Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2599874.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Hannibal_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Will_Graham/Hannibal_Lecter
  Character:
      Will_Graham, Hannibal_Lecter
  Additional Tags:
      Blindfolds, Breathplay, Rough_Sex, instructions, Delayed_Orgasm,
      Established_Relationship, vignettes_of_sex_and_violence_verse, odalisque
      verse
  Series:
      Part 6 of Winter_Mornings_-_HeAteUs_Survival_Plan, Part 3 of The
      Odalisque_Timestamps
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-11-11 Words: 4824
****** Cut Your Ribbon ******
by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite
Summary
     "The thought of a boy made deaf and blind, muted as well, entirely
     subject to my hand is particularly beautiful." A soft smile appears,
     and Hannibal murmurs, “We will begin with your eyes.”
     Part of the Odalisque verse, but not set anywhere in particular. Just
     the two of them enjoying... what the two of them enjoy.
     Based on this_exquisite_artwork by dasomjr.
Notes
     Made possible by the incredibly generous donation from thellou!!
     Thank you darling one we hope you enjoy it!
Will knows the tone bodes nothing good.
Or rather, bodes something very good, in the guise of something awful.
“Will,” Hannibal repeats again, and already his voice tenses at being made to
repeat himself. The boy finally lifts his eyes from the book he’s reading,
blinking sleepily, and Hannibal’s expression - without visibly changing -
suggests a faint smile. “You do hear me, then. Strange, for a moment I
considered that perhaps you had lost your hearing.”
“You didn’t say that you needed something,” responds Will, lengthening his
skinny limbs into a feline stretch. A smile, dangerously coy, curves his lips.
“I thought maybe you were just saying hello.”
Hannibal steps from the doorway, lips pressed together as dark eyes take in the
length of boy spread undressed across his bed. Elegantly pale - rather than
consumptively so - with flushes of striking scarlet across his cheeks, his
shoulders, the rosy curve of his backside. This, bared when Will stretches
again, a seemingly thoughtless roll onto his belly, book discarded and arms
folded beneath his cheek.
“A thought occurred to me,” Hannibal says at length, removing his cufflinks to
set beside the bed, and precisely folding back his sleeves. “That since your
body is so weak as to be a liability, were you to find yourself beneath anyone
who isn’t enormously out of shape, perhaps a lesson in honing one’s senses is
in order.”
Sleeves to his elbows now, forearms flexing as if in anticipation, Hannibal
reaches into the pocket of his pants and removes an expanse of silk ribbon,
several inches across and white as the smooth-skinned boy beneath him.
Will bites his lip, eyes narrowed in mischievous pleasure.
“I dunno,” he murmurs. "I did rather well against you the first time you tried
to kill me.” He keeps his eyes on the ribbon, knowing that something even so
delicate could, and would, in the hands of this man become the most brutal of
punishments.
He does not inquire about it for the moment, lets his eyes rise to look at
Hannibal. The man raises an eyebrow, but there is something warm in his
expression still that makes Will stretch further in bed, in a pleasing, smooth
line.
“I granted you life for my amusement.”
“And access to your home for your pleasure," Will adds, grinning, teeth white
behind red lips. At Hannibal’s hum of assent, Will finally moves, stretches his
arms forward to splay his fingers then curl them, back bending into a delicious
arch to raise his hips before he pushes back to rest on his knees.
“Do you wish to gag me?” he asks, shifting to sit comfortably, legs curled
beneath him. “Blind me? Tether me or whip me?”
Will grins, pushes to crawl forward on all fours until he can nuzzle against
Hannibal’s stomach, eyes flicking up to the man to watch.
Hannibal allows the gesture for a beat, two, eyes hooding in pleasure as Will’s
nose, his mouth brush the soft fabric of Hannibal’s shirt. He grazes his
fingers down the back of the boy’s cheek, and grasps Will's jaw in harsh
fingers, squeezing between his teeth to force his lips open. Slowly turning the
boy’s face from side to side, Hannibal hums.
"I should like to loop it around your throat, and see how well you survive me
then. Watch your golden tongue swell and turn livid between your cruel lips."
