath
freezes in his lungs, and begins to burn them. "Could you make it into the
headquarters in, say, an hour?"
"Quantico?"
"That's right."
Will swallows, presses back against Hannibal harder as though melting into the
man would save him.
"Is it suspicious to ask why, sir?"
A laugh from the other end, again, entirely genuine.
"Simply following up on something."
Will asks nothing further, agrees to come in. When he finally manages to hang
up, his heart is hammering and his body feels tight enough to crack.
He forces himself calm, turns to kiss Hannibal good morning, hot lips against
his jaw, down his throat. If this particular wake up is delivered between the
man’s legs he hardly doubts Hannibal minds, with the low groan of pleasure and
the fingers running soft scrapes over his scalp.
-
The Quantico headquarters look like a prison with no bars on the windows
because there are no windows to bar. The ultimate efficiency, Will thinks, as
he steps out of his car and doesn't bother locking it.
He drags his boots - and himself in them - up to the front desk, accepts a
visitor badge and is directed up to the fourth floor and told to follow the
corridor.
He takes in the space, his usually sharp, honed ability to read and adapt
dulled now by the residue of alcohol and weed. He wonders if he'd taken
something stronger and managed to fuck himself up enough to hallucinate.
Following the corridor leads him past a large office, voices within.
"Didn't think the FBI followed up on genius delinquency," he intones, allowing
a smile at seeing his companions from the night before, as well as Jimmy Price,
seated already. Bev looks as exhausted as Will feels. Zeller deliberately
avoids his eyes, but he looks awake, at least. "Anyone want to tell me what the
fuck?"
“I’d be happy to tell you what the fuck,” comes the voice from behind Will,
drawing a cringe as he steps aside. “You must be Will Graham. Jack Crawford.”
Beverly bites back a grin as Jack extends his hand to Will. A tall man,
imposing in stature, who regards Will with a dry amusement as they shake.
“A pleasure, I think,” Will responds, equally dry but pulling back the snap of
his usual sarcasm as he allows Jack into the room and finds a seat next to
Jimmy with a quick nod. An older student than the rest of them, but seen
frequently enough around the same building that he’s not unfamiliar.
Jack regards him at length as he steps behind his desk. “We’ll see,” he
responds. “Take one and pass them down.” Files are handed to Zeller at the end,
who does as told, but glances to the others and then Jack again, wary.
“Did we - are we in trouble?”
Amusement in the lift of Jack’s brows. “Why, should you be?”
“No,” Zeller responds quickly. “No, I mean, not FBI-level trouble, but -” A
sharp elbow from Beverly silences him and Jack, dutifully ignoring the remarks,
opens a file of his own, settling into his chair.
“You were recommended to us as students whose grades and skillsets are
considered particularly promising. We’re always looking for potential recruits
who seem suited to the Behavioral Sciences Unit, so you might consider this a
test along those lines.”
Will turns his eyes down to the file, blinking past the bleariness in his eyes
and silently cursing his luck that today, of all days, he’s so hideously
hungover.
“If you’ll open the files you’ve been given, you will see details of a case
that we’re currently investigating. Needless to say, anything you see or
discuss in regards to it should be considered confidential.” Jack waits,
watching as they open the folders and begin to skim the pages.
Most notably, there are no bodies. No gruesome images of bloodied corpses laid
out in their last struggling moments of death. There is simply a photo, a boy
of perhaps 16 or 17, with beautiful dark eyes and mousy hair, and a printed
report.
Will skims without a word, as do the others, taking up the photo and tapping it
against the page as he works.
Good student, normal family. No enemies that instantly come to mind that may
want to do him harm.
"Was he a user?" Bev breaks the silence first.
"Never when there was mandatory testing," Jack responds, pleased with the
beginning of the discussion, "After, we can't know."
"Loner?" This from Jimmy.
"He had a group of friends at school but it varied, some cliques mixing that
perhaps usually would not."
"Because of him?"
"It's unclear."
The discussions continue in this way, as everyone grows more and more confident
in giving voice to their ideas and having them bounced back with more detail to
consider.
Only Will stays silent, the photo up to trace his lips now, eyes out of focus
as he relaxes his mind to send it elsewhere.
The kid wasn't a druggie, it would show far quicker in his behaviour if not his
screens, erratic coming and going, sleeplessness, he would have a very
particular group of friends. No, this boy played at normal well enough to pass,
but was too scared to step outside of it, there were merely thoughts.
Something flickers in Will’s exhausted mind but it's too quick, yet, to follow.
He blinks.
"Mr. Graham?"
He blinks again, realizes with some annoyance that all eyes are on him.
"What do you think?"
“No girlfriend,” Will remarks, less a question than a statement, and adds with
a shrug, “No boyfriend.”
Jack’s brow arches a little and he nods confirmation. Will sighs, forcing
himself not to slump back in the chair, but rubbing his fingers into his eyes
all the same.
“Good student?”
Jack leans back in his chair. “Occasional truancies but no more than any other
student.”
“Good grades, though.”
“Above average. He was taking advanced coursework so the GPA was adjusted. His
parents said he was looking at universities for,” Jack pauses, leaning forward
to flip to another page in the file. “Music scholarships.”
Will lowers his hand from his eyes, red-rimmed and dark-circled, but
brightening a little.
“What did he play?”
A curious look now from Jack, as Will’s attention sharpens. “Violin.”
Looking back to the image of the boy, Will traces the outside of the picture,
blurring around the corners of his vision - exhaustion, hangover, or something
else entirely, he isn’t sure anymore.
“The truancies were in the morning. Late getting to school,” Will murmurs, and
now Jack leans forward with interest.
“I can find out. What are you thinking, Will?”
"Left too late to be noticed," Will murmurs. “Returned too early for the
absence to be felt."
He shakes his head, sets the photo back into the file and closes it. He brings
a foot up to rest against the seat of the chair, his chin on his knee.
It's so familiar it's almost laughable, the pattern, the drive for something
else, the boredom...
"He turned tricks," Will says finally, blinks, glances up at Jack, expression
just bordering on maddeningly pleased. "For a while. Probably no regulars but
he would have been known for his hands."
Will rubs his own fingers together a moment and settles them.
"He didn't need to, though," Zeller says, carefully. “Good kid, good grades,
normal family - he didn't need to be out there."
"Most kids out there don't need to be," Jimmy points out with a shrug. “A very
small percentage are genuinely homeless. The rest see it as an easy option for
easy money."
"Damn," Bev frowns. Will wonders, for a moment, what she would think of his
particular hobby, wonders if the frown would turn into pity or disgust. “You
think he ran?”
Will considers it, turning his cheek against his knee.
“If he was good,” Jimmy shrugs, a little discomfort when he says it. “He might
have seen more money in a bigger city. Somewhere better than Baltimore.”
“More competition somewhere like DC, New York.” Zeller shakes his head, and
quickly adds, “I mean, I’d imagine, anyway. I don’t know. But it would stand to
reason, right?”
“And more clients,” responds Jimmy. “Cute kid, young, smart. He could do better
than street work somewhere like that.”
Will frowns a little, pensive, and picks at the worn leather of his boot.
“Wouldn’t have bothered to keep his grades up if he were going to run. Wouldn’t
have been applying for scholarships if that was his escape plan.”
Glancing towards Will, Beverly arches a brow. “So you think something happened
to him.”
"Promises happened," Will responds, and, strangely, his voice takes on an edge.
"Two types of men seek out company that way. Some have a lover fantasy, want to
feel adored and to dote on something. They're harmless, if stupid. Others make
promises."
He drops his foot to the ground and leans back in his seat again, legs
stretched out flat, back curved.
"Normal kid like that? Probably had parents with higher hopes for him than a
music career. The pressure there, of needing to be better and higher and
more..." Will frowns, shakes his head.
"The man who killed him promised him the world, promised him money for study,
an instrument, the caring arms of someone who wants to hone such a talent. The
man who killed him is rich. He’s decadent. So in love with his own image and
his own comforts that he gets cocky. Good boy from a good family? He wouldn't
have picked him for that. But his talent. The talent he could imagine
cultivating, feeding, nurturing... and then taking it away."
Will laughs, a hollow sound.
"Whimsy." He nearly spits the word. "Too caught up playing his own game, making
his usual promises. I have never met another like you."
The words leave his lips and take his breath with them. Words so oft spoken,
words breathed against Will’s skin, at first in jest then as praise, as
adoration, a worshiping of breath and lips against trembling skin.
You bring life to this place.
"Will?"
Will blinks, nearly jerks back to the here, the now, the panic running cold
through his blood almost giving itself face in his features, but he schools
them, he manages.
"He, uh, he'll never kill like this again. Too sloppy." No conviction in these
words. Empty shells, now. Fire at will.
The silence runs long, Beverly watching Will, Zeller and Jimmy turning through
the pages of the file for the pieces they might have missed, and Jack’s
attention narrowed, curious, at the scruffy boy across from him.
“It’s a hell of a story,” Jack allows, “but there’s been no bodies.”
“Plural,” Beverly interjects, glancing between them both. “Were you expecting
more than one?”
The agent draws a breath, lips thinning in thought, consideration as to how
much he wants to say, but clearly intrigued by the dynamics of the room, of
their thoughts and quick associations.
“Lots of boys go missing,” he finally responds. “Most are likely runaways. Some
aren’t, and we find them. Rough johns are messy - they get in over their heads,
dump and run. But then,” Jack continues, “there are those who don’t profile as
runaways and who never show up again.”
“Have you gotten those? Can I see them?” Will asks, fighting down a desperate
sort of urgency, masking it as curiosity. Enthusiasm.
“We’ll have to run this profile against local offices. If your Mephistopheles
is established in the area, then we should turn up some precinct reports of
other boys who are a fit,” Jack responds, pleased, it seems. “We’ve combed over
them, but not with that focus. May not find anything new, but it’s worth a
shot. I’m very impressed, all of you. We’ll be in touch.”
His handshake lingers a moment longer with Will, a bemused curiosity still on
him as they leave their files behind.
"What did you see in the file?" Jack asks. Will just shrugs, one hand back to
tug the hair there, growing too long, too shaggy.
"I just looked,” he says, feigning apologetic. Jack nods, takes his hand to
settle on Will’s shoulder.
"I may need you to keep looking."
Then he releases the boy to return home.
Will ignores his classmates outside, citing a headache and laughing off any
implications as to why he still has one. The drive home is too fast, ignoring
stop signs and wheeling around slow traffic through side streets and alleys,
and still no time to think.
Will unlocks the house, closes the door behind him and leans against it,
breathing hard, one hand up against his face, the other slack, keys dangling
from it till he drops them to the floor.
Brahms plays quietly through the speakers in every room, but he finds Hannibal
outside in the garden, cigarette between his lips, a glass of wine at his side
as he leafs through a book.
Without a word, Will takes up the pack discarded on the small glass table,
takes three tries to light it before exhaling slowly.
It’s his fourth drag in a row with scarcely time to breathe between them before
Hannibal finally regards him over the top of his sunglasses, and offers him the
glass of wine.
“No thanks,” comes the response as Will paces away, forcing his steps to slow,
and Hannibal makes a passive sound, taking a sip himself instead.
“You were up early.”
Will glances back at him, affecting a smile as he tugs the ashtray closer
across the side table beside his chair. He drapes himself into it, an almost
childish slouch, and worries the skin on the side of his thumbnail while ashing
the cigarette.
“I got a call.”
“So I heard,” intones Hannibal, seemingly unphased by the sudden flurry of boy-
nervousness that’s descended upon his otherwise peaceful garden. “Someone you
referred to as ‘sir’. From your displeasure now I might have assumed it was
your father, but it seems an unlikely title for you to use for him.”
He takes a drag, allowing the smoke to curl into the back of his throat past
parted lips, pulled deep and released skyward. He sets his book aside and
uncrosses his legs, an invitation for Will to reseat himself, if so desired.
“I call my father by his first name, but he rarely bothers to call me to hear
it,” Will replies, licking his lip absently, eyes far away, barely moving but
seeking out patterns and shapes regardless.
“It was the director of the Behavioural Science Unit at the FBI,” he tells him
softly. “A Mr. Jack Crawford.”
He hasn’t moved, though the invitation to is clear, and after a moment more,
Will blinks himself back to the now, and ashes the cigarette again, now just
holding it rather than smoking. When he shifts into Hannibal’s lap, it’s
strangely lacking in his usual catlike grace, no seduction there, no initiation
for something else, no needy childish desire for a kiss as Will always seeks
when he gets home.
He sits, allows hands to slide up his thighs and to his sides, and blinks.
“We should leave Baltimore,” he finally sighs. “Go… somewhere. For vacation,
for a job transfer. Something.”
He brings the cigarette to his lips again and takes a short drag, forcing a
smile after. “We could go to Greece.”
Hannibal regards Will’s words with little more reaction than the barest
movement of his jaw, the tensing of minute muscles drawing tight beside his
eyes. As subtle and as brief as to seem imagined more than seen, before he
turns aside.
He removes his hands from Will’s thighs to rest against the arms of the chair
instead, cigarette held between his fingers, tension in his legs. A premonition
of a crouch, foreshadowing of a maneuver not yet necessitated.
The words are slow in coming, measured when they do, clipped neatly around the
edges.
“A job transfer,” Hannibal speaks, softly, “differs substantially from a
vacation.”
Will ashes the cigarette onto the ground, eyes on Hannibal’s the entire time,
holding him still, holding them both still in this.
“We were given an old case. Perhaps to see if we could read between the lines
of a near-empty file. Young boy, sixteen. Missing five years now.” Will’s
tongue gently presses behind his teeth, just visible where his lips are parted.
“Clever boy, aiming for a scholarship. Wanted to be a violinist.”
He watches Hannibal’s eyes narrow, knows he remembers, doubts Hannibal has ever
forgotten any of the boys he’s bedded and destroyed. He leans closer, hands on
either side of Hannibal’s shoulders, just watching him.
“Used to turn tricks for boredom. A very handsome, talented boy, Hannibal, do
you know him?”
His tone has grown from angry to desperate, words near-hissed now as he speaks,
the ash trembling on the end of his cigarette where he holds it aloft.
“Because in my exhausted, hungover daze, I fucken profiled you as the last
person he saw. Tell me I’m wrong.”
A distance in Hannibal's eyes as he recalls, from a seemingly endless list of
boys whose futures he has devoured, this one, in particular. As he arrives at a
face, a memory, his attention focuses, narrows on the one now in his lap,
demanding answers for his confessions.
He lifts a hand, slowed by sheer force, and brushes his the backs of his
fingers down Will's cheek. A familiar gesture, though not one Will has felt
like this before. One he's seen, granted to an artist whose visions ceased at
that same hand.
A touch given to a violinist, once.
To countless others in-between.
There is a particular softness to Hannibal's eyes, as in an instant his fingers
close around Will's throat, digging sharp into his skin. Mourning all the ones
who came before, and perhaps this one now, as he offers a quiet intonation.
"He played beautifully."
“And suffered beautifully, and died the same,” Will gasps, brows drawing and
eyes wide on the man in front of him.
“Hannibal, we have to go.” he says softly, swallowing hard under the hand that
slowly takes his breath away, and brings no hand up to stop him. “They’re
starting another investigation.”
“We?”
The movement is sudden, as Hannibal stands and sends the boy spilling to the
ground, hand still clutched bruising against his throat. He bends low over him,
face shadowed from the sun, spilling darkness.
“You have always had a way with words, Will - tell me. Was it a lovely picture
you painted for Jack Crawford?” he nearly spits the name. “Or have you finally
chosen to see me as I am, with the scales dropped from your eyes?”
He shoves Will to the ground, away from him and takes up the wine glass in hand
to finish it in a single swallow.
A consuming force, to draw in all around him.
“What did you tell them, Will?”
“That you lure with promises,” Will whispers. “That you hunt on talent, that
you are well off and no one would suspect you or find evidence. I told them you
would never hunt that way again but the investigation still stands. Hannibal,
we have to go before it starts.”
He pushes himself up, one hand out behind him, the cigarette between the first
two fingers, other out in a placating gesture.
“You can beat me, you can throw your wrath on me and I will take it but please,
trust me, we have to go.”
A single step towards the boy, the tilt of his head animalistic, predatory in
its grace.
This, Will has seen before, and survived despite the odds, but Hannibal does
not pursue now. He does not move forward, or reach, or chase, but rather
withdraws the step he took, and then another, towards the house.
“And give you bruises, then, as evidence? Let this agent see how broken you
were left and begin to wonder about your knowledge, about your scars.” His
laugh is a single sigh, as he takes up his book and his glass, into the house.
“We have nowhere to go, Will,” he remarks. “I will be gone by morning, sooner
if you feel the need to act again. Consider the house yours until they take it
from you, but I would not advise staying considering what is in the basement.”
He does not bother shutting the door behind him, nor leaving his cigarette
behind.
Rules rendered meaningless, trappings of a life already being forgotten.
“Fuck!” Will scrambles to his feet and manages to catch Hannibal inside,
mindless of his language, of the smoke he’s trailing into the house.
“Damn your pride, Hannibal, listen to my words not what you anticipate
hearing,” he says, brows furrowed, lips parted in anger. “I didn’t catch myself
in time to sully the profile. But I did not hand you to them on a platter. We
were given a heads up, unlikely and fucken lucky, and we need to take advantage
of it now.” He swallows, seeing Hannibal’s utter lack of response to him, to
everything. Bites his lip.
“Words, words, words,” Will whispers. “You’ve long ago stopped trusting mine as
I’ve stopped trusting yours.” his fingers twitch, the cigarette still between
them, and he curls them gently before relaxing them again.
“I have told you everything,” he murmurs. “Confessed every mistake. You will
not listen. But perhaps you’ll see me.”
He swallows, remembers the cold of the basement, the sharpness of the metal
table against his chest even as he had been allowed to stand from it. He
remembers the warnings, the reminders, the gentle words.
Words cannot coax back Hannibal’s trust, he does not care for them.
“Trust is earned,” Will whispers, brows furrowed again before he nods, just
once, parts his lips with his tongue. “Always earned with you.”
He holds his hand out, as though seeking Hannibal to take it, palm up, fingers
splayed. The man isn’t swayed.
Will’s lips work, then his expression clears, he blinks, slides his eyes away
for just a moment before bringing them back. He doesn’t lower his arm.
And without a word, instead brings the cigarette up to press against his wrist,
twisting it to stub it out against the skin.
Hannibal moves, a twist of his body but without yet a step or a reach towards
Will, as the boy gasps in silence, does not shout or cry out but simply holds
the cigarette there until it's extinguished.
Will is shaking, a tremor he can’t fight, but doesn’t allow himself to move
beyond that, tears slipping in uncontrolled reaction to the pain against the
thin skin now darkened with ash.
The scent of flesh and smoke singes Hannibal's nose and he shifts his head
again, as though to shake it away. His eyes narrow.
"If this is the penance that you feel you need," Hannibal says softly, a hiss
of breath, "then atone elsewhere.” He points, stepping closer, gesturing with
the smoldering remains of his own cigarette at where Will’s hand still trembles
against his wrist, and snarls low.
“That is your scar, Will, not mine.”
Will doesn’t step back, his heart beats quick, his breaths coming short as his
conviction slowly fades with the harshness of Hannibal’s words.
Perhaps he will not hear him. Perhaps he doesn't want to.
But he will take a dozen more if it means Hannibal will consider.
Will drops his hand, slack by his side, and finally does step closer, holding
out his injured arm to Hannibal instead.
"Then make your own,” he breathes, blinks away the tears that blur his vision.
"But I will make you listen."
Please, he thinks. Please.
“I have heard you,” Hannibal growls, closing the distance between them and
snaring Will roughly by the wrist. He squeezes harder than necessary, to fight
Will’s shaking, to fight his own.
“Tell me, what do you suggest? That I try to remove myself from this place,
with you in tow? That it will not raise questions about a notable student gone
missing at the same time as his mentor?” He presses his forehead to Will’s, no
tenderness in the gesture, but dominance instead, desperate.
“A mentor who fits a particular profile, given by the missing student to the
FBI.”
He jerks Will’s wrist and brings the embers so near Will’s skin that - although
it does not make contact yet - the boy can feel the warmth of it against flesh
still stinging wet with burn.
“I have lost everything, Will. For you.”
The cigarette brushes past Will’s arm to fall against the carpet, left to
smolder itself out as Hannibal is brought to his knees beside it. He wraps his
fingers around Will’s wrist, his hand, eyes closed when he brings the wound to
his lips.
“I cannot bring you.”
Will whines, finally gives voice to the pain welling in his chest like a
tempest, and bites his lip.
Hannibal’s tongue is hot against the wound, almost rough in how he draws it
over Will's skin, lapping away the blood, the ash singed there, the clear fluid
seeping from his body in an attempt to self soothe, clean the wound.
"Then send me away," he breathes. “Meet me elsewhere, trust that I will come."
He hisses as Hannibal turns his face against the wound, worshipping it,
understanding.
"Let me trust that you will wait."
He turns his hand and brushes gentle fingers over Hannibal’s face.
"Trust me that I said nothing beyond this. That I will misdirect. That I will
return to you after every hunt and every day and that I will walk through any
fire if you are on the other side of it."
It is madness. Not the thoughts that burn through Hannibal like the heat of
Will’s wound against his lips - of hiding Will, of stealing him away, of
splitting him piece by piece and somehow restoring him when they are safe
again, when they are gone from here, this home now rendered a threat to them
both.
No, it is madness to think of any distance, of any time at all away from his
boy, his little wolf, who he tugs fiercely against him now as he stands, lips
curling over clenched teeth, invisible threats imposing from every direction.