Loosening his fingers enough, Hannibal pushes his thumb against Will's mouth,
as satisfied by the image he's created for himself as he is by the boy curling
his tongue around the older man's fingers and sucking them.
"I wish to do all of those things," sighs Hannibal, belabored by the burden of
so many delicious possibilities. "In time I will. The thought of a boy made
deaf and blind, muted as well, entirely subject to my hand is particularly
beautiful."
A soft smile appears, and Hannibal murmurs, “We will begin with your eyes.”
Will’s lips curve up into a smile around Hannibal's thumb and he sucks harder,
delighted in the prospect of another game. He knows, just as Hannibal, that he
is strong, that he can hold his own - and has, often - around men twice his
age, sometimes twice his size, other times larger still.
They both know, and neither care.
Will has been blindfolded before, by men who cannot see themselves and refuse
to allow such a beautiful boy to see them. Men who only feel strong when they
can take something away from another. Will has been gagged and blinded and
tethered and whipped, sometimes all at once.
But Hannibal has always demanded his eyes, always demanded his voice.
Will shivers with anticipation, sets his hands between his thighs as they
spread on the bed beneath him, and pulls slowly off of Hannibal’s thumb,
tracing his lips with it as he arches his back and slowly lets his eyes close.
A frightening sort of trust.
The silken ribbon is cool against his eyes, pressed tightly across but not
enough as to be uncomfortable. A deliberate decision, rather than a particular
concern for the boy’s discomfort - there will be more than enough of that to
come.
“You will take it,” Hannibal intones, and with a hint of humor, adds, “and you
will hold the blindfold. Do not tie it.”
He waits until Will’s fingers wrap in the smooth material, and trails his hand
down the boy’s bare chest to feel his heart begin to speed.
“Do not allow it to slip. You know if you can see or not, and you - only you,
dear boy - will ensure that you cannot. Have I any reason to think that you
have faltered,” Hannibal murmurs, leaving the sentence unfinished and the
silence filled with threat. “Do you understand?”
Will grins, feels the blush across his cheeks darken, and drapes his arms
backwards over his own shoulders, opening up his entire body with a roll of his
hips, the spreading of his arms. The blindfold he keeps tight over his eyes as
he bites his lip, closes his eyes beneath the silk.
"I understand,” he replies, gathering the two ends in one hand before reaching
with the other, careful, going from only what he remembers last seeing. He
skims fingertips over Hannibal’s chest, down to his belt, lower still before
arching his neck with a soft moan and retracting his hand again.
He has never played this game before, and with Hannibal he is unsurprised that
something so simple comes immediately with rules. He can already feel his skin
tingling with sensation, with the need to compensate for the lack of sight that
so often guides him.
Instead he listens, to the even breathing, the bare shift of fabric as Hannibal
turns, perhaps merely studying his boy, already thinking of what horrors he can
bring to the pale body before him that always takes it so well.
Will holds the blindfold obediently as told and waits.
Fingers press against his throat, a gentle caress that turns harsher with
little hesitation, digging into the soft skin beneath the boy’s jaw. Hannibal
draws a silent breath as if in sympathy when Will tilts his head back further
and gasps, held there a moment more, as if perhaps still in consideration of
throttling the boy simply to see the colors he turns, and hear the exquisite,
strangled whimpers that would choke from his blue lips.
And still, despite the press against vessels that held any harder would stop
the flow entirely, render him immediately dizzy, Will holds the blindfold in
place, and sits trembling in anticipation.
“Good,” Hannibal says simply. “Lay back.”
The breath is a shaking thing, when Will finally allows himself to release it,
and he is careful not to let the silk slip as he curls his legs beneath him
again and moves to return to lying prone and beautiful as he had been.
He settles, a soft laugh escaping him at the unfamiliarity of being denied his
senses, denied, even, the use if his hands to navigate the loss. Then Will
arches. Presents. Body coiling and unfurling with sweetly deliberate motions as
he shivers, draws his knees close, lets them spread a little, slides his legs
flat and closes them again.
He wants to be touched, he aches for it, feeling the burn, still, of fingers
that had curled over his throat and, for a moment, took away all his air.
"Touch me?" Will sighs, bites his lip, grins.