“And if something happens,” Hannibal snarls, low. “If something happens again,
and I am not here…”
His hand clenches, an ache driving and furious and desperate. He gives no voice
to the darkest options that present themselves as suddenly viable, to ensure
that neither will ever leave this house again, and buries his nose in Will’s
hair instead.
He answers his own question, quiet. “I would wait for you. Even then.”
Will just presses close, eyes barely open and breathing slowly steadying to
time to the pulse in his wrist, against the new wound he can feel seeping
again.
“And even then,” he sighs, “I would come.”
Will doesn’t have to shift far to press his foot against the cigarette Hannibal
had let drop to the floor. He doesn’t expend much effort putting it out. And
only then does he fully sag in Hannibal's arms and bring his free hand up to
grip his shoulder tight.
Without thinking, the boy's weight is taken into arms - Hannibal lifts him
readily, feels Will's legs wrap trembling around his waist.
Unwilling even still to give him up, to this or anything else.
"I will go," Hannibal murmurs into the soft curls of hair against his cheek.
"An early retirement. Clean and sell the house. Refer my patients. Send our
things ahead, as much as we are able. Travel for a time, and then settle."
The tremors grow stronger in Hannibal's arms and he squeezes Will tighter
against him.
"I will wait for you."
He does not yield the alarm ringing like sirens in his ears, that Will may be
held, kept, by forces outside of his control, or that he could bring with him
attention, known or not, to where Hannibal has gone.
A trust, blind and uncertain, in putting his life into the hands of a boy,
still, who even now shakes in fear at the thought of it. A boy whose life will
be cut short in a far different way than Hannibal had ever envisioned, out of
so many ways he's imagined it happening. He frowns, unseen.
"You will be leaving everything. Your friends, your studies. Your name.
Everything," Hannibal intones, a warning, a fear as much for himself as for
Will that these things would delay him. "What will you tell them? They will
know if you lie, though you may be convincing to most. What will you tell your
friends, Will?" A hard swallow, anger still fresh and acrid on his tongue.
"What will you tell the FBI? It will be far easier for you to let me go and
live your life here. It will mean less, in time."
“Shut up.”
It’s barely heard, barely matters, and Will doesn’t elaborate further, just
keeps one arm wound tight around Hannibal’s neck, his injured one out to the
side, fist closed hard there for the pain. He doesn’t want to think about it.
Doesn’t want to think about what he would be leaving, if it at all matters. He
doesn’t want to think of the alternative, of Hannibal even considering it.
“You will wait, that’s all I care.”
Will nuzzles him, a desperate reminder, a desperate demand to remember.
Then he sighs, suddenly heavy in Hannibal’s hold, exhausted, sore. He wants to
wrap the wound and forget it, take something to numb the pain and wake to it
when his mind is clearer to fully understand its implication.
He wriggles enough to be set down, pulls back and presses his fingers against
the bridge of his nose. Then he licks his lips, sighs, and looks up.
“Will you help me bind it?” he asks gently, his hand still loose at his side,
eyes red-rimmed and bright on Hannibal’s.
“Then take me upstairs and read to me. Anything.”
The darkness of Hannibal's expression has not yet lightened, although the peals
of thunder have rumbled into the distance. He ducks his head, pushes Will's
hair back and kisses his brow.
"I will."
The same agreement they've always shared, although the terms have changed
drastically between them. He doesn't try to carry Will again, lets him find his
feet beneath him, grounded still in this place, and follows him up the stairs.
Hannibal wonders how many more times they'll share these moments, here or at
all, as he watches Will sit unsteady on the edge of the bathroom sink. Wrist
held in the same hands that have inflicted on him injury as often as they have
kindness, cruelty and gentleness and all manner of things in between, Hannibal
cleans the wound. Ointment spreads cold across it, worked in with a thumb that
does not let him flinch away, but Will doesn't, watching somber instead, even
as pain pales any sign of flush from his cheeks.
It is wrapped in soft bandages to breathe, the same careful fingers that once
threatened to steal his life, that restored it to him with steady stitches cast
looping to bring him whole again. Hannibal presses a kiss to his boy's wrist,
eyes closed and mouth lingering for a moment too long.
"Little wolf," he murmurs, before letting Will slide free and following near
behind him to the bed.
He reads to him from Faust, the antiquated German a warm, rough rumble, until
Will falls into sleep. The devil tied to the scholar as much as the scholar is
to him, contracts signed in blood and fire that bind them both together.
Hannibal isn't sure how much time passes, as he watches the rise and fall of
breath, the little movements in Will's body, so small for one so brave and
fearless. The words he whispers go unheard, but felt, Hannibal hopes, before he
leaves to begin the disassembly of the life that once was only his, but is no
more.
***** Chapter 11 *****
Chapter Summary
     With that, the phone clicks silent, and Will swallows, fingers
     fidgeting and flexing before he curses again, loudly, and lets out a
     long breath. He has 23 minutes and only his spit for gentleness.
     Warnings for this chapter: object insertion, instructions, voyeurism
     (in a sense), Dr. Frederick Chilton.
Chapter Notes
     More therapy sessions, and a very possessive Hannibal. What can go
     wrong, really?
4:30 PM: Do not forget your appointment today.
4:37 PM: Did you receive my message?
5:04 PM: yes I got it
5:05 PM: Are you on your way?
5:08 PM: I’m a couple blocks away, going to be late if you keep texting me
5:09 PM: I have an experiment in mind.
5:09 PM: great
5:13 PM: It will brighten both our moods. When you arrive, you will go to the
bathroom. Bring your bag with you, and the device inside of it. You will use it
for the duration of your therapy.
5:20 PM: WTF
5:20 PM: when did you put this in here
5:21 PM: I will know if you disobey me. Do as I say.
5:22 PM: You may send along a picture if you like.
-
The call comes through at 5:28, closely following a picture of a very
displeased looking Will giving the camera the finger.
“That was very rude, Will.”
“Are you fucken kidding?”
“One.”
“I’m not wearing that fucken thing out in public.”
“Two, Will, you have just under half an hour before your session, I would
suggest you do not spend it arguing. You know you will not win this.”
Will sighs, lips pursed and one hand up to press against his eyes. His bag is
open on the closed toilet seat lid, on top of his papers rests the little
silver toy. He regards it as though it will bite him.
“Dammit, I sit in my sessions. I can’t sit still for an hour even without this
in me.”
“Then perhaps you will manage with it.” The amusement is radiating from the
receiver and Will takes it away for a moment to grit his teeth in genuine
frustration, a sound escaping him before he brings the phone back.
“And how the fuck will this brighten your mood, huh?” Will hisses, careful not
to use his name here. “Will you sneak in like you did in my exam? I doubt my
doctor would appreciate an audience.”
“You will keep your phone connected to the call and beside you, and I will
listen.”
At this, Will laughs, he can’t help it, and he can feel the warmth of the smile
in the next words.
“I worry what my boy is being told by my colleague.”
“You’re sick.” It’s fond, and Will ducks his head to look at the toy again, as
Hannibal hums, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with the assessment.
“You will wear it, Will, the entire time.”
“Yes.” Will bites his lip.
“And you will answer for your rudeness when you get home.”
With that, the phone clicks silent, and Will swallows, fingers fidgeting and
flexing before he curses again, loudly, and lets out a long breath. He has 23
minutes and only his spit for gentleness.
-
“Mister Graham,” chirps Chilton as he stands from behind his desk. “Please,
come in.”
He takes a particular pleasure in these sessions, it seems, his pleasure
transparent but grasping, as though barbed wire, able to seen through, but not
to come near enough without getting caught.
“Did you run here?”
Will blinks, slowly unshouldering his bag. “I drove.”
“You’re flushed,” Chilton remarks, sifting paperwork from a previous patient
back into the proper file.
“It’s warm outside,” responds Will, lip caught between his teeth as he makes
his way to the chair. A hesitation that goes unnoticed, before he sets his bag
on the ground at the same time as he takes his seat, so as not to bend in order
to put it down. The phone is there, in the front pocket, near enough to catch
the conversation, and Will forces his sigh into the sound of youthful
exasperation as he takes his seat.
Chilton glances upward. “You’re in a good mood today,” he comments, dry.
A faint smile is turned towards him, as Will starts to draw a foot up to plant
into the chair, but then thinks better of it. “Of course I am. I get to see
you.”
“You must be delighted.” The doctor takes his seat again, flipping to the most
recent notes in Will’s file. “How have you been feeling since the last time we
spoke? Mentally, physically, emotionally - all of it.”
It’s all Hannibal can do, hearing the telltale click of Chilton’s pen, not to
laugh.
“Happy,” Will replies, tapping his fingertips against the arm of the chair.
“Hungry. Horny.” Eyes flick up to look at the doctor again. “In that order.”
Will finds that if he sits absolutely still it makes utterly no difference. The
toy mercilessly presses against him and sends his heart beating quicker, his
breathing shallower that he controls as best he can with another brief sigh.
“I pursue my studies and hobbies both with equal fervor,” he offers, smile
thin. “Since we last spoke I have aced two tests, been invited to the FBI to
assist on a case and have been fucked over the kitchen counter, against the
couch, in the shower, twice on the stairs and eleven times in bed.”
He keeps his expression as neutral as he can manage, though he does bring up a
hand to press to his lip when he shifts and the toy rubs inside him. His next
exhale is shaky.
Chilton blinks, makes a note of everything without comment, until,
“We saw each other three days ago, Will.”
Will’s eyes narrow, and he brings the tip of his tongue to wet his top lip
gently.
“Perhaps twelve then.”
He had hunted, two days ago, and had managed to find himself a handsome older
gentleman who took great pleasure in watching Will work himself to orgasm again
and again before he finally fucked him.
Will was grateful for the fact that the man was more exhausted than he was when
he was finished; he wouldn’t have been able to kill him otherwise. He’d
returned home aching, and to Hannibal’s delight genuinely sobbed his pleasure
into the sheets as he was spread wide again to be claimed and marked once more.
“It’s remarkable you have time for anything else at all when you keep a
schedule like that,” drawls Chilton, regarding Will at length across the pen he
turns between his fingers.
His eyes narrow. Something amiss, but he’s not certain what. He’s always had a
nose for trouble, although typically that which he’s caused himself rather than
incoming concerns, which have had the unfortunate tendency to blindside him.
“You’d be surprised,” answers Will. “It’s tedious counting ceiling tiles when
you’re on your back, but not a bad time to review for tests.”
Chilton yields a smile at this, amused enough.
“Tell me about the FBI. Unless they were included in the list you just gave
me.”
Will only raises his eyebrow at the implication, lips quirking briefly in
amusement.
“A short and unexpected call to prove my worth on a Saturday morning. We were
asked to profile a case.”
“We?”
“Four of us. Highly confidential. Need to know basis,” Will grins, before
another shift sends his back rigid in pleasure and his lips pressing hard
together to contain a moan.
“Mmm - an audition of sorts. Apparently, they’re interested in the skills that
I can more confidently put on my resume.”
“And how did that make you feel?” Chilton asks, tapping his pen rhythmically
against the table, “being so exclusively sought?”
Will laughs, a breathless noise, and sits forward in an attempt to put his
weight on his thighs and not his ass. The motion makes him shiver.
“I am used to being exclusively sought,” he purrs.
Chilton’s attention follows the line of Will’s body as he arcs it forward,
hands pressed against his legs, back curved into a bend that appears as though
it would be uncomfortable, and yet from behind the desk is no less unpleasant
to observe for it. His pen finds its way between his teeth, watching the way
Will brings his thumb against his own, tugging just so on his lower lip.
The doctor clears his throat and sets the pen against the desk again.
“You’ve just had a birthday,” he endeavors to continue, unable to sound as if
he means it less when he intones, “Happy birthday.”
Leaning forward now, fingers laced together across Will’s file, focused far
less on the therapy that he suggests more for his own amusement - and out of a
self-preservational interest in digging up dirt on his esteemed colleague
Doctor Lecter - than for any necessity. The attack is rarely, if ever,
mentioned anymore, and any less interesting patient would have been given a
rubber stamp weeks before if only to clear another hour from Chilton’s calendar
while he’s on probation from the board.
“How did you spend it? Eighteen is a significant one.” A vague smile, and a
transparent curiosity.
Will regards him, considers his words, considers the toy deep within him and
the man on the other end of the phone just in the front of his bag, silent,
listening. He wonders what will happen when he gets home, how Hannibal will
greet him, what his penance will be, today, for his swearing and rudeness.
Surely not this, again, this is punishment enough.
“Touching my toes,” he says, “counting strokes of the belt.”
Another bite to his lip and Will grins, gasping quietly as he sits back and
finally does draw his leg up into the chair, grasping it with tight fingers to
ground himself even a little.
“Eighteen up,” he murmurs, “Eighteen back…”
The memory alone is enough to send his cheeks darker, to part his lips and have
Will’s body tremble with the need to cum, or stop, or relive that event again
and again until he’s sated. His toes curl in his boots.
Chilton’s eyes widen and he forces them down to the papers beneath his hands.
It does nothing to keep the tension from his fingers, tapping tight against
each other, nor to remove the images planted by his patient, illuminated by the
scarlet burn across his cheeks and the ceaseless curling of his body.
He checks Will’s birthdate again, quick math to double-check himself, and makes
a dismayed noise, forcing it to sound as disapproval instead.
“Since you are declining treatment for your condition,” he finally responds,
“against my recommendation, I am curious. Are you in a relationship now? Dating
anyone, seeing someone consistently?” A pause, finally lifting his attention
again. “If not, do you intend to be?”
Will laughs, arches his back and allows a genuine moan before sitting properly
again.
“Oh, Dr. Chilton, I am flattered.” He bites his lip, ducks his head to look at
his bag, where he knows the phone rests, on the other end of which he can
imagine Hannibal curling his fingers against his lips, eyes narrowing as he
waits, listens…
“But wouldn’t that disrupt a certain doctor-patient dynamic? Be frowned upon by
the board?”
Another laugh, lower. “If I told of course. I may not intend to.”
Chilton’s lips purse into a faint smile, easily ducking the obvious goading
while yet allowing himself to consider.
“A purely professional interest, Mister Graham,” he responds softly. “We are
both that, you’d agree.”
He leans back in his chair, a recline, open in his gestures as he spreads his
hands out as though Will were a thing to be displayed in front of him.
“It’s fascinating to me that here, you’re hardly able to answer a single
question without giving sway to your condition, and yet you claim that you’ve
made a considerably better impression with the FBI,” he chides.
Chilton stands, a release of excess energy as he affects a casual saunter to
the edge of his desk, and sits on it, watching Will carefully.
“You have a perfectionist’s grades with only enough time to study when you’re,”
a pause, correcting himself in advance, “indisposed. And you have an ongoing
mentorship with a well-regarded leader in his field who’s also a notorious
neurotic - as I’ve heard him referred to, by others, although I of course would
disagree,” he adds, quickly.
“Which tells me you’re either doing this deliberately - in which case I wonder
as to your motive for doing so - or you’re a liar.”
Will grins, delighted by the assessment, and adjusts his position, with a brief
closing of his eyes at the shift, to almost lay open against the chair as the
doctor stands closer.
“Frederick, I am an excellent liar,” he agrees. “I have to be with my…
preferences and the way I spend my free time. One learns to play with
gullibility, with ideals, learns to manipulate and adjust, and it makes for an
excellent training ground to be a profiler.”
A thumb between his teeth again and Will’s smile widens.
“So I left an excellent impression with the FBI, and it was due to my lying
that my truths are so well practiced, isn’t it funny?” Another adjustment, an
audible gasp this time, and Will settles his feet to the floor, thighs wide and
body lax in the seat.
“But I would never lie to you, Frederick, we’ve built trust.”
Will can only imagine Hannibal’s response, to the man’s obvious attempt at
seeming professional towards him, to Will’s deliberate goad to the word that
rests tenuous between them even now. He swallows, eyes barely open, and brings
a hand up to tug against his hair.
“You’ve taken the barrier away from between us,” he notes, eyes to the table
before they flick up to Chilton again. “And no matter where you direct your
eyes they always end up on me.”
A gentle bite to his bottom lip and Will cocks his head.
“Return my trust with yours, doctor, tell me what you want of me?” His hands
slip deliberately down his thighs now, against the insides of them and merely
brushing the bulge of his cock with his thumbs.
This time, Chilton doesn't make himself look away, refuses to yield that ground
to his patient, or so he tells himself as he indulges. No cameras here, and
audio alone won't catch the lingering attention that falls on Will's fingers as
they draw inward, upward, to tease against the front of his too-tight jeans,
pulled even more snug now, his cock pressed hard against them.
Will's thighs spread, just a little, beneath his own hands and Chilton begins
to draw a breath when Will moans and it freezes in his throat instead, eyes
wide. It's a little sound, a breathy, soft thing that falls from his lips but
enough to bring Chilton to stand again.
"This is not my therapy," Chilton speaks softly, pacing now, steadily around
the chair where his patient sits. "I am here to assist you in discerning the
particular conditions that have affected your quality of life, and to guide you
in how best to," a pause, "alleviate them."
He offers a winning smile, practiced and false. "For your own well-being."
“And my only hope is you and your cock, doctor,” Will responds almost
instantly, settling back to follow the path of the man around his chair. He
meets one grin with another.
“A lie for a lie, Frederick, shall we try again?”
He can almost feel the glare through the phone, can almost imagine the man
setting down whatever he had occupied himself with to flex his fingers hard
enough to crack the knuckles.
“I am living very well with my condition. I keep good grades, I keep company
often, I am not a loner at school nor do I feel alienated in such an
environment. My condition keeps me both happy and sane, I would say trying to
twist me from it would be dulling my quality of life rather than increasing
it.”
He bites his lip and arches up slowly into his own hands, groan giving way to a
high little whimper when the toy shifts in him more.
“You’ve certainly practiced saying all the right things,” Chilton allows,
leaning low towards Will’s ear as he passes behind his chair. “Sociopaths
usually do.”
He straightens just as readily, and rests his hands on the back of Will’s
chair. A position of power, dominance, or so he feels, as he considers the
bright blue eyes peering up at him from below, obscured beneath an unruly mop
of hair.
“It’s in the nature of this particular condition - as with all mental illnesses
- that the afflicted is often entirely unaware, or in denial, as to the
severity or existence of that condition. You tell yourself it keeps you happy
and sane - it does, enough, so that you’re not completely lying to yourself
when you say it - but it isn’t the entire story.”
A finger traces, scarcely felt, along Will’s shoulder.
“Your condition’s a danger to you, like with any addiction. I’m sure heroin is
a lot of fun until it isn’t anymore,” Chilton suggests. “Your assault was a
pretty clear warning shot in that regard. Others won’t be so obvious.”
Will watches him, delighted, and smiles wider, starting a slow but deliberate
rolling of his hips against the chair until the toy is driving him near
incoherent in his pleasure. Then he slows, gasps and meets Chilton’s eyes
again.
“Touch me again,” he asks softly, “and tell me how you would cure me.”
Chilton’s attention diverts to the door, unlocked at present, and then towards
his desk where his recording device runs unseen.
A less suggestive touch, far firmer, as he places his hands onto Will’s
shoulders, as though to stop his squirming.
“Hypnosis,” Chilton suggests softly. “In conjunction with regular behavioral
therapy.”
He says nothing of the chemical alternatives that would still the boy’s
incessant grinding and wriggling, still reasonably convinced that Will’s
numbers are somewhat, if not entirely, fabricated.
“I only want to help you,” drawls the doctor softly, nearer Will’s ear now.
“Think of how much easier things would be if you could focus all of that energy
in one place.”
Will arches, eyes closed and flush dark on his cheekbones now, softening
against his neck.
“Oh, fuck,” he sighs, muscles tensing, twitching, body finally dropping all
resistance to it, against it, and Will thanks whatever he can think of that he
thought to wear black jeans today as his muscles go lax and release floods
through his body. He licks his lips and pants quietly, blinking and directing
his eyes up.
The doctor blinks back towards Will's mouth again as he whispers, startled from
his attentions granted decidedly elsewhere.
"You just -" he exclaims softly, genuine surprise, "- in my chair."
“You need signed consent for hypnosis, Dr. Chilton,” he reminds him. “And I
will not give it.” He grins, “My addiction has taught me too well to be fully
aware of my situations and surroundings at all times, I can’t give up that much
control to you, I never have to another.”
“But you would love to have me there,” he sighs. “Prone, entirely in your
control, where even one word from you and all my secrets will come spilling
free like ink from the words of a page.”
Will licks his lips, “You desire so much, Frederick, and deny yourself more of
it. You should learn to indulge.”
A smile, then, utterly genuine, utterly juxtaposed with the gentle threat in
his tone.
“Hour’s nearly up,” he whispers.
There is a moment in which Chilton truly considers the offer - in particular,
it's the moment when Will tugs his thumb against his lower lip again, pushing
it out of shape, watching the doctor with a widening grin.
"You may have an unduly high esteem of yourself," the doctor states, a blush
coloring his own cheeks now, meriting a tug of his collar, a quick gesture,
irritated. "A byproduct of your mentor, no doubt," adds Chilton, an aside that
doesn't matter now considering this tape has to be erased.
"But it hardly means that you're worth costing me my license."
Will laughs, a pleased sound, and hisses softly when he moves and the toy moves
in him.
“It’s enough to know you’d consider.” he tells him honestly, pleased with the
way the session had gone, with how little information he had had to reveal,
with how decidedly uncomfortable he had made his therapist - the only
entertainment he can get from the two sessions a week he is forced to attend.
He takes up his bag as he stands, to avoid bending to retrieve it, and presses
a palm against the doctor’s desk to lean closer.
“I will consider,” he says, “your offer of hypnosis. But be sure that you want
to know what’s in my head, Dr. Chilton, before I open it to you.”
Another grin, and Will turns to leave the room, closing the door respectfully
behind himself.
In the bathroom, Will finally removes the object of his torment, leaning an arm
against the wall and his forehead to that to catch his breath.
“I never gave you permission to remove it.” The voice is tinny through the
speaker, and Will fumbles to remove it from his bag to set closer. “Nor to cum,
Will, you are really pushing my patience today.”
Will laughs, bites his lip, moans softly as he bends to rest his forehead
against the wall just above the phone.
“I’m incorrigible,” he mumbles.
“One of many words I would use for you at this particular moment, and one of
the kinder ones,” Hannibal responds. “Remove me from speaker.”
Will grins and picks up the phone, switching it back to its normal use.
“You have a very long night ahead of you,” purrs Hannibal, a dangerous sound,
nearer to a growl. Will cradles the phone against his shoulder and gathers a
handful of toilet tissue to wipe himself clean. “Did he touch you, Will?"
"You were listening."
"And I want you to tell me."
Will tosses the tissues into the trashcan, zipping himself up again. "Yes."
"How," comes the quick response, a snarl sharpening the word.
Hopelessly pleased with his own position of power, for now, that he knows he'll
pay for deliciously in a little while, Will muses, "Very gently."
Hannibal makes a thoughtful sound, no doubt considering how readily he could
make Chilton disappear - his rudeness alone reason enough, but this an
additional slight.
"Just on the shoulder," sighs Will - he wants to fluster his therapist, not get
him eaten. "It was you, really. Your instructions for me. Your gift." Will
regards himself in the mirror for a few moments, pushing his hair back out of
his face and gathering it in the hand that isn't holding the phone.
"Regardless, you did not have my permission, and you will not again,
foreseeably, for your poor judgment," Hannibal responds. "Seventeen, Will. In
three days. Are you so dissatisfied?" The arch of his brow can be heard in his
tone, a cool regard.
Will grins, turns his head to hold the phone still as he washes his hands,
forgoes the loud dryer in favor of a handful of toilet paper before swinging
his bag up in a more comfortable position.
"Considering of those, five do not belong to you, I would say you satisfy me
well."
It's, partially, amusingly, a reassurance, a gentle calming of a man who
epitomizes a tornado, a storm. He leaves the bathroom, makes his way downstairs
to the car with a smile at the receptionist.
"It is impossible to satisfy the insatiable," comes the quiet reply.
Will grins again. "And to fix the incorrigible."
"One thing I do agree with my esteemed colleague about is your addiction is a
danger to you. You cannot know how hard you push, Will, until someone tells
you."
Outside, the evening is still light, still warm enough to not warrant a coat.
Will sighs, unlocks the car.
"You have killed, still, despite your own warning to me about the FBI."
"So have you," Will points out, smug. "What's for dinner, Hannibal?" His tone
has turned, now, a coy, pleased little thing. Will bites his lip.
"Tell me what awaits me at home."
Hannibal makes a disapproving sound, but stows the conversation for now - too
important, too heavy to be discussed like this, with Will in this particular
mood and even Hannibal himself willing one night of something lighter-hearted
than the last several have been.
"I await you here, and in that you should feel a grave concern," Hannibal warns
him, drawing an unseen grin from Will as he settles into the driver's seat and
shuts the door, not yet starting the car.
“My fingers itch to feel your skin beneath them, to slap the curses from your
mouth and watch your cheeks turn scarlet in atonement. The sting of how hard
you will be struck will numb my hand. Perhaps I will misjudge, too much for one
so small, and darken an eye. Split your mouth open and kiss the wound there to
taste it,” Hannibal intones, his voice just above a whisper, rough and
ravenous. “You are always especially beautiful with blood between your teeth.”
Will makes a breathless sound of pleasure and shivers, leaning back in the seat
and drawing one leg up to rest against it.
"And you're always so hungry to suck it away," he moans softly, brings a free
hand down to stroke himself again, a languid thing with how sensitive he still
is from before.
A short sound from the line and Will bites his lip.
"You are insatiable," comes the harsh admonishment in French, "a glutton for
punishment."
"Only that which is delivered with your hand,” he sighs, twisting in the seat
to sink lower, to rub a little harder.
"You'll press my hot skin to yours," he coaxes further, "to feel the pain you
wrought as well as hear it."
A gentle hitch in his breath and Hannibal hums.
"Undo your pants, Will, stroke yourself bare."
Will shivers almost violently before he obeys.
Hannibal listens, for a moment, to the little gasps, shortened breaths he knows
so well.
"Slower," he instructs. "You will be lucky if I allow you to work yourself to
completion at all after your performance for good Doctor Chilton. I will tie
you off if I must, to prevent it."
Moaning, Will does as told, turning his wrist languidly, forcing himself to
patient tugs as he hardens in his own hand.
"I will spread you across this house. Your blood, your body, will paint every
inch available to us. You will present yourself to me wherever I see fit,"
instructs the older man, a dire satisfaction in the thought of it. "I will have
you over the counter, and leave you wanting as I finish cooking. Over the table
when I am done eating. The couch. Again upon the stairs. Bent backwards over
the desk in our study."
Hannibal draws a breath now, as Will does, a sharp pleasure shared in tandem.
"You were meant to find release with me from the torment of your treatment, and
now you will not. A trail, left in our wake, as you drip with your own desire
and my own, met inside of you."
Will moans, a long, low sound, and shivers.
"I need to drive," he breathes, needy and warm and desperate to get home, now.
More so than before.
"Hang up the phone," comes the quiet instruction. “Put yourself away. I know
how long it takes to drive from that office, Will. If you speed home you will
merely add to my ire."
Will shudders, curls his toes, bites his lip, and waits for permission to hang
up, letting go of himself as soon as he is alone in the car again. He smiles,
then he laughs, a warm, pleased sound, and shakes his head.
He starts the car and peels from the lot, making sure to obey every traffic
sign and stick to the limit.
He parks outside, as always, and nearly stumbles up the path to the door. A
knock, polite, and a grin when the door opens and he's dragged inside.
"Well, well," Will doesn’t hear where that sentence goes, just tugs Hannibal’s
tie free and yanks him close to kiss him, smiling when he feels the laugh
against his lips, feels the way Hannibal’s lips part for his own.
When they break to breathe, Will lets go of his tie, swallows, and laughs when
the first slap sends him back against the door.
***** Chapter 12 *****
Chapter Summary
     "How can I show you that you will not be let go of your agreement
     with me? Bind you beside your beloved bundles of books so that they
     are not taken without you?"
     “Yes.”
Chapter Notes
     warnings: panic attacks, shibari/kinbaku, cum marking, questionable
     romantic declarations
It’s gradual, but noticeable.
It’s been too long since Will has been at his own apartment, still leased to
him, still visited, but now only a shell with empty shelves and dusty tables
and worn couches. Nothing left there that he would want to keep.
But in Baltimore, slowly, gently, more and more things go away, make their way
to packing containers or some form of storage, and the house empties as
Hannibal prepares to run - ‘move’, officially - and Will sits by idly and is
forced to watch it happen.
Slowly, the books filter from the study. The suits of armor, swords, heavy rugs
from upstairs.
The bedroom remains untouched, as does the kitchen, but the rest feels like a
dream that’s slowly started to fade in the first fitful minutes of wakefulness,
and Will’s heart no longer keeps steady as it so easily had before.
One month, Hannibal had said, one month between his departure and Will’s
following, then another still as Will makes his way across Europe, sightseeing
and enjoying his well-earned gap year, before ending up in Greece.
Will can’t fathom the time. It’s ethereal and intangible, like smoke between
his fingers as he lays back in bed, rules forgotten and infringements forgiven
for the day, and watches it curl towards the ceiling as Hannibal quietly packs
the suits he won’t wear in the near future into plastic bags, vacuum seals his
shoes.
Will drags in a lungful of smoke, holds it, exhales.
He wonders if Hannibal's done this before. The passive considerations of what
to keep, and what to discard. The sense that all of it, either way, is
relatively meaningless.
And it is, in fact, with few exceptions, meaningless. Sentimentality falls by
the wayside when nerves are starting to pitch higher, an almost audible keen
that has Hannibal increasingly on edge. Pursuit - a threat, real or imagined,
stirring sensations of fight or flight.
There is only one thing in the entire house, besides himself, that Hannibal
cares enough for that he would let the rest burn to save it, and it's currently
strewn across the bed, sullenly chain-smoking.
Hannibal tosses a suit to the floor, after some time spent picking at a
troublesome seam.
"It seems foolish to bother," Hannibal considers, breaking the silence with a
murmur more to himself than to Will. "It will be summer, and much warmer
overall. These are overwhelmingly for winter, and if I stop in Paris I may
outfit myself more appropriately.”
He draws out one of the suits already packed, all bespoke, all beautiful in
their own garish way, a grandiosity of display that appeals to him in all
things. Fond fingers trace the familiar folds, pressed and neat, follow the
interlocked checks in bright orange and teal, set against a charcoal grey.
It too, finds its way to the floor, and he goes to discard the others as well.
“The end of an era,” he muses softly.
Will just swallows, doesn’t look. He can hear the suits tossed to the floor
like autumn leaves and it sets his heart beating faster, still. Something so
close to the man, so easily discarded. So easily replaced.
Will draws his knees up and leans up - back arching - to let the butt of the
cigarette fall with a quiet hiss into his now filthy glass of water.
Perhaps Hannibal can pick up another bespoke boy in Paris to match his new
suits.
The words remain unspoken, Will knows they’re irrational and merely a snapping
of tension in a situation he can’t control. It’s getting harder and harder to
hold onto trust as he has so easily pushed the other to, just weeks before.
Trust that I will come back.
He pushes himself to sit up, wraps his arms around his knees and rests his chin
on top, eyes blank, staring at nothing, and his mind running faster and faster
until Will’s breath picks up the pace to match.
Another swallow, another shake of his head, and Will slumps over to reach out
for the pack again, finding it casually pulled from his reach and set away.
“It’s only my fourth,” he mumbles.
"In less than an hour," Hannibal responds, pocketing them. He extends a hand to
run his fingers through Will's untidy curls, stroking softly to little
reaction, and withdraws again. "I do not mind it occasionally, now," he allows,
"but if I've any hope to sell then the house cannot smell like a barroom."
The house, no longer our house. House, in fact, rather than home. Rules broken
now, that were sorely punishable before.
A transition underway in terms and considerations, a subconscious severing of
attachments.
Hannibal sets aside enough suits to keep him accommodated during his remaining
time, and turns his attentions on the rest of the bedroom, the first time he's
set eyes on it beyond the clothing contained therein.
His attention rests again on Will, the shallowing breaths and curled body
language, and he does not draw attention to it. No need, yet, in hopes that the
boy will steady himself.
"What would you have me bring?" Hannibal asks, a gentler, less flippant tone
now.
Will’s eyes seek him and hold, for a moment, before turning away, and he rolls
over in bed to bury his face against the sheets before drawing them to himself,
under his head in a messy gather, and turning his head to watch Hannibal again.
“What do you feel you would not live without?” Will asks softly, then he shakes
his head, swallows, and amends. “Material things can be replaced, the expensive
rugs, the sheets, the bed…” His lips purse and he sighs softly, “Books… take
the books.”
It’s the only thing Will would bring, if he had the space to, the chance to
come with him but… he would be travelling lightly for months, a few clothes to
change, a few bags to fill, and nothing more. Insignificant, unimportant.
Nothing he would bring, except -
“Please don’t throw the bowls away.”
It suddenly seems so important to him, that those things he had mindlessly
broken, meticulously put back together, the things that, to Will, are them -
different worlds and times and eras, drawn together, shattered together and
pieced together once more, gold scars lining them now, as scars line their
bodies in kind.
Hannibal reluctantly turns away from Will, glancing towards the bedroom door. A
consideration first for the books, the library's worth of volumes here and in
the office, but then he turns back towards Will, brows drawn.
He imagines the boy, as he does whenever he sees those particular bowls, with
streaks of gold across his fingers, in shimmering lines across his brow,
catching the light in his curls of hair as he worked to repair that which
Hannibal was certain he had forgotten, neglected.
He never mentioned the little pieces that were mismatched. Scarce differences
in shading, between the two dishes, disparate fragments brought together to
make good on a promise, as best as Will could, and as he would again and again.
There is a poetry to the bowls now that Hannibal appreciates, a symbolic
joining of separate pieces that seemed destined to find their way to each
other, now each a part of the other.
Hannibal sighs, and makes his way back to the bed to sit beside Will, not yet
touching, to give him space enough to breathe.
"Why do you think that I would throw them away, Will?"
A shake of his head and Will shrugs, nervous twitches of movement now as though
to fill the space of something else, trembling perhaps, or anger. Hannibal
wonders if Will would be one to do himself damage.
He glances at his wrist, no longer bound, but the skin still raw, still a deep
pink around the puckered scar.
"They're damaged, broken. Marred by scars and clumsy hands and... they're not
what they were, when you got them, perfect and still and irreplaceable."
Will closes his eyes and forces a shaking breath through his nose.
Irrational.
Unnecessary.
And yet breathing grows harsher and his heart beats too quickly and his
knuckles turn white over the sheets where he grips them.
"And I broke them."
Replaced like a suit in Paris. Like a boy on the street. Shattered teacup in
the basement, swept into the disposal.
Will swallows again and his motions still, just briefly, to reveal trembling, a
quick, almost terrified thing.
A hum, soft, as Hannibal watches the tremors begin to overtake the boy. His
boy, now quaking in fear of the only thing that Hannibal has ever truly seen
him react to in this way. Not death, dismemberment, the threats thereof so
regularly leveled at him.
Abandonment. Unworthiness.
Hannibal turns towards Will fully now, drawing a leg to fold on the bed.
"You also fixed them," he reminds him, softly.
Reaching, his hand finds Will's hair again, tangles his fingers in it to stroke
softly. A careful comfort, so as not to overwhelm him, a clinical awareness of
what appears to be happening, but unable to reconcile this knowledge with what
should be done for him, not a patient, still a child, and to Hannibal so much
more than all of that.
"Come," he finally murmurs, fingers securing against the back of Will's neck to
bring him closer, into open arms that close only loosely around him, to allow
him room to breathe, to let him feel himself breathe, beneath the weight of
Hannibal's arms.
"You gave new life, when I was certain there would be none."
Will draws breaths quickly, not enough to take in air to breathe, enough simply
to make him dizzy. As he had done when Hannibal’s voice had penetrated the void
and commanded him to breathe, when he could taste nothing but blood in his
throat, feel it against his skin, in his hair, in his soul, torn to pieces and
sewn back together.
He makes a sound, like a sob but dry yet, scared, childish.
Trust, trust, trust.
Trust that I will return.
Trust that I will wait.
Will curls himself closer against the familiar, warm chest, against the steady,
slow heartbeat there.
My trust would not have saved you.
A wail, soft, helpless, and Will feels hands harden around him, tighter,
holding him together as a familiar voice commands him calm, commands him
breathe, commands him to stay still.
He should not be so scared, so weak in this. He had been so much stronger in
situations far more dire, and yet.
“Sewed them sobbing back together,” he whispers through gritted teeth,
Hannibal’s words, through his lips.
A curious pause, at hearing these particular words, an overlap that Will does
not seem to notice.
"Yes," Hannibal responds, brows furrowing deeper. He rests his cheek against
Will's hair, holding him firmly now, securely, here, now, to piece him back
together.
A broad hand strokes slow along his back. "Breathe, Will," he insists gently, a
tone that with it carries expectations and memories, encroaching darkness
driven back with the rumble of Hannibal's voice. "You can breathe. You are,
now, and you will."
He hushes another dry sob, rocking the boy even as Will draws himself up
nearer, into Hannibal's lap entirely. He seems so small, suddenly, that
Hannibal catches himself wondering as to the wisdom of this all - to leave him
here, to insist that he follow, to expect that he would or should and this
thought, in particular, is nearly enough to pull a snarl from his lips.
"Foolish boy," Hannibal rumbles into his hair. "I do not discard that which has
taken such effort to repair. And I do not throw away that which bears meaning
for me, no matter how greatly you must wish I would. I would sooner see you
dead, here and now, then know that you had carried on without me."
A sigh, long, forceful, breathing in the smell of his boy, eyes closed. "If you
think you will be free of me so readily, then you are gravely mistaken. Should
you not appear, I will return here to find you, and remove you by force, if
necessary. There are not enough agents in the whole of Quantico who could keep
you from me."
He leans back, catching Will's face in his hands, forcing their eyes to meet.
"You will be wherever I am, little wolf. That is your place."
Wide eyes search his, bright and liquid blue, before Will blinks. Once. Again.
Then allows his eyes to close as he slowly settles his breathing from the
hitching dry sobs to smoother, slower exhales.
Hands trace his face, his cheekbones and under his eyes, press his lips out of
shape and part them to run the rim of his teeth as well. Will opens his eyes
just barely, tongue out to gently wet the tip of Hannibal’s thumb where he
holds it, curls his lips over it as he lifts his eyes to look.
A reassurance, in the usual brusque way, that calms his heart and stills his
panic.
Wanted.
Worthy.
One hand comes up to gently wrap in Hannibal’s tie, worn loose but still worn,
he wraps his hand around it again until it’s taut. Smiles.
“Will you keep your ties?” he asks softly.
Hannibal lifts his chin as the tie is tugged tight beneath it. Black eyes study
Will a moment more, until the darkness fades beneath the brightening of Will's
smile.
"I can," Hannibal agrees, a glistening amusement in his voice. "Since it gives
you such pleasure to yank on them with your dirty fingers, still smelling of
smoke. Since you refuse to have your own and insist on borrowing mine."
The tension slackens when Hannibal leans in close, to join his lips against
Will's, a slow spread to allow their tongues to meet, and Hannibal to make a
pleased sound in response as they part again. He slips a thumb beneath the tie
and brings it over his head, humming pleased as he slips it over Will's
instead. It is given to him, untwisting from little fingers, and Hannibal holds
it firmly in his own hand.
"You think so often of abandonment," he intones, leaning nearer now, bearing
Will back onto the bed, tie still wrapped around his fist. Will reclines with a
slow unfurling of the tension in his spine, and a widening grin. "How can I
show you that you will not be let go of your agreement with me? Bind you beside
your beloved bundles of books so that they are not taken without you?"
“Yes.”
The reply is thoughtless, warm, carried on a sigh rather than intentionally
voiced, and Will unfurls his body further, arches into the noose around his
neck, settles his hands just beside his head, knees slightly parted and
comfortable on the soft bed already messed up with his earlier shifting.
The thought sends a shiver through him. He does not often allow himself to be
bound. Too dangerous with certain people, foolish with others. Hannibal has
never felt a need to bind him unless in punishment and even then Will held
still for him and this… this would be far from a punishment.
Hannibal's purr is agreeable and entirely - alarmingly - sincere as his boy
answers so quickly. It matters not if he actually means it, or is simply
moaning the word - it is enough that Hannibal pulls the tie once more around
his hand, raising Will from the bed.
"We have shown each other kintsugi," murmurs Hannibal against Will's ear.
"Repair. Restoration."
He spreads the boy's thighs with his knees, bowed low over him.
"And still you ask if this is something of which I would dispose," comes the
scolding tone, chastening softly, dangerously gentle. "So if you must see how
bound you are to me, boy, then I will show you. There is an art - kinbaku." The
word rolls easily from his tongue, as in every language. "'Tight binding'."
Watching as Will shivers, Hannibal stretches back, to gather a handful of ties
from where they were meant to be packed, and returns looming over Will, hands
pressed to either side of him.
"You will let me." A question and a statement both, as he selects one of the
ties to stretch between his hands, absurdly expensive paisely-patterned silk,
and turns a soft smile down to the boy watching wide-eyed up at him. "Ropes are
better suited - they leave such beautiful marks striped across bare skin - but
we will have to make do."
"On your stomach, Will." Hannibal pauses, and tilts his chin just so. "You must
trust me."
You will.
You must.
Conviction, reassurance, words that settle Will into a soft comfort despite
their control, their claiming, or perhaps exactly because of it.
He swallows.
He doesn’t know the art off the top of his head but can imagine. The Japanese
have a morbid curiosity with the art of both pleasure and pain.
Will arches his neck, a submission, his answer, and ducks his head before
curling on his side to turn, resting in his knees a moment before fluidly
bending to press to the bed, on his stomach, as asked.
Drawing a deep breath, Hannibal observes approving as Will bares his neck
beneath him, and proceeds to present himself, as instructed.
"Good," Hannibal praises him, tracing the backs of his fingers down Will's
spine, to wrap beneath the hem of his shirt, and tug it over his head.
"Typically this is performed with several long ropes, perhaps ten meters in
length. An origami of the body, to fold and keep you in beautiful shapes. Your
arms, please."
Will glances back over his shoulder, and Hannibal allows it as the boy
stretches, fingers curling and splaying, both arms offered awkwardly behind
himself.
Another faint smile, and gentle murmur of praise. "Thank you, Will."
In lieu of ropes, Hannibal wraps his ties - one each - at three points along
Will's arms. His biceps, his elbows, and his wrists. These, in particular,
Hannibal spends a great deal of time on, continuing to murmur softly.
"In some circumstances, the form requires you to be hung - suspended - or held
into shapes that may be difficult to sustain." He phrases it delicately, but
seems particularly charmed by the thought of it. "Perhaps another time."
The tie is cinched tightly around Will's wrists, not enough to cut off
circulation, but - in conjunction with the others pulling his arms together and
his shoulder blades inward - enough that moving from the face-down posture
would now be considerably more difficult.
Will swallows, ducks his head against the sheets beneath him and breathes. The
binding is not yet painful - he trusts it won't be - but it certainly lives up
to its name.
Hannibal’s words flow over him like water, cool and soothing and just sharp
enough to remind him that Will can drown in them as easily as he can be
buoyant. Regardless, he relishes in the cool silk and warm hands, flexes his
fingers and finds them stroked, gently touched, before Hannibal shifts behind
him for another tie, or several.
Will imagines himself a painting, black ink and pale pastel colors within,
painting his skin from cream to pink, ropes a beautiful endless pattern, like a
snake around him, shifting and changing its skin.
The image makes him gasp, cheeks flushed, and he swallows, smiles against the
sheets as he bites his lip. Hannibal regards the sound with a genuine, brief
smile, although Will can’t see it, and it lasts entirely too long as he takes
in the sound of the boy’s little reactions.
“It can be cruel, or kind. Sharp ropes that cut into pressure points, or force
your body into positions that sustained can become unbearable - a torture
method, in feudal Japan,” Hannibal intones, the same melodic tones he uses when
extrapolating on the rustic nature of French cuisine or the shortcomings of
particular periods of Italian opera.
With a hand sliding against Will’s belly, Hannibal lifts him gently upward, to
wrap a tie around his middle. It joins to those around his arms and is pulled
tight. Another gasp, as Will’s back is shortened in a recurve bend, shoulders
drawn towards his spine.
“Beautiful boy,” Hannibal murmurs to him softly, curling fingers through his
hair and down his arms, wrapped in paisely silk. “You’re doing very well. Your
feet, together, please.”
Will tries to twist to watch over his shoulder again, and finds that with his
torso so bound he can’t make out what Hannibal is doing. Eyes closed then, and
he reminds himself to breathe, lifting his feet from either side of Hannibal to
rest, ankle to ankle, in front of him instead.
Hannibal takes Will’s feet in his hands and winds a tie, figure-eight, around
his little ankles. “The kinder forms are built with systems of support, to
cradle and disperse the weight, while still presenting an aesthetically
pleasing formation.”
Drawing another tie between Will’s ankles and the bindings of his arms,
Hannibal pulls firmly to bend the bow in Will’s back deeper.
“How does it make you feel, Will?”
A low moan, Will’s heart beating quicker now at being so utterly helpless. Legs
bound, hands and arms bound, unable to do more than twist or roll from the bed,
and then he would do nothing but injure himself.
Trust.
He bites his lip.
“Possessed,” he admits, swallowing, smiling when Hannibal brings a hand down to
stroke over his throat to feel him do it again. It’s a gentle touch, almost
like someone regarding a statue, or a work of art, checking and touching to
experience the curve of it, the movement without motion.
“Displayed.”
He licks his lips, wonders why Hannibal hadn’t removed his jeans from him as he
had his shirt, wonders if it will be his torment, gentle as it seems to be now,
to be left this way, just so, possessed and displayed, for Hannibal’s pure
viewing pleasure and Will’s satisfaction granted only as something beautiful to
be regarded.
Will moans softly and flexes his fingers, twisting them together, clasped as
though in prayer behind his back.
He can feel the strain of the position, but only as a side thought, he does not
ache from this, it does not hurt him. But he can feel his pulse wherever the
ties press close to skin, a network of throbbing pleasure against him, unusual
but far from unwelcome.
"Bound to me," Hannibal adds softly, following the taut lines of the soft ties
that hold Will bent beautifully for him, up to the one still looped around his
neck. This too he gathers in careful hands, capable always of infinite degrees
and variations of pain and beauty, and brings to knot around the bindings
holding Will's arms in place.
Curved as though he were a bow, and these his strings, bent into an inverse
arch that if pulled against would choke and strangle, but sustainable despite
the gentle threat that underlies it all.
A hand follows the length of Will's body, drawing shivers in its wake, as
Hannibal steps away to where he was packing. "We must adapt. Adjust ourselves
as needed for situations that arise and find us held outside of our control. It
is this agility, the ability to release and let go enough to evade, for a time,
that allows us to move on forward again."
There is a clicking sound, several quick ratchets, and Will feels cold metal
against the small of his back. The box cutter, he knows from the shape of it,
that now begins to part the fabric of his jeans.
"We let go of what is unimportant, so that we may hold fast to those things
which matter most," Hannibal speaks softly, working the denim apart -
precariously close to Will's ass, his thigh, forcing him to steady the twitch
of muscles in response. "I have done this before, and the first time was a
terror of uncertainty. We spend our days crafting stories and lies that others
may believe and when we are left without them, we feel bare. Exposed."
Down across a slender calf, following the bend of it, until he reaches Will's
ankle and the material falls free.
"But we rebuild. Make new stories, new names, and know that while the outer
trappings may change, we ourselves do not."
Hannibal sets the blade against the other leg now, to follow the same pathway
as the first and tear away the expensive material with little regard but for
keeping the boy beneath it whole and unmarked.
"In all likelihood, it will not be the last time we do this. Certainly not the
last time you will, should you continue your pursuits. Better to face the fear
now that comes from lack of control, and to see that while it is a precarious
thing, you will survive it and much more besides."
With a turn of his wrist, the second cuff is cut, and Hannibal clicks the blade
away to remove the tattered halves of jeans from Will's body, the soft cotton
of his boxers from beneath it.
Bare. Exposed.
"You must trust me, Will. Now more than before." He steps into Will's field of
vision, finds his chin and lifts it so that their eyes meet. The boy's lips
part beneath the soft stroke of Hannibal's thumb against them, and the older
man hums his pleasure at the sight of it. "It feels as though it will be ages
but it is a fraction of the time that we will have together, when I wait, and
when you come back to me."
Will swallows, the sound a click from between still-parted lips, and his eyes
stay locked on the man in front of him, the man who had bound him, exposed him,
sheltered and abused him, taught and tried to end him.
Trust.
"I trust you," he breathes, turns his head gently to feel the rough pad against
soft skin, to feel as Hannibal curls his fingers to draw over the motion Will
is creating. Fingers that can caress and just as easily strike so harshly they
draw their pay of pain in their wake.
He shifts his thighs wider still, knows Hannibal sees despite those dark eyes
never leaving his.
"To expose and remake and pull me through fire and blood to keep me beside
you."
A gentle sigh as Hannibal allows another touch, a hot palm down Will's throat
to his chest, and Will moans quietly with it.
"Please."
At this, Hannibal seems pleased, particularly, the gentle and familiar keening
warm and dulcet to his ears. He will miss this - the little sounds his boy
makes, the mewls and yelps and pleas and moans, the whimpers and the whines.
"Where is your birthday gift, Will?"
The boy's eyes widen, he fights a grin at the question, ducking his head as
much as he can without choking himself. Obvious enough to which one Hannibal is
referencing, he murmurs, "In my bag. Still. In case you wanted me to use it
again."
A hum, and fingers wrap warmly in Will's hair as Hannibal passes by him. "Good
boy."
He leaves him there, to find the bookbag left discarded by the door atop muddy
boots, and removes the small box from within. Pausing, Hannibal grasps the book
peeking from beneath untidy piles of paperwork, disorganized notebooks and
textbooks, and finds the Greek language book. Already well-worn, marked and
highlighted, with a dog-eared page more than halfway through it.
He lifts the book to his nose, eyes closed to take it in, all of it, the scent
of Will against its pages and all the meaning that carries. Relieved that Will
too is preparing, a loosening of the tension that Hannibal now experiences
daily, hourly, that Will despite his promises will not appear.
The book is placed back where it was found, beneath another remarkable test
score that draws a smile from Hannibal as he returns up the stairs.
"You will learn," he murmurs, as he enters the room slowly to observe the boy
tied and bound across the bed. "You will learn the worth of waiting, now, that
it may serve you in the near future."
A soft laugh, breathless and nervous, and Will swallows again, eyes up,
tracking Hannibal's movements until the man steps outside his scope of vision.
Then Will just closes his eyes and shifts his hips against the bed, already
spread wide with how he was tied, then wider still by choice.
He wants to learn, he needs to. The fear that had gripped him earlier could not
be allowed to paralyze him for the weeks he will not see Hannibal. Any mistake
there would drag those weeks to months, if that at all. Will does not consider
the possibility of never seeing him again - it's not an option.
A murmuring little moan as he feels Hannibal’s hands stroke down his back, curl
to stroke between his legs, two fingers from behind his balls to between his
cheeks. He shivers, tries to duck his head further and finds the tie around his
neck gently tugging him back up in reminder.
Exposed.
Possessed.
Bound to the man behind him, and his every whim.
Surrendering control to better learn to wield it. Will knows and understands,
and parts his lips on a gasp as he arches his back more, deepens the curve of
his spine, and is rewarded with a hum of pleasure, a more deliberate stroke
between his legs.
“Very good, Will.”
Rough fingers circle gently against his opening, pressing inward just a little,
to hear the plea that issues from Will, unable to see him, unable to watch, to
simply feel the teasing promise of more.
“You have survived far worse than this,” Hannibal intones softly, slicking his
fingers with lube before pushing further inward, a deep fill as far as his
fingers can go. “You will make use of your time - you will not waste it in
pining.”
A moan, guttural and warm, as Hannibal splays his fingers to stretch his boy
wider, working in a frustratingly slow rhythm in and out of him.
“You will study. Hard. As though I were watching you with the belt at the
ready, and not in promise of pleasure,” he informs his boy. “I will know if you
do not. You will best your classmates in your lectures and bring me your grades
as proof. You will learn the languages required for your travels.”
“Yes,” breathes Will, trembling from the restraint, the feel of Hannibal’s
fingers filling him.
“Yes?”
“Yes, sir,” grins Will, a laugh catching on his sigh as he twists into a low
groan when Hannibal adds another finger.
Hannibal’s approval appears in a curl of his fingers again, a rumble of
acknowledgement as Will squirms just gently against the bonds bending him into
place. The fingers are slowly withdrawn, with a sound of dismay, and Hannibal
slicks the toy, guiding it in place of where the warmth of his hand just
pressed.
“When you are unsettled, as you so often are, insatiable boy, you will use
this. You will wear it for the day if you must. And your beautiful mind will
feel my heat in its place.”
Will whimpers, bites his lip as he feels the stretch, the unrelenting pressure
of the cold toy, sighs out in unrestrained relief when it slides home, presses
cool against his prostate. He trembles, softly, fingers curled tighter together
behind his back, toes flexing in pleasure as Hannibal strokes the flat of his
palm gently over the curve of his ass, over his thighs.
“You will return to your apartment,” he adds softly, dismay in his tone as he
knows it will be in Will’s. “You will keep it clean, you will come and go as
you did before me. You will sleep.”
Will squirms gently, twists harder and pants in soft, desperate whimpers when
Hannibal strokes his scar, presses harder against it. The tensing of his
muscles brings sparks of pleasure behind his eyes again and again until his
sounds are constant, needy, and left unhindered by the way his head is arched
back, by the way Hannibal does not tell him to silence them.
He finds he can rock, just gently, against the mattress, and the lack of
friction he finds is maddening.
“Hannibal, please.”
The fond touches do not cease, the stroke of fingers against his scar, over the
curve where his ass meets his thigh, across his hip and up the procession of
his ribs to finally wrap and hold securely in his hair. A deeper bend forced
just gently as he circles in front of his boy and regards him.
"You will struggle," Hannibal informs him, not ungently but with a whole
awareness of how beautifully, how painfully Will suffers in so many ways. "You
will hate me some nights, for leaving. Convince yourself that I have abandoned
you, and that you will not find me again. That I will not be waiting for you."
A broad hand frames Will's cheek, hair still held firm in the other, and
Hannibal strokes a thumb softly against his cheek.
"Other nights you will miss this so desperately that nothing will fill that
emptiness. These will come after days where you think very little of me, until
you do, and guilt consumes you."
He leans low, lips grazing Will's forehead.
"But you will stay. And you will work, and study, and mislead, and question
everything even as you pack your things to follow me. But you will survive
this, beautiful boy, and find me and I will take you into the emptiness that
has been my bed and into the hollow spaces of my arms and I will not release
you, ever again."
Another kiss, placed and held against Will's parted lips as he murmurs, "So for
what do you beg me, Will? What will you have of me now?"
Will whimpers, eyes closed and lips parted to seek more of Hannibal’s own, more
of Hannibal himself. The words run through him like thin, honed blades of a
scalpel, they hurt, and ache, and bring up the cold terror of before in their
truth and their promises. And Will’s face crumples a moment before he blinks
his eyes open and looks up, bent as he is, bound and vulnerable and entirely at
the man’s mercy.
“You,” he breathes. “All of you that I can have before you take it away and
make me distort you in memories.”
He doesn’t want to wait. He doesn’t want to pretend and to play and live like
he’s alright. He does not want to be hollow and he will be. He will feel it
until he can see the man again, touch him, taste his skin, nuzzle against him
under his chin and feel those arms around him pushing the breath from his
lungs.
Obsession.
Addiction.
He doesn’t think of the word barely heard as he’d slept, wrist throbbing and
tended to. He doesn’t think of the one he had almost allowed past his own lips.
“Please,” he repeats. “Let me have that.”
"You have it," Hannibal responds, the tension softening from the corners of his
eyes. "You have me."
A deep breath is drawn, to clear away the uncertainty that Hannibal feels sharp
against his lungs like bone, ribs broken by the weight he feels pressing ever
harder between them, digging deeper with every breath, removed for now with a
sigh.
"What to do with you now," he considers, a particular turn to his fingers
beneath Will's chin. "Look at you."
He steps closer now, framing Will's jaw with his hand, bringing himself nearer
to the boy's parted lips. His gaze falls across every curve and bend, every
twitch of muscle beneath pale skin, and he wonders how Will will appear months
from now, if he sees him again.
When he sees him again.
His lips thin into a narrow line, a sternness of expression affected for them
both, the sort of patient disapproval that feels more familiar than all these
words that sit too warm, too heavy.
"I will enjoy every inch of you, until then," Hannibal decides, a dire tone.
"Beginning with your insolent mouth. It will be a relief to be free of its
relentless filth for a time. I cannot imagine the penance you will owe me after
so long unattended, uncorrected for your misbehaviors."
His free hand finds the fly of his trousers to tug the zipper low. Reaching
with a shift of hips, he draws his cock free with a languid stroke, and brings
it to Will's lips, holding him in place by his hair.
"Suck."
Will sighs, lips barely parted and eyes up but he doesn’t disobey, doesn’t
refuse, he merely waits before opening his lips wider and taking him in.
This is not like the punishment where Will was choked and forced, this is a
claiming, slow and deep, inch by inch, as Will opens his throat as much as he
can manage and swallows.
The tension in his body, the way every shift sends pleasure through him like
nails gentle down his back, Will blinks languidly, slow, and makes a soft noise
of need before sucking in earnest.
He keeps his eyes up, on Hannibal’s dark ones that don’t leave him either, he
slides his tongue against the thick vein at the bottom in zigzags, then harsh
pressure enough to open his jaw wider to accommodate. He watches every
response, tilts his lips in the closest approximation of a smile he can manage
when he is rewarded with a tug against his hair, a soft sound, a baring of
teeth in a snarl that speaks far from anger.
“More, Will,” Hannibal urges, tone as demanding as it is gentle. You will, as
opposed to you’ll try.
And Will does, chokes, but does it, closes his eyes as he’s forced to take more
and deeper, though the pace remains slow for the moment, just brushing the soft
palate at the back of his throat and sending shivers wracking his entire body.
The plug shifts, Will moans, a helpless loud noise, and splays his fingers
against their bonds, unable to do anything but take this, cheeks flushed and
lips red and wet, endure.
Every moan, every movement is taken in, absorbed into Hannibal and memorized. A
commitment and study that Hannibal knows must last through interminable
distances, time apart with no touch or word shared between them. A necessary
cruelty but a cruelty all the same.
Hannibal's lips part and allow a soft, heavy moan as he holds Will's chin in
his hand and guides himself deeper. Fingers stretch to feel the working of his
throat, the vibrations of sound that resonate there, the breath he has taken
and restored more times than bear counting.
"My little wolf," Hannibal says softly. "My Will."
He leans, bringing himself far into Will's mouth, meeting the resistance of a
choke that then eases and allows. Carefully he stretches across the length of
his boy's body, made smaller still by the tension of his bindings, to brush
against the plug and pull another heady, sweet sound from Will's mouth to wrap
around his cock as do the flushed, damp lips that close against him.
"The beauties of the old world will be a wasteland compared to you," Hannibal
sighs, a shuddering pleasure as Will chokes, body pulling tight in involuntary
reaction to the plunge of Hannibal's cock into his mouth. "Cathedrals and
castles rendered meaningless, worth little more than the stones that form
them." Another press of the plug, firming it deeper in him, before Hannibal
leans back again to watch Will flushed beneath a sheen of sweat. "Should they
bring insult by even deigning to draw compare, it would be my hands that tear
the rafters down and rend the tapestries for you."
Hannibal's spine curls, cock twitching heavy against Will's tongue, both hands
wrapped in unruly curls, pulling tight to feel their softness.
"Only you."
A helpless soft keen and Will shudders, so close himself, from the unrelenting
pressure of the toy, from the motion of it within him at Hannibal’s merciless
teasing, from this. He chokes, again, draws in a deep breath through his nose
and forces his eyes up, wet and tearing from the discomfort.
It seems enough, this, this utter devotion and compliance, obedience and
acceptance of abuse without question, with the pleading for more of it. To
Will’s surprise, Hannibal pulls out, leaving Will’s lips parted wide, his eyes
barely open, head tilted by the way his hair is pulled almost straight with the
force of the hold.
And then warm, thick tendrils paint Will’s face and he sobs with it, such a
filthy thing, claiming, obvious, almost indifferent in its need and display. He
opens his eyes only when Hannibal’s fingers ease in his hair, and lifts them to
Hannibal again, wide and blue.
When the man pulls back and Will gasps and swallows air, sucks his bottom lip
into his mouth to lick it clean.
He can’t duck his head without choking again, can’t do anything but rest as
he’s held, hips moving in useless little motions against the sheets beneath
him. More panting, swallowing, little whimpering noises as Will adjusts to
being able to breathe again, after being used, after enjoying it so much his
entire body sings with it.
A stunning, debauched little thing.
“Hannibal -”
Tracing fingers through the slickness that coats Will's face, Hannibal feeds
each one to his boy in turn, watches his tongue twist around each to draw it
past his eager lips and suck it clean. Much still remains, there, spread across
his ruddy cheeks and up through his curls, and Hannibal seems content to leave
it there to dry, to seep into his skin as he has seeped so definitively into
Hannibal's own
"You have me," he intones again, bringing himself near enough that Will can
lick him clean, as well. A fierce warmth in the movement as the boy obeys with
a nuzzle, breathing in the smell of Hannibal from the soft tangle of hair now
made damp around the base of his cock, as insistent a movement as Will can make
bound like this, earning a loosening of the restraint around his ankles,
freeing him in increments.
Hannibal circles the boy just enough, so that he can see Will's face and let
his own be seen. Reaching, he pulls the plug slowly, watching Will bend gasping
at the sudden swell spreading him wide, held at its thickest point.
Sighing softly, Hannibal murmurs, "How exquisite it will be when we are
together again, and I will pin you to every surface available until we both
collapse from exhaustion."
He hums, pleased, and twists the toy out and back again inside, a slow fucking
as a prelude to more.
Will cries out, sensitive and needy, covered and filthy, head still forced back
by the tie, denying him the chance to hide himself.
Hannibal pulls the toy out again and Will nearly sobs with it. He knows he
isn't allowed to cum. He doesn't even ask, doesn't allow himself to feel the
disappointment of hearing the calm denial of his pleasure.
You will learn the worth of waiting.
He drops his ankles to the bed, shifting to bend the other way, to try to get
his knees under him. He ends up in a pathetic sprawl, panting and whining as
Hannibal holds him still, twists the toy deliberately as he pulls it free to
tug lightly on the skin around the rim of his hole, pink from abuse.
"Please.” Not quite a sob, but the word is heavy, a thick sound, wet, and
Will’s lips part wide when his request is ignored.
"Please, please, Hannibal, I can't like this -"
"You will have to," Hannibal reminds him, and Will does sob there, teeth
gritted with the onset of genuine tears as the torment continues.
Exposed.
Bared.
Hannibal watches, hungry even still, the push and pull of the sensitive skin as
he works the toy slowly inside his boy. Thighs quaking, hips bucking against
the sheets to seek friction that is never found, his body moves in ways he
can't control and it draws a sigh from Hannibal, profound appreciation for how
Will's body responds to sensation and feeling, alive and trembling.
The toy is removed, slow enough to make Will moan in exquisite agony of release
delayed, and Hannibal sets it aside. Lowering himself, rough hands curve around
Will's ass and spread him wide, the blush cascading from Will's filthy cheeks
down across his shoulders, his chest, as Hannibal observes the twitch of muscle
there, before merely watching isn't enough and he presses his lips against it
in a kiss. Open-mouthed, devouring the cry of pleasure that tears itself from
Will's throat, Hannibal tastes him, face between his thighs to press his tongue
against the boy's flushed opening. Soft swipes first, broad and hot, and then
with a rumble, he presses inward to feel the boy curl against his bindings and
beg again.
"Hannibal, please, I -"
Fingernails sharpen against his skin to force him wider still, to silence his
pleas with the satisfaction of knowing that as Hannibal kneels now, he kneels
for no one else. No one else enjoyed so sincerely, in every way, whose every
flavor and scent and sound and movement is a thing to be adored and worshipped.
He hums again, and Will's shiver is almost violent in response. Sobs wrack his
body, draw from him almost pitiful sounds of need as Will fights everything not
to cum and Hannibal works his mouth against him, his tongue within him, to make
that endurance near impossible.
"Please!"
A hand slips lower to untie the knot holding Will's ankles together and
Hannibal leans back enough only to draw his hands down Will's legs to his
thighs, to hook behind his knees and hoist his hips up; presented, on display,
quivering and almost obscenely open, cock now off the bed, leaking in his need
to cum.
"Hands down," Hannibal whispers, a harsh sound. “You can reach, Will, I want
you to spread yourself for me."
Will's blush darkens further at being asked such a dirty thing, and yet he
obeys without question, hands spreading himself for the man’s pleasure, quick
breaths pulling at his chest.
"Hannibal, please let me -" It's a rush of words and Will barely swallows
before continuing, "I can't... can't endure much more... I don’t want to
disobey you."
"Then don't," comes the gentle response.
Fingertips tracing against Will’s that hold him spread wide, Hannibal slips his
touch beside his tongue to feel the boy open for him. A steady rhythm, pressing
inward as he kisses wide and warm against the skin that parts this way for
Hannibal and Hannibal alone. His breath is cool against Will, a soft whisper.
“You will not disappoint me. Here and now, in the months ahead, it matters not.
You know my expectations and they are no more than you can bear, and you know
the consequences of failure to meet them,” Hannibal murmurs, no threat in his
words, but a warning, a reminder. “It will be far worse than the lash, than
this torment, and you will never need to know it, Will, if you do as you know
you must. As I have told you to do.”
Hannibal rises from his kneel to lean across Will, to slide his fingers into
him, three at once, a painful stretch that brings a blush bright across his
skin as even shaking Will holds himself exposed.
“You will perform beautifully,” Hannibal assures him, “and be rewarded for it.”
Words of faith in Will’s abilities from one who has only survived by trusting
no one, of yielding this control to none but himself. Inwardly, Hannibal
wonders as to the wisdom of it, to place his fate so entirely in the hands of
this boy, but as Will arches, his body begging but obeying even still, he finds
that worry quieted enough, for now.
Hannibal skims a hand around Will’s waist, across the scar that bisects his
belly, and grasps his cock, throbbing hard. Will shudders as his length, full
and flushed, twitches heavy beneath the rough fingers that gentle now to stroke
him, bringing him to the edge of his ability to resist. He bends across Will’s
body, a heavy weight over him, and kisses languidly along Will’s arms, his
shoulders, as he adds another finger inside of him.
“Oh f- ,” Will catches the word before it falls, held behind his teeth as they
sink into his lower lip with a hiss of pain, of pleasure, it hardly matters now
as he shakes with the effort of resistance.
“Very good,” sighs Hannibal, in absolute pleasure to watch his boy fight his
own body simply to satisfy him. The fingers turn and curl as he strokes firm to
surround the head of Will’s aching cock, and whispers, finally, “Cum for me,
beautiful boy.”
Will is fairly sure he’s crying by the time release floods through him and out.
Stretched so wide, claimed, marked, shaking. He can feel Hannibal purring
praise over him, can feel when he loosens the tie around his neck and ducks his
head when he can.
He gasps when the fingers slip free of him. Flexes his fingers in a desperate
need to move as Hannibal works those knots free as well. One by one the ties
fall away and Will groans as he draws his arms into himself, his knees closer,
curled into an exhausted shaking ball on Hannibal’s bed.
There is a hand in his hair, the bed dips as Hannibal settles in beside him and
draws Will close, and he goes, turning to his side and nuzzling, filthy,
against him.
Hannibal lifts his chin for Will to duck beneath it, sighing when he does. A
broad hand spreads across his back, now unbent, to ease the tension from it and
soothe the muscles twitching tired beneath his touch.
Warm scents fill his nose, Will’s sweat, his own seed, dried against the boy’s
skin. Hannibal ducks his head to take in the whole of it, a deep breath, to
store away and seek later when weeks grow long, and he so desperately wants to
claim his boy again as his own. This, here and now, Will marked as his own in
such an overt way that Hannibal can taste it, salty, against his lips as he
kisses Will’s brow.
“You will wait, Will,” Hannibal speaks softly against him now. “As you have
here, as I know you can. You will wait and I will go.”
He ignores the shiver that crackles through Will in response and tightens his
arms, hands spreading against the lithe little body that drives itself against
him.
“And when it is time, you will go, and then I will wait.”
"Yes," Will whimpers, sighs, settles closer. He swallows, pushing it from his
mind. The fear of waiting. The fear of abandonment. All away. For the moment
they don’t matter.
For the moment he is here, in Hannibal's arms.
His.
***** Chapter 13 *****
Chapter Summary
     He registers the slow, slick nausea that is creeping over his heart
     as the realization that if the pattern can be discovered, followed up
     on, catalogued, then its end will be just as quickly found, the
     ceasing of killings that have spanned years without pause.
     No Hannibal, no dead talented boys.
They didn’t get to kiss.
Smoke filters towards the low-hanging apartment ceiling, a cramped space now by
comparison to the ones he became so used to in their home, but it hardly
matters now. That place is theirs no more and a home no more, just a house with
a broker listing in front of it, empty rooms scrubbed bare of all the lives
that had been taken and shared within it.
He hates it. Hates the house just sitting there and hates this apartment and
hates that they didn’t get to kiss each other when they finally parted.
Another billow of smoke upward, and Will watches as it unfurls and disperses.
He had stirred sleepless the moment Hannibal moved from him that morning, only
two weeks ago but it hardly matters now - it could have been a lifetime ago or
yesterday and it wouldn’t feel any less ugly.
He brings another pull of smoke and flame into his lungs.
Will had insisted, against Hannibal’s better judgment, on coming with him to
the airport, but even before they left Hannibal’s hands had felt stiff against
Will’s sides, his kisses already distant, distracted. Will tells himself still
that it wasn’t him, but it hardly matters now when even still his heart crawls
shuddering against his ribs at the memory of it.
They didn’t get to kiss there at the airport, as Hannibal settled his bag
neatly across his shoulder and gave Will a warning look as he took a step to
approach. Too many eyes, analog and digital, too much observation on and around
them to risk it, and so with only a softened gaze and a dulcet wish for luck
for his boy, Hannibal turned.
Hannibal left Will the keys to the Bentley, to enjoy in his absence, with the
insistence that he not drive it to school or Quantico, and that he bring the
keys to Hannibal’s lawyer before he left.
And it hardly matters now. Their home is gone, and Hannibal is gone, and they
didn’t get to kiss before he left, and Will hates it.
His cell rings again and Will ignores it. Another call with another message
from Bev asking where he is, why he skipped class, if he needs her to make him
soup or slap him with the pot.
Will considers Hannibal’s promises, his threats for Will to go to class and
what would happen if he didn’t.
I will know.
Will ashes the cigarette into a glass and tosses the butt in after, hearing it
hiss, before letting his hand drape over the edge of the bed. He’s vaguely
aware that he’s hungry, that he should sleep properly, that that was the last
cigarette in the pack he’d started this morning.
Will pushes himself to sit and rubs his eyes.
There is one class left in the day, a session of therapy the next. Will wants
nothing but to crawl to the next pack in the kitchen and finish that off as
well. Instead he slips out of bed and into his boots, draws his hair back in a
loose messy knot at the base of his neck, and grabs his bag.
Outside it’s cool but not cold, and Will forces himself to walk slowly,
forgoing the car, to get to class.
“You smell like an ashtray.”
“I’d respond in kind but I was taught to be nice to girls.”
Bev grins, bumps her shoulder to Will’s.
“The fuck you been?”
“Flu.”
“It’s summer.”
“I’m lucky.”
She doesn’t ask more, just follows Will to the lecture, drags Zeller along when
he seems reluctant - ‘You always show up to this anyway, yours or not, Z’.
“Jack Crawford called,” she says. “Probably called you too, but you’ve been
playing hard to get.”
Will blinks.
“Says your profile got another hit. You’re gonna be his golden boy for this.”
"Another hit?" Will repeats, catching up with her after a few long strides.
"There's been - they found someone? Or someone else has gone missing?"
She arches a brow, seeming pleased with this newfound enthusiasm. Her voice
dips, caught just between the three of them.
"The latter. They've been pulling old information anywhere they might find a
pattern. Cold cases, missing persons reports, even excessive truancies from
school districts." Bev twists her mouth, smirking. "Zeller will show up in
those."
"And you're still stuck with me," he responds, raising a brow right back at
her, to her apparent delight.
"Anyway," she continues, eyes rolling. "They're working both sides of it.
Apparently there's enough to go on that it's worth the searching - for the
person doing it, and for other kids who fit the victim profile."
"And they found one," responds Will, stomach turning suddenly.
"Same as the one we looked at - missing a couple of months, reason to believe
he was 'working' when it happened. Young, good-looking, no consistent group of
friends and no relationship attachments, healthy enough family life, really
good grades." Pausing, Bev elbows Zeller when walks too closely beside her.
"That's why you'd never make the cut," she grins.
"Not funny," Zeller retorts, grim. "I wouldn't - plus, I mean - for money, I
just…"
Will shoulders his bag higher, watching with dismay as the lecture hall looms
closer. "Musician?" he ventures, relieved to see Beverly shake her head until
she answers.
"Artist. He painted. Apparently pretty good."
What do you see?
“He was our age too, not a comforting thought,” Zeller mumbles, and pushes Bev
back when she leans against him.
What drives those colors from behind your eyes?
Will shakes his head and feigns a cough to keep up his excuse of the flu.
Neither of his friends buy it, he hardly cares.
The lecture barely penetrates as they sit at the back and pass a notebook back
and forth with their scribbled conversation and theories on the case. Will sits
in the middle, eyes glassy, mind spinning so fast he’s dizzy with it.
More and more boys will be found, those, like Will, who had gone to the streets
for the money that they could get easily, for the money they never needed but
wanted regardless. Only a matter of time before colleges in the area will be
asked for information. Only a matter of time before someone talks to Chilton
and he tells them of Will’s proclivities, of his ‘condition’. Willing and all
too happy to sell out his once-colleague on a whim and a rumour.
He registers the slow, slick nausea that is creeping over his heart as the
realization that if the pattern can be discovered, followed up on, catalogued,
then its end will be just as quickly found, the ceasing of killings that have
spanned years without pause.
No Hannibal, no dead talented boys.
Will wins another game of hangman, to Zeller’s delight and Bev’s dismay - the
word had been ‘trajectory’ - and murmurs that he’ll return in a moment. A
bathroom break.
Once out, his phone is quick in his hand, his fingers fast on the memorized
number. The silky mechanical voice tells him, again, that the number he has
dialled is unavailable, that it has been disconnected, that it no longer
exists. And Will presses the thing to his forehead and closes his eyes and
tries to calm his breathing.
Hannibal exists. He is not gone. Not yet a mechanical recording indifferent and
inhuman. Will cannot allow him to become that, cannot allow his Hannibal to
vanish like smoke.
Hannibal can't help him with this. Wouldn't help, maybe, even if he hadn't
disappeared so suddenly - his speed of dismantling and vanishing so entire as
to be a frightening thought in itself.
No. Hannibal would want, expect Will to figure this out.
Clever boy, he would purr, you will not disappoint me.
Will shivers.
Only so long left to tie up loose ends, for the both of them, and - Will
reasons - if investigators are already confirming this part of the picture,
they'll soon spread their attention outward. Boys whose absence wasn't felt so
prominently, whose families weren't around but vanished from beneath the
attention of those who worked the corners with them, the officers who used them
for information or who had brought them in enough times to know their names and
faces and whereabouts.
A city of lost boys, the dissolution of which would be felt even more than the
continuance.
Will breathes, mouth against the phone, and returns to class.
He listens absently to the lecture. Listens closer to the friends that sit
alongside him, and tries not to wonder how close they might have all become.
Nights spent drinking, laughing, studying and fooling around. If they'd have
stayed friends after graduation, gone on to work together for years and years,
finding monsters like Hannibal.
Like himself.
He mumbles something about therapy as he leaves them after lecture, ignoring
the dismay from Zeller and Bev both as they watch him go. He doesn't add that
it's the next day. They don't correct him.
The Bentley is where he left it, parked on a darkening side street with no
through way, and he breathes in as he slides into the driver's seat. It's a
risk to have it, to be seen in it, but they didn't get to kiss before Hannibal
left and Will hates it so he uses the car, with its heated seats and warmer
memories, because it’s the only place that still feels a little like him.
Will resists the urge to touch himself out of sheer frustration at this distant
nearness, removing his phone instead to play back the robotic voice that greets
him rather than Hannibal.
“You seem distracted,” intones Chilton, turning slowly in his seat as he
watches Will. “You have seemed, rather, for the last few times I’ve seen you.
What’s on your mind, Mister Graham?”
Will blinks, returns to the room, now, from where he had let his mind wander to
the night before.
"My father got in touch," he lies gently, brows furrowing before he shrugs. "He
does this occasionally. To check up. To accumulate more things to tell his
friends and colleagues, a little bundle of pride to boost his ego with the
successes of a son he never sees."
It had been partially true. The best lies were always built on solid
foundations. Will’s father had called to collect information, indifferent and
awkward on the phone. But he had last called at Will’s graduation from high
school.
"Does that upset you?"
"Hardly," Will smiles, forces his eyes to wrinkle at the corners, his lips to
bring dimples to his cheeks. Forces a smile to be genuine. "I find much more
comfort and importance in the men I bed."
A sigh, not quite frustrated but almost... exhausted. With Will's deliberate
desire to always swing the conversation to his sexual exploits. Proud less of
his own conquests and more, it seems, of how often he has bent for another.
Counting conquerors.
Oddly submissive for this boy, yet it has never once failed to catch Chilton’s
attention.
"Another, then?" he asks, taking the bait, settling back for another lie,
another grotesque description of carnality.
"Two," Will muses, letting his mind wander back, "one held me down as the other
fucked me."
He thinks of large brown eyes and freckles.
"Enacting a rape fantasy," he sighs, as in his mind those eyes blink up at him
and a youthful, sweet mouth cries out his name. "I enjoyed playing along."
The boy had been younger than Will, so easy to coax from the street under the
guise of being a bored closeted son of a senator.
I won't tell nobody.
You're such a pretty, pretty boy.
Will blinks, directs his eyes to Chilton again. The doctor regards him at
length, chin in his hand, elbow on the desk, fingers drumming against his lips,
pen clicked slowly again and again in his other hand.
“Have you ever been?” A clinical tone, but curious. “Assaulted in that manner.”
He had struggled, gasping and thrashing, until fingers found his pulse and
closed it off, stopped beneath rough hands holding firm even as fingernails
shredded into skin. Will had, once, beneath a gaze devoid of anything but
darkness, and Will wonders if his eyes looked the same to the boy who fought
beneath him just the same.
“Comes with the territory,” Will responds, leaning forward onto the desk,
mirroring the chin in hand, the fingers against his mouth, but tugging against
his lips as though in thought. Otherwise, he is impassive, and Chilton arches a
brow. “Clients know what they want before you get there. They don’t always tell
you what they have in mind, so you find out the hard way.”
Unsteady his first time doing something like this, unaware that the slight
little thing - younger even than himself by several years - would lash out
towards his eyes, force him to duck, grip loosening just enough that it became
a fight to pin him again.
“And yet you continue.”
Will laughs, catching his fingers briefly between his teeth as he considers the
question. Considers the way he caught the boy when he scurried to his knees to
escape and wrapped his hands around his neck again.
“You know why you’re there. They know why you’re there. It isn’t as though
you’re coming over for coffee and conversation,” answers Will.
Chilton replaces his fingers, their steady tapping against his mouth, with his
pen, to rest between his teeth. The silence draws long between them, studying
each other, before Chilton finally asks.
“You play at being so above it all,” Chilton illustrates with a wave of his
hand. “I’m curious - what keeps you awake at night?” He catches the grin as it
appears and lifts a finger to silence the answer he knows with a roll of eyes
is perched on Will’s lips. “Not that. I want to know what scares you, troubles
you - no one is unphased by everything.”
"Then call me Nemo. I'm your exception." Will can feel himself tense, knows
this is a path he cannot allow his psychologist to go down. Knows as soon as
there is a weakness the man will hone in on it, have his story.
"You are quite an extraordinary liar, Will, but this is transparent."
Will blinks, in that motion directs his eyes to Chilton properly.
He wonders if at any point the man was working to genuinely help people, if
there was ever a time he was honest.
They are both liars, Will and he, both tired today of their lies and the effort
to sustain them.
Will can still feel the sting of little nails against his chest. Still feel the
bruising rawness against his knuckles from where he had struck the boy across
the face.
"I dislike my father playing his role when it suits him,” he admits at last. "I
don’t get my scholarships and grades for him. He has no right to them."
Enough of a liar to similarly sense a certain truth in things, Chilton’s
interest piques more than it has for the rest of the session, aside from the
moments of imagination in envisioning Will pinned and squirming. But there’s
something more. He can smell it like smoke before a fire, a particularly honed
sense of knowing when to withdraw for his own good and when to come a little
closer.
And he does, physically now, unconcerned with startling this particular patient
out of this openness as he normally might almost be by making such a move.
Rather than behind the desk, he settles against it, leaning near enough but not
so close enough for either to reach the other.
An equally well honed sense of self-preservation as for sensing something
interesting.
“If not him, then for who?”
"You are trying to goad me to an admission I will not give you, Frederick,"
Will smiles. "There is no scandal with my grades, I get them for myself and my
own pride. To continue being this enigma to you, to the FBI, to anyone who
looks deep enough to see that I am Dorian Gray."
He drags a hand through his hair and thinks of fingers sticky with sweat doing
the same the night before. Soft and pleasant things, nervous but practiced
enough.
The ache within him pulses against his ribs again. For Hannibal. For the man to
return home and chastise him for skipping class. To make him kneel to take his
punishment for his cursing. To strike him across the face until Will is numb
with it before roughly bending him and pushing in, filling him up.
And yet the soft-eyed boy had not appreciated the treatment as Will would have.
The roles switched so suddenly of Will being Hannibal to Will killing him that
the night was painfully unsatisfactory.
Nights like that were common. Will sitting back, still straddling the kid, his
own head back and breathing curses to the ceiling.
"I used the choke hold you taught me.”
“Where are you to yell at me about being sloppy?”
“Where are you to yank me down by my hair and draw rug burns over my knees?”
“Fuck you."
He'd slept in the back of the Bentley that night, too tired of pressing his
face to the dampness of his own tears in the sheets as he howled into them,
releasing anything he could so as not to tear his own soul to shreds.
He’d woken late. Had eventually come here.
"Why do you do this?" he asks suddenly, eyes up to Chilton. “Why do you pretend
to care, waste your time sucking up the angst and pain you're brought. You hate
this."
Chilton regards him dryly, eyes darting taking in the coiled length of the boy,
feet drawn up into his chair, cheek resting against his knees. The bruising
across his hand, no more obvious than a faint shadow, but not escaping notice.
He sighs, tongue against his teeth, considering his patient, who sees through
Chilton as transparently as Chilton sees through him.
"This isn't my session, Mister Graham," he responds, the necessary bullshit
line he's expected to say at this juncture, but there's no insistence to it.
"Are you asking why I do this, generally? Or why I'm here doing adolescent work
in particular?"
"The latter I know," Will calmly informs him, not knowing facts but reading
signs, enough to get an image. "Tell me why you started this. At all."
He regards the man and feels that same exhaustion radiating from him as Will
knows coils in his bones and drags them heavy.
Perhaps they are enough alike for Will to consider, to want.
He remembers his initial assessment, of the man doing nothing more than fucking
him rough - it hasn't changed. The man has no genuine violence within him, but
his eyes slip to a delightful darkness thinking about Will prone and helpless
beneath him.
Will bites the inside of his lip and unfurls from the chair, one hand up
against his lips the other curled on the armrest.
His therapist doesn’t bother to hide the way he observes the motion now, no
cameras here to catch it, recording devices audio only and easily erased or
recorded over. It’s a passive observation, cautious enough to not risk more
than he already has in past sessions - a trail of a finger, a particular
innuendo - but an appreciative one all the same.
A recognition of roles filled and roles played, and a firm preservational
understanding of where the lines are drawn between them.
Chilton sighs again, squinting as he scratches his temple with the end of his
pen before letting his limbs go a little slack, less imposing, deliberate
perhaps, or not - it’s hard to tell for someone who lies and manipulates as
readily as if it were breathing.
“I wanted to be a surgeon, when I started medical school,” he offers, mostly
honest in this at least. “Eventually I found myself routed more towards the
mental equivalent of it. Psychic surgery rather than physical. Far more
interesting, ultimately. It’s fascinating to sift through what people hold
inside of them, what makes them choose and direct their lives the way they do.”
He pauses, and in absolute honesty but without exposition, adds with a shrug.
“It’s useful.” The look lingers, curious still, but especially now that this
space has opened between them. “Why do you do what you do?”
Will swallows, drops his hand to settle against his thigh but not suggestively
so. Not right then.
"It's the only time my mind slows down," he says, and that, worryingly, is the
ultimate truth. "When all your body can think of is pleasure or pain and has
room for nothing else."
A sigh, quick, and Will smiles before pushing himself up to stand.
"It's also useful," he grins, "with my condition being such as it is."
He steps close enough for it to be uncomfortable for them both, that niggling
sensation to move away, to get further back and keep their equilibrium.
"You want me." It's not a question.
Chilton draws a breath, just slight but enough that Will notices, his smile
widens, and he takes another step nearer. Eyes rolling ceilingward, Chilton
silently curses the fucking board that sent him back to adolescent work for the
fifteenth time that day, and keeps his eyes trained there as Will nears him.
“As a patient,” he agrees, a cagey response to dodge the accusation. “Yes. You
don’t need to be here but you - your condition,” he adds, flustered, “it’s
particularly interesting.”
Will’s smile bends gently as he bites his lip again.
"You want to see inside my head so badly you can't take it,” he murmurs,
amused, almost resigned, before he laughs.
"I give my consent for hypnosis," he tells him, "effective next session if -”
Lips parted, breath drawn, mirroring Chilton’s expression of anticipation,
undeniable excitement. "If you stop fucken lying to yourself."
His interest is overt and sudden, a brightness in his eyes unmistakable, a
bloodhound with a scent on the trail, following something, the nature of which
he doesn’t know, but he knows when he’s got a scent and it’s now and he smirks,
pleased.
“Do tell, Mister Graham,” he allows, “what is it that you think I’m lying to
myself about?”
A shake of his head, a bare shadow of a grin and Will simply steps forward to
kiss him, an unyielding deep thing that catches the man off guard enough to
part his lips, to let Will in.
It's almost frenzied, Will’s entire body on edge and humming with need. To be
touched and pinned and fucked and taken. To have someone claim and mark and
beat and soothe him.
He makes a gentle noise and steps closer, standing against Chilton fully now,
one hand down against his desk for balance, the other curled into a fist at his
own side.
And he knows that this would satisfy him for an evening, would start a pleasing
distraction, a mildly illicit affair for them both.
But this is not Hannibal. This is not the man Will aches for with the marrow of
his bones and the tattered cold tendrils of his soul.
This is a shadow of what he needs and Will pulls back with a helpless little
sound.
"Stop lying,” he whispers, and it's hard to tell if he addresses the
psychiatrist or himself.
The whisper hangs to fill the silence between them, the stunned regard of
Chilton whose eyes open slowly to watch his patient so near to him now, lips
still parted where Will drove himself against them. He is not unkind, not harsh
in tone when speaks again, patience mingling with a more than mild degree of
alarm at what just happened, and how much he enjoyed it.
“I want,” he begins, and the change of direction is almost tangible, “to help
you, Will. I think that there are concerns that I could - actually, if I tried
- help you work through. Not only this condition, but there are others, of more
paramount importance.”
He swallows hard, fingers clenched against the edge of the desk so hard they’re
white, and his voice lowers.
“I can’t help you like this. Another time or place,” he trails off, an
allowance accompanied by a wordless shrug. “But not like this. You would cost
me everything.”
Will sighs, a slow trembling exhale, and presses his lips together as he
swallows. Between them, his heartbeat hammers loud enough, he thinks, to hear,
and whatever spark he had fuelled, pushed, brightened, peters away to ash and
the smell of artificial fire.
“But would you losing those things be worth it?” he sighs. It’s a rhetorical
question, he doesn’t want an answer. Instead hears the echo in Chilton’s voice
of another statement, similar, harsh accusation in an echoing room.
“Cost and worth are very different things,” he laughs, just gently, and steps
back, bends to take up his bag, to slip it over his shoulder. He gives the
doctor a lingering look before nodding.
“I consent to hypnosis,” he repeats. “Next time. If you have a form you want my
name on, I will sign it.”
Another sigh, another gentle narrowing of his eyes before Will straightens.
“Perhaps next hour, doctor, you will save me.”
He leaves the office, just as exhausted, just as drained as when he’d come in.
He knows he won’t be back again, but it’s nice to leave on a note of hope.
Will decides to walk back through the park, ignoring the potential lurking
dangers, the possibility of assault or harm. Perhaps even inviting it, some
hope just beneath the surface of his thoughts that someone would try, would
strike him when he didn’t expect it so that he could fight back.
That maybe that person would be Hannibal, there to scold him for the danger of
his choices and punish him soundly for it.
He stops just long enough to light a cigarette, attention drawn to the
sensation of movement approaching before he even hears the footsteps.
“Hey, sorry to be a pain in the ass,” the voice starts - young, wary, and Will
watches as the young man steps towards him, hands raised and palms outward
peaceably. “Do you mind if I bum one?”
There’s a moment of connection as their eyes meet - Will doesn’t know the kid,
but he’s able to tell his own when he sees them, especially in places like
this. A little overdressed for the warm spring night, bag a bit too big and
overstuffed. Scruffy, a bit of fluff across his jaw and shaggy brown hair, but
clean, freshly showered even.
“Yeah,” Will finally responds, shaking his head at himself for the scrutinous
delay. He offers out a cigarette and leans to light it for him, regarding this
other boy with the requisite wariness that he would be expected to show. “Late
night?”
The kid - college age, older than Will by a little - takes a grateful drag and
laughs smoke. “Every fucking night.”
“You stay out here?” Will asks, a quick nod to the backpack, the unseasonable
jacket.
“Sometimes here, sometimes other people’s beds,” he shrugs in response.
“There’s a group of us usually. Not a lot around tonight so I don’t want to
stay too still, I’d fall asleep,” he adds with a grin.
“Later night last night then,” responds Will with a crooked smile.
The kid snorts, ashing his cigarette, seemingly grateful for the company,
recognizing the similarity in them, and the differences as he takes in Will’s
clothes, his schoolbag. “Hardly worth it, would rather have had the sleep.”
Will nods, considers him. Then shoulders his bag higher and tosses his head.
“Come on then.”
The kid blinks, the cigarette halfway to his lips before he smiles, disbelief,
and shakes his head. Will rolls his eyes skyward and holds there, for a long
drag of his cigarette.
“I used to work just off Main,” he says, ashing the cigarette and folding his
arms across his middle. Standing still brings the chill through the air that he
could ward off with a brisk walk. “Worst nights were the nights after. You’re
half out of your head with exhaustion, you have your fucken classes to stay
awake for and you know that you if you skip the night that will be the night
you were meant to hit it big, so you go.”
He shrugs.
“Consider this the break.”
He gestures with the cigarette, across the park.
“I don’t have a lavish motel room to share but I have a college apartment and
no roommate.”
The kid regards him with a streetwise wariness, shaking his head with a little
laugh. “Don’t want to seem ungrateful but it’s kind of weird, isn’t it? Letting
someone just crash with you that you only just met. I mean,” he shrugs, rolls
his shoulder and winces a little, stretching out the kinks of a rough night’s
sleep. He settles into a slight grin. “How do you know I’m not a psycho
killer?”
Will lets him think that the amusement in his smile is for him, rather than at
him, sighing smoke.
“Are you?”
The kid laughs. “No, course not. But I could be.”
“You’re not really selling me on this,” Will responds, brow lifting, and the
boy laughs again.
“I just want a bed to sleep in,” he sighs, crushing his cigarette out across
the gravel walkway. There’s a desperation in his voice, and Will takes it as
his cue to start walking. He hears the footsteps behind him, and glances back
to offer a faint smile to the boy hurrying to catch up.
“It’s nice of you,” corrects the boy, more gratitude in his tone than he lets
on in his words, and WIll responds easily, pleased.
“I guess psycho killers have to look after each other.”
***** Chapter 14 *****
Chapter Summary
     He wonders at his own patience with the courtship, too long since he
     has spent longer than a night devoted to charming and holding
     attention, too long since that attention was devoted to a smart
     woman. He thinks, as he has not for many years, of Alana, just as
     brazen and clever and beautiful when he had courted her. Just as
     unsatisfying, in the end, beyond a distraction and a whim.
     He does not think of Will.
By the fourth week, Hannibal has three new suits and an average of as many
hours sleep per night. He keeps his standing reservation at the cafe near the
cathedral for eight o’clock every morning, where he has a dark coffee and
whatever the pretty waitress at the counter offers him to try.
Her name is Gabriella, she’s eighteen, and were she a boy she would have long
ago found her way to Hannibal’s bed.
She has clever eyes, dark like his own, and dark curly hair, like Will’s, that
reaches past her shoulders. She’s in college studying to be a businesswoman,
something her father had taught her would make her successful and happy in life
and she had yet to find that to be untrue. She’s a bubbly thing, funny and
quick, and Hannibal only frequents the cafe for her.
This morning it rains, sending all Parisians to seek shelter, too long used to
the sights of their city that keep the relentless throngs of tourists braving
the weather instead. Hannibal sits just inside the awning, the water marking a
dripping line that bisects the path the table rests against. There is a
cigarette in the ashtray, and a small fruit tart with a silver fork beside his
cup of coffee, yet untouched.
“Food will fuel your thoughts,” she suggests softly from beside him, the warm
purr of French lifting his attention from the empty page where his pen sits
unmoving. She’s braced her serving tray across her stomach, hands draped over
it, and an easy smile. Hannibal returns it, and dutifully samples the tart with
a hum of appreciation.
She nods towards the page, politely not allowing her eyes to linger on it, but
him instead, a constant amusement in the light of her eyes. “What do you write?
If it isn’t rude to ask.”
“Not rude at all,” Hannibal responds genially, “although my answer at present
is ‘very little’.” A rueful smile, faint.
“What would you write, if you were?”
Hannibal shifts, leaning back into his chair and crossing a leg. “Notes,” he
finally answers. “Notes on travel, on particular experiences.”
She tilts her head a little, a quick study and a quicker smile, sympathetic and
gentle. “You miss someone. Marking down your memories of them until you’ve
written them all, and there are no more to write.”
He glances to the page, blank, empty, and to her again. “Not incorrect,” he
allows, and then with another smile. “Clever girl.”
“I spend my day watching people,” she shrugs, a dismissal. “You learn to see
them beyond what they show.”
Familiarity in the concept, if not the words themselves, and as ever Hannibal
finds his thoughts return to those of wide blue eyes, drinking in everything
around them, funneling facts into interpretations faster than any conscious
analysis would ever allow. Intuition, and empathy.
Hannibal wonders if her hair is as soft as it appears to be, and how it would
feel held between his fingers.
“If I may make a suggestion?” she offers, smile widening a little.
“They are always excellent,” smiles Hannibal softly.
A laugh, quiet, as she bends nearer to him, voice low and perhaps just a little
too close, enough that Hannibal draws a breath at the sensation, the
forwardness of her body language and the scents that beg his attention with her
so close.
“Make new memories.”
A darkening of the eyes, a gentle narrowing of them and a widening of his own
smile before he inclines his head and Gabriella returns to the counter, a
pleasant blush on her features.
Whether the clever girl means for him to renew old memories with another or
seek to make new ones entire is hard to say, yet as one option remains
impossible for the moment Hannibal briefly considers the other. Considers,
again, if her hair would feel soft between his fingers and how it would bounce
back to its place when he pulled a curl taut and let it go.
Before him, the notebook remains blank.
He had not allowed himself to follow Will fully from across the world, but he
did check his grades and attendance, frequently. He still draws his lips in a
snarl thinking of the entire week Will had missed of college, precisely the
week Hannibal had left, the thread of his displeasure still warm and present.
Yet Will’s grades have not suffered, despite his deliberate truancy, and it
warms Hannibal in a way he wonders if he can call pleasing. Warmer still, he
feels, at the consideration that should they see each other again - a
potentiality, for him, rather than a certitude - he would make Will suffer
beautifully for his delinquency.
As before when Hannibal had fled overseas to rid himself of the control he felt
surrounding him from this boy, Spain and France have borne little for him in
way of pleasure. Not for lack of seeking it, in food that has not satisfied and
wine that has not relaxed him, in art that fails to inspire and architecture
that leaves him bored. Not for the boys he’s met along the way - the pretty,
incorrigible ones not nearly smart enough, and pretty, smart ones far too well-
behaved. Tedium at every turn, and not a one remotely as worthy as the one
Hannibal has sought so ardently to replace from the moment he boarded the plane
in Baltimore.
Something new, then, he considers. Rather than merely trying to fill the void
left absent, letting it close on its own and instead turning his attentions
towards novelty. A redirection of focus rather than an attempt to recreate.
He closes his notebook and sets it aside, finally taking up the coffee and
cutting another precise slice of the fruit tart in front of him.
Beyond, tourists throng outside the cathedral, touching the plaque in the
middle of the courtyard worn almost smooth by feet and groping hands. An
amusing superstition that if one were to rub it for luck they would always find
a way to return to the city.
-
It’s the clear nights that Hannibal finds his bed haunted, by blue barely-open
eyes, the phantom sensation of breathing beside him. Even when another
deliberately takes his place, bent and writhing and making soft sounds of
pleasure under Hannibal’s mouth - still those eyes, those lips quirked in
amusement and a deeper knowing.
Tonight the boy is blonde and angular, a professional in pleasure yet utterly
dull to Hannibal. His words fall empty and wan, and even when he is worked past
his falsities to genuine enjoyment the end is the casual handover of money.
No slowing pulse. No struggles and stuttered breaths.
No talent to devour.
Hannibal considers, again, novelty. Leaning over the balcony with a cigarette
balanced between his fingers, the smoke coiling and twisting into the shapes of
a familiar body.
The next morning finds a rose on his table for the pretty waitress who brings
him a creme brulée.
"Waiting for someone?"
Hannibal hasn't bothered with the notebook today, tired of the same dreary
lines of frustration in Will's invasiveness in his thoughts, in his actions, in
behaviors he knows he once had without him, and now seeks to find again. A
novel, instead, something in Greek he picked up in hopes to immerse himself in
the language, if not the words themselves.
A distraction that even still brings him back around again to that insufferable
boy.
He closes it, shakes his head as though to clear the thoughts, and catches her
grin before she trains it down to a smile, a blush across her cheeks.
"For you," he responds, a simple declaration as he offers it out to her. She
accepts it with a tilt of her head in thanks, allowing herself to be charmed by
him, and he by her as she snaps the stem of it and settles it behind her ear. A
youthful peach flower, blooming to red at the petal's ends, to offset the warm
dark tones of her skin.
"I knew my recommendations were good," she laughs, just brazen enough to be
entirely delightful, and in all likelihood unaware - too young to know - how
utterly becoming she really is.
Surely, Hannibal tells himself, this could be enjoyed. Her company and her
cleverness, her engaging eyes and her unbound youth, until he makes them
entirely his own and brings it all to stillness for no one to enjoy again. He
sips his coffee and catches her glance over her shoulder at him as she works,
returning her smile, and imagines that perhaps she'll even fight back against
him when he tries.
She leaves her phone number at the bottom of his check, and it is the first
time in weeks that something has felt so promising.
-
The Bentley hums over these streets as it had in Baltimore, a heavy expensive
vehicle moving like a shark through the throng of other cars.
Gabriella had worn a green dress, just dark enough to appear black, just fitted
enough to make it clear her youth and beauty. Dinner had been successful, a
quiet affair, expensive and lavish and she had blushed despite herself as
Hannibal presented her with another flower, kissed her cheek as they said good
night.
He wonders what he is to her, an older foreign man in Paris, a mystery and thus
appealing.
He wonders at his own patience with the courtship, too long since he has spent
longer than a night devoted to charming and holding attention, too long since
that attention was devoted to a smart woman. He thinks, as he has not for many
years, of Alana, just as brazen and clever and beautiful when he had courted
her. Just as unsatisfying, in the end, beyond a distraction and a whim.
He does not think of Will.
Does not think of his insufferable sweater and messy hair, putting his feet up
in a restaurant on a chair that was worth more than his entire scholarship to
college. He does not think of his teasing smile and filthy mouth.
Refuses to think of Will in bed, alone, pleasuring himself with a toy Hannibal
had bidden him use, back arched in a gorgeous line, hands tight in the sheets
as he works himself to whimpering with nothing more than the tightening of
muscles, the gentle rocking forward into air and zero friction.
He no longer remembers how his name sounds moaned through those lips.
And it's an easy enough lie, most nights.
It becomes a little easier still when she calls him, rather than the other way
around, to see him again. A day off work, only morning classes, and the whole
afternoon to show him around the city, if he’d like. Though he hardly needs the
introduction, he finds a quiet pleasure at the thought of seeing her vision of
it, her experience.
Distraction enough, for now, as he kisses her cheek in greeting. As she snares
his fingers for a moment to pull him along the streets. As she takes his arm to
tug him into a hidden cathedral cloister that - she whispers with a grin -
leads to the catacombs. She’s made mischievous by his indulgence in her
seemingly accidental touches, by allowing her to guide him, and she leans up on
her toes to kiss him there, in that place between the promise of eternal life
and the preservation of endless death.
Suspended, breathless, in a moment of limbo.
Her wild curls of hair are indeed soft, full beneath his fingers, and he only
just stops himself from tightening his fingers into a fist, to bend her
backwards and draw his mouth against the sleek lines of her neck, to turn her
against the wall and blaspheme this place with their bodies.
A hesitation he would not have felt before, but forces himself to, now, keeping
his fingers just soft against her dark skin, rather than sinking bruising
against it.
“What would the priests say?” she laughs in a whisper, leaning up to steal
another kiss and wrapping her slender arms around his neck. He surrounds her in
his own and lifts her, just a little, but stops when she squirms in response.
“If thoughts are sinful, a kiss is the least of my concerns,” sighs Hannibal,
an agile and amused correction as he steadies himself, his thoughts, reminds
himself that she is not he, that his boy was his boy and now perhaps she will
be his instead, and that he will learn what pleases her rather than merely
repeat what so genuinely and entirely pleased Will.
He refuses to think of Will’s fingernails scrabbling against ancient stone,
Hannibal’s hand across his mouth to muffle all the sounds he makes, fingers
curled inside of him to force his pleasure from him.
“Perhaps, then, we should leave while our tally is still low,” Hannibal
suggests, and Gabriella grins agreeably in response.
The day is a calm one, mild after the rains and not quite clear, the clouds
above always threatening rain but never following through. They walk, sometimes
hand in hand sometimes simply side by side, and Gabriella tells him of her
city, of the secret places no one knows that are too far to reach by foot
today.
“But maybe next week, when I have two days off in a row?”
She tells him of the parks and the fountains, those he has seen often, walked
often, but finds it in himself to smile at her words, seeing the places painted
anew in her excited smooth chatter. She is life, he realizes, as Will was, but
she did not have the other side of her coin that took life to feed her own. She
fed from happiness and the promise of success, the youthful belief that has yet
to be crushed by life and its realities.
The banks of the river are thriving with artisans and musicians, one of the
reasons Hannibal adores the city so much, for the sheer freedom within it to
express, for him to walk through the talent and the potential and feel it seep
through his skin, fuel and warm him.
Someone is playing a waltz, and he pulls Gabriella into a dance, met with a
laugh, a ducking of her head to follow the steps until she just closes her eyes
and lets him lead her. He thinks of the morning he had seen Will dancing, the
freedom within that, with no moves planned, nothing practiced, just the sheer
joy of dancing, of feeling the music lift him.
He pulls Gabriella closer and suggests they take their meal before the tourists
flood the little restaurants on the shore.
And so they do, sharing wine and gossip about the patrons of her cafe, about
her classes, her friends, and Hannibal sharing only increments, half-truths
about himself in exchange. He was a doctor, he has since retired. He is
travelling, and is unsure of where he will be next, or if he will leave Paris
at all. She understands this well enough, but he notes a particular youthful
gleam in her eye when he suggests that he may stay or he may leave - a truth in
the statement, in his uncertainty, that piques her interest.
It’s her suggestion that they return to his room, rather than his, with slim
fingers tracing the side of his thigh as she leans in towards him. He hums,
tilting his cheek against hers as she suggests far more than just that.
She smells of jasmine and coffee, and he allows himself to be intoxicated by
it, to let it push out the phantom traces of sweat and smoke that beg
Hannibal’s attention instead when her hair brushes his cheek.
She turns him onto his back, there in the room that costs daily what Will's
apartment costs by the month, and sits astride him. Softer curves than the ones
to which Hannibal is accustomed, still slight in her youth, even as she
stretches her arms up beneath her wild hair and curls her fingers upwards,
grinning as they find a rhythm together. His hands are broad, starkly pale
against the brown of her skin, and he sits up to wrap his arms around her waist
as she moves astride him, coy, imperious even as she smiles down at him with
her arms draped over his neck.
"Beautiful," he begins, and stops himself from finishing what threatens to fall
from his lips by grazing his teeth against her collarbone instead. She shifts
away from it, too rough, laughing and he watches her, dark eyes meeting.
The house is enormous, far too much space for only two, with spare bedrooms and
a study, a dining room and a chef-ready kitchen. The property of a former
financier who met troubled times and had to sell his little private slice of
Grecian islands, the big white spacious house with cavernous ceilings and
balconies overlooking pristine blue waters.
She bends against him, hips turning, and his hands spread wide down the curve
of her back to grasp her ass, squeezing softly, first, and then more firmly as
he rocks harder into her. Her kisses, falling soft against his greying hair,
say clearly enough what she doesn't put to words - to slow, to calm, seeking a
far different tenor than that which he would move them towards.
There is a particular room, in which the books reside. All of them, together,
intermingled but organized even still by subject matter, an orderliness
Hannibal cannot resist. A wide table in it, room enough for two to sit with
countless books and papers spread between them. Wide enough for both to lay
across, should they find themselves there.
Fingers skim along her stomach instead, hesitate against the smoothness of it,
no scar to follow here, no memory of a life held precarious but restored. They
trail upwards, across pert young breasts, small and lovely, which his mouth
falls against to feel her squirm and laugh again. For a moment it's beautiful
as she loses herself, and the tension of their contrasts briefly fades as
Hannibal instructs his hands to remain below her shoulders, rather than reach
for the graceful arch of her throat to see how it would bend and give beneath
his fingers
The back porch is wide, covered only by a wooden white-wash frame that is
crawling with grapevines that will flower and leaf in spring and set the entire
area into warm shade. A thin strip of well-maintained grass, flowers in neat
lines by the fence and further along. A small gate at the bottom leads to the
beach, partially secluded by cliffs on one side, private enough but open to
others, for walks to last hours before a return in the dark.
When she curls beside him, tucked beneath his arm, Hannibal knows that this is
when he was meant to sleep. To have sought a satisfaction and enjoyed it, he
now should be sated enough to rest, rather that feel driven to pace and smoke
and snarl as he does most other nights.
Instead he takes up his tablet, draws up a knee beneath expensive sheets, and
rests it there to read. A quick flick through his unread news for the day,
turning until he is suddenly stopped.
RENT BOY BUTCHER RETURNS screeches the headline from Tattle Crime, and Hannibal
draws his arm from beneath Gabriella to sit up higher, to read about the bodies
found around Baltimore, disparate areas, boys reported missing years past and
determined to be runaways now considered dead.
All the things Will had told him would happen, the boy had brought him a
warning of this, told him to run. A strange twinge of anger again, of betrayal
at the boy’s casual indifference for his life, for their life, drunk and high
and too easy with information.
And yet the last boy, they say, was reported missing only last week, by his
parents who had not heard from him for two days, since he’d gone to visit a
friend and together go to see a college. Art student. Good grades. The picture
boasts wide light eyes and blonde hair, no older than seventeen. A beautiful
boy.
A recent kill, and certainly not Hannibal’s.
I will misdirect.
Hannibal sighs, hides a strange smile behind his hand as he runs it down his
face before turning to regard the lovely girl beside him. He curls his fingers
through her hair, an almost absent gesture now, and beneath her chin to tilt
her face towards his.
She stirs from sleep enough to regard him, brown eyes blinking wide, and he
knows from the tension in the corners of her eyes that they mirror that of his
own.
"What's wrong?" she asks, a quick read as always, and he offers another faint,
distant smile.
"Nothing at all," Hannibal replies, and for the first time in weeks he means
it. "You are welcome to stay here, if you'd like. I have the room reserved for
the remainder of the week, and I will leave the key with you."
She blinks again, and sits up to shake her head free of his touch, hair falling
into her eyes, brows now drawn, lips pursed into a frown.
"Where are you going?"
Hannibal closes his tablet. "Away."
"But," she begins, youthful indignation, "I thought…"
"As did I," he agrees, and it does little to still the storm in her eyes. "But
I cannot stay. I would keep you, if I did." This too does little to settle her
and she laughs, harsher now than the lilting sounds to which he'd become
accustomed to in the weeks before.
"You would keep me? Nobody keeps me," insists Gabriella.
"No. And so it's better that I go."
She arches a brow, especially pretty in her insult, in her anger, and for a
last moment Hannibal considers but it lasts hardly a heartbeat before he thinks
again, as ever, of Will, his boy, his entirely, and his so much that the boy is
hunting in his manner to preserve them both.
"You're an asshole," she huffs, watching him narrowly as she throws aside the
sheets, hands braced against the mattress before throwing herself out of the
bed as well.
Hannibal watches her, the slender sleek lines of her body drawn tight in
bitterness as she tugs on her underwear from where they fell, finds her dress.
"More than you could imagine, and this hardly the worst of it."
Another dry laugh, as she slinks back into her dress, and Hannibal feels a
distant tug of fondness for her, especially now as she swears and spits her
words at him.
"You have your fun, and then you disappear. It was all bullshit, then,
everything you said."
To this, Hannibal shakes his head as well, almost painfully honest but without
much mind for it now, for her accusations. "There was not a moment that was not
enjoyed for what it was. But I cannot keep you."
"You're fucking right you can't."
It's the last thing she says before she slams the door behind her, and Hannibal
wishes he could have thanked her for the company but she's gone, and scarcely
would believe him anyway. He reaches for his cigarettes, tugs on his boxers,
and takes up the tablet to read again on the balcony, and see to the
availability of homes in Greece.
***** Chapter 15 *****
Chapter Summary
     A secret enough island that only tourists with money, with time to
     get and spend there, ever really reach it. Will studies the maps of
     the place as he sees the shore in the distance. Where the boat docks,
     and the few little towns along the shore. He follows the few roads
     there with his finger, wondering where Hannibal is. If they'll stay
     there, if they'll travel on again together.
     He swallows hard and folds the map up. First he needs to see if
     Hannibal is there at all.
Chapter Notes
     Thank you to everyone who has read, shared, commented, and supported
     this peculiar little story (that was supposed to be a one-shot) along
     the way. We are both touched beyond words (and incredibly relieved)
     that you all have fallen for these murderous wolves as much as we
     have, and could not have hoped for a more amazing group of folks to
     cheer us on through all the depravity.
     There are many more monsters to come. We'll certainly see these two
     again, and don't forget to read all the way to the very end (just
     like Odalisque!)
     <3 Whiskey and Blood
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The scarf is entirely useless, and Will has to have it.
It brings to mind a shoelace, but thicker, fabric thin and curled in on itself
and looped five times around his neck to keep the ends off the ground as he
walks. Atop the scoopneck shirt and the sweater he has kept for years, the
skinny jeans and new combat boots - Bev had demanded to keep his when he moved
away - Will looks like the typical teenager on a year away.
His hair is shorter, cut in Prague and kept in a messy series of spikes since.
In Germany, now, Will finds that he has enough from his memorizing to be able
to get by, though the guide and language book is always in his back pocket,
dog-eared and bookmarked as he travels.
He had left two weeks before, with permission from college for a gap year, with
promises to both Zeller and Bev to write and send gifts and return safe and
sound. The last promise tasted like ash in his mouth but he’d pushed forward a
smile regardless. His friends he would genuinely miss, and the ache is still
there, tugging against him as he takes photos, packs postcards, keeps a trail
going, a pretense up, that his trip was legitimate before he vanished.
As many do.
The travel has kept him distracted enough, with sights to see and things to do
and places to experience. He takes notes, for himself, in as many languages as
he can remember, to practice. His German is enough to work with, his Lithuanian
passable, his French atrocious. He laughs every time he deliberately misspells
a word by pronunciation alone, knowing Hannibal would have something to say
about it, would let his belt speak for him if it happened often enough.
He shivers at the memory, runs his hands over clean unmarred skin every night
in his hotel rooms, hands curling in the sheets or against himself, eyes closed
and lips parted as he remembers, the whispered husky voice, the promises, the
touches that he forces his mind to never let go.
He sleeps badly but he sleeps.
He takes a boat from Brindisi, not wanting his flight plan catalogued and
recorded, and even then to an island he won’t stay at. Not the one he was told
to meet Hannibal. He spends three days in Sami before he finds a man to take
him where he needs to go, for a small fee and a surprisingly pleasant two
nights in a cabin the man owns.
It hardly matters; the boat gets him where he needs to go, where he hopes,
prays, begs with every thudding beat of his heart Hannibal is waiting for him.
As promised, arranged, planned. Late afternoon at the docks of Zakynthos.
Hannibal has spent the day at work, cleaning and organizing, unpacking boxes of
his things, of Will's that tangled their way in with his. The sleeplessness
reaching a vicious tenor over the last few nights, where he has found himself
on the porch, to hear the waves that promise to bring Will nearer to him. He
hopes they do, at least, and corrects the thought as soon as it occurs.
His boy will come to him. He is waiting, and Will will come. Across the waters,
across the world.
There is food. Wine. Will's clothes that he cared enough to bring, the books
arranged on their shelves. All things in order, all things in their place, and
checked a hundred times over to ensure it will be ready.
That it will be pleasing, to his little wolf, this new den unharried and safe
from the world that would see them less than they truly are.
He dresses himself with the same precision that has now grown neurotic in
waiting, a specificity for which even the smallest thread out of place draws
Hannibal's ire. Layered stripes, rather than dense checks, lighter fabrics for
the heat of Greece in summer, rather than the thick wool for Baltimore winters.
A brown suit over contrasting blue, familiar enough in ostentation, he hopes,
that Will will see him.
A silly concern, perhaps, but one that gives voice to the dread still thick in
Hannibal's throat as he drives to the place they agreed to meet, in hope that
his boy will finally be close again to stir to life that which fell to ash in
his absence.
He parks, and exits, and he waits, smoking so as not to pace, late afternoon at
the docks of Zakynthos.
A secret enough island that only tourists with money, with time to get and
spend there, ever really reach it. Will studies the maps of the place as he
sees the shore in the distance. Where the boat docks, and the few little towns
along the shore. He follows the few roads there with his finger, wondering
where Hannibal is. If they'll stay there, if they'll travel on again together.
He swallows hard and folds the map up. First he needs to see if Hannibal is
there at all.
There are boats, increasingly, as they near it, little ones for fishing and
expensive ones for pleasure. Will stands at the bow, leaning over it
precariously to watch the impossibly blue water fan to white as it's parted,
and he squints into the wind to make out the dock ahead.
Will wonders, briefly, what he'll do if Hannibal isn't there, and feels a
brutal twist in his stomach. Return, after a time, he decides. Back to fucking
Baltimore, but also back to school. Back to the FBI. He'll find him, he
decides, one way or another, and curses uncorrected at the thought of it.
Hannibal watches, distantly, the ship bearing towards shore, and feels a sudden
tearing sensation in his lungs. If Will is not aboard it, Hannibal will find
him. The boy is clever but not enough to escape Hannibal, not by Hannibal's own
choice it seems, and so especially not by his own doing. He'll find him, he
decides, one way or another, and drag him home by his hair if he must.
The dock nears and Will’s heart travels to his throat, and he pushes away not
to see the docks and the people there. Comes back. Turns away. Like a caged
animal, nervous and panicked.
"Thought you had quite the stomach for rocking," the captain says, laughing
that warm deep laugh that makes Will genuinely smile upon hearing it.
"Though not one for surprises," Will admits. The man doesn’t ask further and
Will continues to pace. By the time he can make out people on the shore, he is
sitting with his back to them, repeating a mantra over and over that Hannibal
will be there, that he will have waited. That Will is going to turn around and
see him.
They are almost at the dock itself before Will forces himself to turn, to scan
the small crowd, and he whimpers when he sees him.
Tall, shoulders back and sunglasses set against his eyes. Just as imposing, the
silhouette Will has burned into his mind, never forget, never forget, never
forget.
"You better wait till I've docked, boy, you'll end up chest deep trying to make
that step."
"I'll swim," Will gasps, hands white on the railing now, eyes on Hannibal,
knowing the precise moment the man sees him, feeling the corners of his eyes
prickle with a familiar usually unwelcome feeling.
He’s off the boat as soon as he can safely make the jump and running, bag
almost trailing behind him in his haste and he drops it, thoughtless, uncaring,
to wrap his arms around Hannibal’s neck and press their lips together in a kiss
that hurts.
It’s enough to send Hannibal staggering beneath the hurtling weight of the boy
against him, the arms around him, his own around Will, crushed against him,
against each other, until Hannibal catches his footing and lifts him. Skinny
legs around his waist, a laugh against his lips before they meet again, and
Hannibal considers that if his heart simply ceased its functions at this
particular moment, it would be an entirely welcome way to go.
“You came,” Hannibal breathes when they must, before their mouths meet again,
shorter, frantic kisses now to allow just enough air to pass between them to
keep them alive, dizzy with it.
“You waited,” Will responds, grinning, and pulls Hannibal’s sunglasses from his
face to see his eyes. They press their foreheads together, dark eyes meeting
bright blue, searching, studying, remembering anew.
“Little wolf,” Hannibal sighs, and with no mind to anyone around them, he ducks
his head against Will’s neck. A deep breath, to take him in, to refresh the
long-faded memory of his scent, sun-warmed and beautiful.
Will just holds, wraps his arms around the man tighter, one up to cup the back
of his head, the other splayed across his shoulders, fingers turned inwards,
digging against him.
He’s not aware of the words until he hears Hannibal sigh against him, until he
feels that soft tremor that would go through the man when they were too close,
to gentle, too intimate with each other and he realizes it’s the same words,
stuttered in half by himself, whispered by Hannibal when he’d thought Will
slept… words that don’t belong between them that don’t touch them, that
shouldn’t - in every language Will knows, in every language he had memorized
and practiced, for him.
On Lithuanian he stutters, a gentle break in his voice. Swallows. Continues on
to Greek, modern and ancient. To Latin. To silence.
The words linger there, despite the breeze that carries the ocean on it, that
ruffles Will's hair and tugs at them, just softly. They remain, these words
that all mean the same thing in so many languages, heavy between them and as
familiar as if Hannibal had heard them a thousand times before.
He wraps his arms tighter around Will's slight waist, and remembers how pale
and colorless the world and all in it seemed in his absence. Hannibal does not
lift his head, does not remove his lips from grazing softly against Will's
throat as he speaks those words - that word, that before he had scourged and
scolded from between them - back to Will.
"I love you," he whispers, sighing hard as Will pulls tighter still around him.
"Do not leave again."
Will laughs, threads his fingers through Hannibal’s hair again and tugs him up
to kiss him, a slow, lingering thing.
-
The car isn’t as lavish as the Bentley and Will couldn’t care less, reclining
back against the soft light seats, head tilted back and eyes on the man
driving, unable to stop looking to stop his mind from forcing himself to wake
up. He wonders if that will linger, how long it will take until he’s convinced
himself he’s here, they both are, and that this is where they can and will
stay.
He barely notices the house, beyond the fact that it’s enormous, two floors, as
before, spread over so much land. Will can barely fathom it, and still finds
himself uncaring, finds himself too preoccupied with keeping his steps steady,
following the man from the car - parked outside of the garage - to the front
door and through.
Within, he sets his bag down and finds himself pinned, arms up above his head,
wrists crossed, and his mouth ravished again, a deeper kiss, more desperate,
more open, now, far from prying eyes, and Will moans, opens his lips to it
fully, arches his head back when he’s allowed to breathe, eyes hooded as he
smiles, then grins, watches the man in front of him.
Two months. Two months without this squirming, beautiful boy beneath him. Two
months without hearing his moans or feeling his skin beneath the hand that
Hannibal skims beneath his shirt. Two months that has felt interminable, with
no place or time or person enough to drive Will from his thoughts, no matter
how diligently Hannibal tried to make it so.
"Insufferable boy," Hannibal snarls against Will's mouth, fingernails curling
against his scar, up across his chest, to hold him by the throat, hand rough
beneath his jaw to tilt his head back. He holds him in place to kiss him, to
taste the whimper from his lips, and shoves his body hard against Will's to
keep him against the door.
"You have plagued me," whispers Hannibal. "Every step I've taken, every bite of
food or drink, every moment I've tried to sleep, your ghost has been at my
heels and I have been unable to grasp it. To show you the meaning of my love
for you and leave its marks across your skin. Will you know it now?"
Another kiss, tongue tracing Will's lower lip before he catches it in his
teeth.
"Tell me, Will. Monstrous boy."
Will shivers, arches up, twists his wrists and fists his hands where they’re
held, he can’t keep the smile from his lips, can’t stop his heart from
hammering, spreads his legs on reflex, conditioned to present himself so
willingly when Hannibal is near enough to claim him.
“You made me wait two fucken months - I better feel them,” he groans, arching
up, rocking forward, entire body cool now with adrenaline, trembling and ready.
He opens his eyes to regard Hannibal with his head back, slits of blue grown
darker in light of this.
He bites his lip and in a moment yanks his hands down, as though to struggle
free, just to feel harsh hands clamp tighter around them, slide them back up,
stretch him taut, one hand under his chin again, squeezing harder, and Will
moans.
The kiss is harsh, painful as Hannibal crushes his mouth roughly against
Will's, parting it with a curled lip, bared teeth.
"Language," he breathes, and the sight of Will's face turned aside by the
strength of Hannibal's slap is more beautiful than any waste of a cathedral,
not worth the bricks it was built out of compared to this. This, as Will
laughs, bright and lovely with blood split across his lip, in a cathedral of
their own making now, a temple to debauchery, to depravity, sanctified now with
Will's blood, spat upon the floor with another laugh, another strike to follow
it.
Will's blood is warm, blooming metallic against Hannibal's tongue as he tastes
it, revels in it, before peeling back enough to grab Will by the hair, long
enough still that he can, to force him off the door, and bring him to the
floor.
"Already making messes," Hannibal intones softly, pushing Will towards where he
has spit, and with his other hand working free the fly of Will's pants, to jerk
his jeans down around his thighs. "It seems as though my lessons were entirely
lost on you, wretched boy."
Will squirms, twisting enough only to slip further against the floor, to find
himself pressed down against it, close enough to his own blood to see it, to
know what this was for - though he knows this is for everything, for the
minutes and hours and days holding breaths and burning their lungs for the
nights of anger and anguish and hell both staggered through.
For the doubt.
“You left me to learn them alone,” he hisses, legs scrabbling against the floor
until he’s caught around the middle and bent, ass up back arched and squirming
becomes harder. He laughs, breathless, at the sharp slap against his thigh
implying he stay still.
“I adapted.”
"As though I were not forced to leave because of a child who could not keep his
mouth shut," Hannibal responds with a growl, feral now, eyes alight with the
struggle beneath him. He lashes out fast, a speed unused for far too long to
catch Will by the throat and bend him backwards, forcing a rough curve into his
spine as Hannibal lays his weight over the boy's ass.
"As though I am not aware of your adaptation," he seethes softly. "Sloppy,
Will. For years I managed not to draw the attention or ire of anyone at all,
and your first makes news in a week."
He hides his pleasure for now, his obscene pride in the boy's work in his
absence and knows that Will feels it even still, in spite of the empty
accusations and meaningless scoldings they use against each other as well as
fists, as well as kisses. A joy that resembles destruction but is, if anything,
creation. Reformation of a bond shared with none other in the world.
A claiming, as Hannibal shoves Will's shirt up over his head, yanks it over his
hair with the scarf, and breathes against the back of Will's neck.
"I did not tell you that you could swear. I did not tell you that you could
replace the sweater I destroyed with this absurd scarf. I did not give you
permission to cut your hair, or to skip a week of classes," he whispers, rough.
"I told you I would know if you did. And I did not give you permission to cum
in my absence and I cannot even begin to imagine how little you have regarded
that rule, in particular."
He catches Will by the hair as Will lifts a hand to his wrist, nails digging
into his skin unheeded as Hannibal yanks down Will's underwear and runs a hand
across his ass, spreading him.
"What will I do with you, dear boy?"
Will groans, shivering in pleasure at the words, at the pressure against him,
and for a moment goes limp, relaxes, feels the way the man moves over him
before squirming free again, kicking his pants further down his thighs,
uselessly crawling away only to be caught again, to twist free, to be pinned on
his back instead, just as prone and vulnerable here.
Another slap and Will draws a pleased, loud breath, shivering as his entire
body responds to it, his skin flushes, he feels more blood slide thick down his
chin before he swallows.
“Teach me,” he groans, twisting again, up, against Hannibal until he finds the
friction he needs, the friction he wants and ruts, utterly shameless, baring
his neck to Hannibal’s teeth, to the sucking familiarity of bruises there.
“Remind me,” another shudder, so close already, the anticipation cresting in
him as pleasure does.
“Make me learn it,” he laughs, a warm, low sound that vibrates between them,
makes a harsh snarling sound like an animal caught when he’s flipped to his
stomach again, yanked into a bend once more, struck hard for moving, once,
again, until he stills himself for sheer worry that he will cum too soon.
“I have lost count,” he murmurs, “of how many fucken times I’ve sworn at you
when you weren’t there.”
He bites his lip and spreads his legs wider, how he can, presenting himself,
aching for it.
“How many times I have cum with my fingers buried deep alongside the toy to
make it hurt.”
He slaps Will hard across the ass for swearing, and then again purely for the
pleasure of it, before he shoves Will down by his throat to the floor, bent and
pinned beneath one cruel hand so that his ass is raised entirely, bared and
exposed for Hannibal's pleasure. The other hand seeks, up the twitching expanse
of his thigh to find the mark laid there.
Pausing, Hannibal circles it with the pad of his thumb, eyes closed as he ducks
his head against Will's back. He remembers, the taste of the smoke as it passed
between their mouths, the acrid sting of burnt hair and burnt skin as Will
clung trembling to him.
I'll be yours if you mark me.
"Yes," Hannibal swears softly, feeling the marks of nail scratches against the
inside of Will's thigh, across the scar, envisions his boy clawing desperate at
himself in grief, in loss, and feels his lips part and curl against his
invisible threat, now so far away, that would do harm to his boy.
His boy. His alone.
He jerks Will up by the hair again as he slips his fingers up, wetting them
quickly in his own mouth before pressing them against Will's hole, inside of
him, not patience for teasing or toying now, overcome by a primal urge to
claim, and mark again.
"My gift to you deemed insufficient for how insatiable you have become while I
was away," Hannibal purrs, tempted sorely by the words fed to him, the
admissions and insinuations. "A boon for you, then, that you are here in my
hands now when you seem so desperate to be torn asunder."
Will moans, a broken sound that clicks in his throat, digs the heels of his
hands into the unrelenting marble floor.
"Fuck me," he gasps, entire body jerking as the fingers are pulled free, that
same palm striking him again, and the fingers return, relentless, almost cruel
in their desperation.
"Harder."
A third finger and Will gasps, trying to catch his breath, eyes wide, thighs
trembling already. He had paid for his passage here on his back but even then
he had not had such brutality, a gentle stretching, a patient push, but this...
"Please."
"Again." The word is harsh, a curse against Will’s neck.
"Please."
"Again!"
The fingers spread, draw a whimper from Will, a shudder, the same plea as
commanded. Hannibal insatiable, now, as Will so often is.
Then Will is pushed down to the floor, Hannibal's hands quick with the buckle
of his belt, the fly and button of his pants, and then he strokes, once, twice,
enough to feel the friction, the heat pooling within himself at the sight of
Will bent this way for him, ass red, body shaking. Open. Presented. Entirely
his.
Will’s cry echoes off the walls of the entryway in genuine pain as Hannibal
pushes in. It hurts, so long without such abuse, yet welcoming it now. He
feels, for a moment, almost entirely numb to it, then Hannibal lays over him,
curls one arm around his middle and starts a relentless pace, a merciless
fucking, and Will forgets his own name.
He holds Will there, in place against him, doesn’t let him move or splay across
the floor, arms cinched firm around him and teeth sunk into Will’s bare
shoulder hard enough to bruise, to leave that mark too. A brutal taking of what
is his, uncontrolled and savage, growling into the skin that nearly tears
beneath Hannibal’s teeth as each thrust shoves a cry from the boy pinned
beneath him until even those are breathless, gasping things with tears wet
against his cheeks, plunged suddenly into unfathomable depths of ecstasy and
agony.
He will feel this for days, and know each time his body sings in pain that he
is where he belongs again.
A hand slides free of Will’s waist to stroke him, no insistence that he not
finish yet and Will restrained, resistant to doing so all the same even as
Hannibal buries himself in a jagged, jerking thrust and groans his own release,
spilling hot inside Will.
“Now,” snarls Hannibal low, and Will is dizzy by the force of it, striping the
floor with his pleasure, fingers clutching trembling against the cold tile and
hips rocking even as Hannibal milks the last shudders of pleasure from him.
Tears and blood, sweat and semen to make this place their own again, to make
each other remember and know to whom they belong.
"Every curse, every climax, every second we were apart," Hannibal gasps, sweat
on his brow as he rests his forehead against Will’s shivering back. “You will
pay for it. All of it. A lifetime here, beneath my hands."
“Again,” begs Will, even as his body falls slack beneath Hannibal. “Again,
please, harder.” A flurry of words slurred past split lips damp with spit, but
Hannibal merely hums in response. Withdrawing slowly, this too enough to earn a
quavering yelp, he sits back and pulls Will into his lap, arms around his
waist, head pressed to Will’s chest and kisses soft against his heart and the
ribs that keep it barely restrained.
“A lifetime,” Hannibal swears softly, and runs a gentle hand through Will’s
hair to bring their mouths together.
They are still together - still, together - when Hannibal kisses the blood from
where Will’s lip broke beneath his blows. He smiles, a blooming warmth when
Will’s arms slide around his neck, and Hannibal tugs both their pants up again
before slowly rising, his boy still drawn against him, tugging kisses against
his neck, to carry him into the house.
“I brought all of the books,” Hannibal murmurs into Will’s hair. “From the
library, the study. The office. For you.”
Will just holds him, turns his cheek against Hannibal's collarbone and smiles.
Downstairs in the house is the sprawling living areas, a dining room, a sitting
room, the enormous kitchen. Large glass doors overlook the small garden and the
beach beyond, windows from the kitchen open to the smell of the ocean. There
are no walls in this house, it seems, downstairs, everything connected through.
Except for the closets, the pantry, a door from the sitting room leading to a
comfortable downstairs bathroom.
A house far too big for the two of them and absolutely perfect.
Will says nothing as he’s carried, through one space into the other, up the
stairs, and there he squirms free, hissing gently when he has to walk but doing
so regardless, on his own.
The study appears to be based immediately over the kitchen. Facing the same
beautiful view, the room is cavernous, the ceiling high, and the place tiered
with a balcony running the length of it as it had in Hannibal’s office. It's
beautiful and light, books fill the space comfortably, small statues and
trinkets Hannibal could not leave behind take up the space left. Under the
window, on a sill partially cushioned and mostly bare, rest the two bowls Will
had fixed, and without a word, Will turns to Hannibal to kiss him deeply.
They don't need words here, not up here, and Hannibal watches Will explore in
silence.
The spare bedrooms are made up but unimportant, and Will passes them by, hands
skimming the doors. The corridor is partially open, like balconies of a piazza
he had seen in Italy, and the master bedroom opens up before him through a door
on silent hinges and Will could weep for it.
The setup is the same, though the walls, as everywhere, are beautiful stark
white. Everywhere windows with heavy drapes and light beautiful chiffon to just
cover the glass beneath. Through one door a closet, large enough to house both
their things, room for more, through another the bathroom, the size of Will’s
old apartment, or so it seems.
"How you have suffered here, alone," Will sighs finally, the silence broken and
warmed with the words.
Hannibal hums his amusement, drawing up close behind Will to wrap his arms
around the still-slight frame, turning his head aside with a nuzzle, a deep
breath to smell him, here in the bedroom. Their bedroom, now that Will is in
it, and Hannibal irrepressibly satisfied to see Will so pleased by this place
that Hannibal has made for them. For him.
All of it for him.
"You cannot imagine," Hannibal intones direly, mouth grazing soft against
Will's temple, kissing there, kissing his hair. "How empty this house has been
without your incessant messes, your swearing to fill these rooms."
Will turns to him, arms loose around Hannibal’s neck, and the older man’s hands
spread broad across his back, bending him beneath a kiss. He steps towards him
until the bed comes up behind Will’s legs and he shuffles back onto it,
grinning, kicking his boots off as he goes.
For a long moment Hannibal simply watches him, fingers working loose the
buttons of his jacket, his shirt to follow. Studying the long lines of Will’s
body as he shifts and spreads himself across the enormous bed, sighing pleasure
at being in one again at all after his travels, most especially at being in
this one that already feels and smells so familiar. Hannibal isn’t sure if he’s
imagining the length of Will’s limbs, the broadening in increments of his
shoulders, a resoluteness in his body that surely cannot have grown so much in
mere months apart and yet with those memories so worn in reimagining, it seems
at the same time as though Will has always been this way.
Adapting his understanding of him, his appreciation for the clever grin and
florid blush and bright blue eyes to here, and now, rather than then and there.
“I have missed you,” Hannibal murmurs, the edges softening from his words as he
sheds his shirt, to bare his need to feel Will against him.
Will just watches him, says nothing, and knows that Hannibal isn’t lying. Knows
that as many nights as Will had punished himself for his lack of faith, so
Hannibal had done the same. He wonders if Hannibal had killed, if he had
indulged, if he had tried to replace him, and knows, deep enough it’s in his
marrow, that he had, all, and that it doesn’t matter because he’s here, now.
Will arches his hips up and slips his jeans and boxers down, shifting to kick
them free and toss them over the edge of the bed, head tilting and lips lifting
in a gentle smile, as though to confirm Hannibal’s words, that the house is no
longer empty, will grow messy again, and loud, with him here.
“There were nights I hated you,” he admits, soft, draws up one knee and watches
as Hannibal’s eyes take him in, try to reconcile the memory of him with the
reality of him.
“I know.”
“Nights I thought you had replaced me, that you wouldn’t wait.”
“I know.”
Will swallows and looks away for a moment, as Hannibal slips his pants down his
thighs, steps out of them and folds them to rest over the chest at the end of
the bed, on top of his shirt and jacket. When he meets dark eyes again his own
are soft.
“I missed you so much I ached with it,” he admits, smiles more when Hannibal
crawls onto the bed beside him, then just gently over him, resting his hands on
either side of Will’s head. A swallow, gentle, and Will draws the backs of his
fingers up against the inside of Hannibal’s arm, over his pulse and up further
to the sensitive skin inside his elbow.
Hair unsettled into his eyes, Hannibal leans low, settles between Will’s legs
to lay heavy against him, mouths moving warmly together, lips gliding against
each other, a trace of tongue.
“I did try,” Hannibal sighs, another kiss to soften his confession. “I tried
desperately to forget you, and found that I was, at every turn, entirely
unable.”
He shifts, the length of his body moving once, a line of heat against Will’s
own, before he curls a hand through Will’s shortened hair, teases it beneath
his fingers. He traces the curve of his jaw, the bend of his lips that part
beneath Hannibal’s touch, and kisses him again.
“There is no other in the world who compares,” Hannibal speaks gently. A
wonder, at his own words and the truth behind them, at the blue eyes so bright
beneath him, watching with a profound pleasure before disappearing behind long
lashes as Will leans up to kiss Hannibal’s throat. A faint smile, an immense
warmth between them as Will nuzzles against him. “Brave boy. You have not
disappointed me.”
“Though I have tried desperately,” Will responds, “I have found myself unable
to disappoint you.”
Knees draw up, comfortable, framing the body between them, and Will slides his
hands over Hannibal’s shoulders, over his back, down lower and back up. Tracing
every vertebra, feeling every twitch of muscle against his palm.
This is too slow, too soft, too unreal. Enough that Will feels he will jerk
awake soon and find himself curled up in his bed with the blankets over his
head and the pillow on the floor where he had thrashed hard enough to push it
away.
A swallow, gentle click in his throat and he presses his lips to Hannibal’s
pulse, feeling it against himself, swallowing it, timing his breaths to every
second one.
“They found one body, they will not find the other four,” he murmurs after a
moment, “Perhaps they will. In a few years. Or parts of them.”
Will sighs and arches gently against Hannibal again, smiling, “The killer will
keep killing.”
Another pause, dark tongue parting lips and Will smiles wider.
“You think they would have found anyone if I didn’t want them to?” he almost
scolds, a response to Hannibal’s words of earlier, of his feigned
disappointment, “If they had stopped finding clues, connected your moving and
my disappearance…”
A gentle click of his tongue.
“Couldn’t have that.”
Hannibal’s smile widens in return, parts into a genuine grin as he nuzzles
softly alongside Will’s nose, eyes closed. A pride, immense, swelling sharply
through his chest.
“Remarkable boy.”
Sliding an arm beneath Will when he arches, Hannibal presses them nearer
together still, rocking languidly against him, tasting the curve of his neck,
the bend of his collarbone, ducking lower still to his chest, sleek and
hairless.
Hannibal's legacy preserved and his flight distracted from, his very life held
in the hands of the boy who now bends and stretches satisfied beneath him, who
curls his fingers through Hannibal's hair as he dips lower still. He traces
Will's scar, fading now but still raised, with his mouth, tasting the soft skin
around it, even as Will squirms beneath the attention.
"You did as I instructed. You did as you must," Hannibal murmurs softly. "As I
knew you would. Even in my doubt I knew you would not fail, little wolf. Hate
me perhaps, resist arrival out of spite, but you would not fail."
And lower, lower, Hannibal kisses the soft curls of hair that taper from
beneath Will’s navel, along his cock that stiffens, twitching in response to
the attention and moreso when Hannibal’s hands find their way beneath Will’s
knees to press them upward, baring him again with a gasp. To taste the mark
they share, worn on Will’s thigh, with lips and tongue and teeth, sucking
softly to reclaim it.
“And you came.”
“Ah -” a sound cut short, replaced with soft panting instead, muscles tense in
the best possible way, one hand down to grip the sheets between long fingers as
Will rides this out, closes his eyes and allows himself to memorize this again,
to feel it fully, every sensation, every little thing.
He trembles when he feels the lips slip lower, over the unmarked skin, against
the sensitive curve near his groin. So many nights of just his fingertips
there, wet from his mouth, emulating this and never coming close to how good
this feels and always felt to him. He sighs, his voice adding a gentle sound at
the end, and slips his free hand through Hannibal’s hair where he is.
Will does jerk when Hannibal presses his lips in a hot open kiss against his
hole, still hot and red from the previous abuse, now soothed by the tongue that
is just a little cooler. Will’s toes curl, he bends himself, twists, draws
nails over Hannibal’s scalp and laughs when he allows his back against the
sheets again.
“More,” he bites his lip. “Please.”
Hannibal hums softly, eyes alight at the way Will responds to the vibrations
against his skin, a sudden snap of hips rolling slowly up his spine to arch
from the sheets again.
"Insatiable," comes the amused whisper, praise rather than scolding, and
Hannibal's breath cooler still against the dampness left by his mouth - another
moan, another shiver. His palm spreads wide - so wide - against the skinny
stretch of Will's stomach, taut and pale beneath his rough fingers, to feel his
muscles tense as Hannibal's mouth wraps against him again.
An easy slide of his tongue now, deep, slow, Will already open for him,
spreading wider as his thighs open and his eyes close, fingernails drawing
goosebumps down Hannibal's arms as they curl through his hair. Here, too, he is
claimed, tasted, devoured entirely. On his lips, soft skin rubbed raw, on his
tongue the traces of blood and spit, his own release still salty from where it
spread inside of his boy, all savored with a low rumble of pleasure from
between Will's thighs.
He will have his more, this extraordinary creature who coils and shivers around
him. He will have anything, everything that is Hannibal's will be his, Hannibal
knows, as Will brings his eyes down to watch, lips parted slack and flushed,
before Hannibal drives his tongue deeper to earn another moan.
It’s dizzying, and Will finds he can almost shuffle the two months away behind
curtains of stuttered and hazy pleasure. They don’t matter, they’re done, now,
never again. He can feel himself grow harder from this, can see Hannibal watch
him and meets his eyes, laughing when he can’t hold the gaze and drops his head
back again.
“Hannibal -”
A tug against his hair, deliberate, pulling, and he feels cool breath against
damp skin, wet lips up over the base of his cock and up against the underside
where it curls against his stomach, tongue lingering on the head to make Will
gasp. And then he moves more, up, his stomach, his chest, over his throat to
gently bite there again, hum in pleasure, press their bodies so close together
that there are no more edges where one ends and the other begins.
Will nearly purrs with the sensation, curling his legs around Hannibal’s hips
and pressing his lips to his temple, down his cheek. Hannibal’s eyes close, his
own submission to this gentle affection that feels far more comfortable than it
ever should between them, a soft sound rumbling low in his throat.
He turns Will’s cheek aside to let his lips fall against the pale, soft skin in
return, breathing him in, a warm nuzzle into his hair, against his jaw, chasing
the smell of him, the sensation of Will’s little laughing sigh.
“How did it make you feel, Will?” Another kiss, met against his boy’s mouth and
with a deeper press of their bodies together. “To hunt in my place for me - to
share in my kills.”
Chasing the boy’s fingers as they pass across his mouth, drawing them in to
suck softly, to taste this as well, Hannibal grasps Will’s wrist in his hand
and brings it to his lips. Attention paid, in particular, to the small,
circular scar on his skin. He imagines, for a moment, that he can still taste
ash and anguish on it, a mark of ownership not laid by Hannibal on Will, but on
Will by himself. An act of loyalty so stalwart that it may as well be marked
against Hannibal’s skin instead, that moment…
Hannibal sighs, kissing it again before looping Will’s arm around his neck and
sliding a hand beneath his boy’s thigh, to ride it higher around his waist.
“Tell me,” he purrs.
“Right.” Will replies, voice barely there, caught between a whisper and a moan
and so pleased when he arches back, free hand up to grasp the headboard and
pull his body in a pleasing delicious line against the bed.
“It felt right.” And then his brows furrow for just a moment, almost disbelief,
perhaps relief. “It was easy.”
Regarding him at length, Hannibal hears, feels the honesty in Will's words, the
pleasure in them and cannot help but see it. His boy and another, both lovely,
both young and sweet, gentle touches and laughter, flushed and beautiful as
they touch and kiss and explore.
His boy and another, teenage awkwardness in their shared pleasure, lithe bodies
pressed close in the kind of comfort not afforded to them on other nights when
they're hired to beg and plead and hurt.
His boy and another, the latter lying lifeless and pale, and Will above,
breathless and relieved, perhaps, to release white-knuckled fingers from around
the slender throat of one that once might have been him.
Hannibal cannot help but see it, and wonder if he's ever felt so completely
fulfilled as in this moment.
"Perhaps together then," Hannibal responds, a quiet agreement that he once
swore in stripes of skin carved with leather that he would never make again.
Allowances made for change. For adaptation, for them both.
He parts just long enough to slick himself with the lube from beside the bed,
no roughness now, no need to claim and tear and mount, and when Hannibal enters
it is slow. Taking in the little winces, the shifts beneath him that Will uses
to draw nearer, not away, as Hannibal buries himself deep inside, and stays,
unmoving, to revel in the sensation of Will against around beneath him in every
way.
A groan, soft, and a long exhale, and Will just watches him, watches the man
above him with eyes barely open and a smile lazy on his lips.
He’s pleased, it’s easy to see that Hannibal is pleased, and it makes Will feel
a strange tugging sort of pride, that he wants that expression again, that he
wants that depth of devotion for it in return.
He slips both hands up around Hannibal now, drawing him closer, arching his
back and tilting his head to have the man rest his forehead on his collarbone
as he slowly pulls out and pushes back in and Will makes another deep sound of
pleasure. He draws one leg up over Hannibal’s hip, higher, until his ankle
presses to the hipbone, until the position opens him up more and the sensation
of Hannibal inside him makes him whimper, prostate still sensitive from before,
still sending delicious spikes of electricity through his entire being.
Will curls his other leg up to mirror, tugs Hannibal’s hair just enough to tilt
his head up, to smile at him, lips parting in a silent moan of pleasure when he
moves again, then Will bites his lip and exhales slowly, loudly, through his
nose.
Hannibal does not draw away from him, shifting inside him but with the whole of
themselves pressed tightly together. A breath, against Will's shoulder as
Hannibal moves into him. A curl of fingernails scraping soft across Hannibal's
back as Will holds him so near.
Not merely a thing to be used to feed his own desires, although certainly it is
one of his many capabilities. But not only that now, after so much, not now
like this as Hannibal regards him. He is a subject of worship, prized and
exalted, to be laid bare in all his pain and all his pleasure, spread across
the altar of Hannibal's adoration. Cultivated, tended to and let live to grow
and bloom, unlike all the others cut short, insufficient in all ways by
compare.
This proud, wanton boy of spoiled decadence and dead languages, of cruelty and
childishness and cleverness and charm.
And a hunter, increasingly skilled and so much after his own wolfish heart, a
partner for one who has never sought nor needed such a thing, but now cannot
imagine a time without him. He sees it in all its promise, the prey they'll run
down beneath their strength and beauty, torn asunder before them as they draw
each other near to revel in their own shared glory of a kill, blood between
their teeth and bodies joined with no need to be parted ever, ever again.
Hannibal sighs, breath shaking with the thought of it, and traces adoring down
Will's cheek, to graze his lips.
"There is no other in the world such as you."
Will moans, a soft, stuttered thing, and shivers, his hands up to cling to the
headboard again, fingers turning white as he remembers, feels his stomach fall,
feels weightless, as he returns to a moment that feels like an age ago, another
lifetime.
In Hannibal’s lap as the man holds him and feeds sweet lies to his younger
self, offers promises that he will never fulfill, words that grow as quickly
harsh and cold as they had moments before been soft and adoring.
A lifetime ago, when there was no trust between them, just tenuous wariness,
mutual enjoyment of each other, still the idea and promise of one's death at
the other’s hand.
Will remembers his answer, he remembers the other words. Yet none fit, now,
none are worthy of them here.
"Yours," he gasps, bites his lip, opens his eyes to watch Hannibal lean over
him, closer, parts his lips to kiss him, closes his eyes to feel it.
It is held, sustained for as long as they can, parting only to meet again and
again, as they have before, as they will for as long as both are able. He
strokes his fingers through Will’s hair, along his neck. Catches his hand again
to kiss his palm and the scar on his wrist. Lowers his hand against Will’s
thigh to trace that mark too and skim up along his stomach.
“Always.”
It is as much a promise as an expectation, knowing even still that it is by
Will’s choice that he is here. That he followed, that he came. That he returned
after hunting, after brutal beatings and so many times when Hannibal brought
Death so near. That it is Hannibal who has sought Will from the corner, from
the streets, from his classes and from his clientele. And that it was by Will’s
decision alone, every time, that Hannibal was in his company.
Hannibal laughs, struck by the poetry of it all, the exquisite irony, and he
ducks his head against Will’s throat, beneath his chin, all but bowed to him as
his release pulls itself from him with a shudder and a gasp.
And Will arches, teeth gritted and eyes closed tight, one hand in Hannibal’s
hair the other down his back. His entire body is shaking, almost weak with
this, with the sensations both physical and emotional that he thought would end
when he returned to him again. And yet he finds them welcome, now, warm,
familiar despite never being so openly shown.
He whimpers, a gentle thing, and ducks his head to kiss Hannibal’s hair,
feeling the man ride his pleasure out against him, within him, gasps softly and
finds his own laugh answering as Hannibal brings a rough hand to stroke him as
well, twisting gently, thumbing the slit until Will shudders and cums between
them.
Breathless, almost too hot, too close, too -
I can’t coax it back.
He swallows, thick, chest rising and falling on quick breaths, as his mouth
splits into a grin and he laughs again.
But I will earn it.
-
Chapter End Notes
     [x]
End Notes
     Concupiscent: filled with sexual desire; lustful.
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      “This_isn’t_convincing_me_to_move_you_onto_my_‘nice’_list_Will.” by
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