The boy is a banquet spread before him, all youthful decadence in its rawest
form, and for a moment Hannibal simply considers snaring the ribbon between his
lips, turning him onto his belly, and fucking him until he’s unable to twist
his body quite so readily, not without a hiss and a wince.
He considers it, but he does not, nor does he yet touch the boy whose body begs
for it even more readily than his mouth.
The bed shifts beneath Will as Hannibal climbs slowly onto it, hands placed to
either side of him, knees drawing up next, until he looms on all fours above
the boy.
“An exercise,” Hannibal purrs, “in self-restraint. Your eyes and hands, your
body in its entirety.”
He leans lower, close enough that Will can feel the breath drawn along his
neck, tasting the boy on his tongue as Hannibal takes in the scent of him.
“No matter what I do, you will not react.” A pause, and Will can feel the
amusement in the man’s voice. “To the best of your ability. And I expect much
of your ability,” he challenges. “You know what happens when I am
disappointed.”
Will’s cheeks flood with color and his smile is wide.
"A temptation in itself," Will almost purrs, but he does not make a move to
disobey, does not arch up, does not shift. He lies pliant and still, eyes still
closed beneath the silk, heart now beating much faster with Hannibal so close.
"May I speak?" Will asks, coy, "or have you stolen that as well?"
Hannibal’s smile quickens, even as his eyes narrow unseen. “Perhaps a future
exercise,” he muses, and sharp nails rake rough red marks down the inside of
Will’s thigh. “For now, I have a great desire to hear the sounds you make.”
With just enough time to choke down his desire to spread his legs at the
scalding touch, Will is snared by the hair, his head tilted back enough to bend
his back by force from the bed. He adjusts to hold the ribbon across his eyes
and Hannibal brings his legs up to either side of Will’s hips, kneeling over
him.
“As if Balder and his brother were one in the same,” observes Hannibal, dark
voice held high over Will’s face, followed by the susurrus of fabric as he
untucks his shirt and begins to slowly unbutton it. “What do you feel, Will?”
Will swallows, a sound caught beneath, and licks his lips.
"Fire," he says, feeling his thigh burn still, hum and pulse against the marks
there. Everything is heightened with his eyes so closed, the pain sharp and
delicious, familiar, and Will bites his lip.
"I can feel my pulse," he admits. "I can feel the heat of you so close."
With a soft moan, Will resists the urge to arch up as he had been with
Hannibal's hand in his hair, higher still. He lies as he’s left, prone and
open, head back and neck bared, lips red already, cheeks the same.
"I feel like a helpless little boy," he adds, teasing, tempting. "At the mercy
of a man he cannot see." His tone tilts, breaks gently on the last word and
Will shivers so as not to squirm, mind supplying beautiful images of what Will
could be, this way, little and helpless and genuinely frightened.
It's amusing to him, too easy, but so much fun he cannot pass up the game.
"What are you doing?" he asks softly, voice still higher, still a little more
scared than his own.
Though Hannibal knows the boy is playing at fear - entirely aware of truly
fearless Will really is - it doesn’t make the notes in his voice ring any less
sweetly, and he spreads a broad hand down Will’s ribs, following the slender
plane of his body across his belly, and leaving blooming pink lines in the wake
of his fingernails here as well.
“What do you think I’m doing?” challenges Hannibal, withdrawing his touch to
shrug out of his shirt. The hem brushes tickling against Will’s skin as he
folds it, and the boy grins wide.
“Removing your clothes,” he answers obediently, and Hannibal can feel without
needing to touch the energy snapping brighter in Will’s body, the urge to arch
and twist and spread himself fought down to a resolute stillness. “Can I
touch?”
It’s a simple question, begged beautifully, all the appearance of childish
innocence to anyone who doesn’t know the boy as Hannibal does. The older man
hums.
“Then who would hold your ribbon?”
“I have two hands.”
“Then use both to hold it.”
Will whines, displeased, before his lips spread into a wider grin and he
settles as he is, hands back against the bed, holding the silk ribbon hard
across his eyes.
He wonders if it is a beautiful contrast, against flushed skin. He wonders what
else Hannibal will do to him. He imagines, and it sends a tremble through his
body. Will lies as he is, endures another harsh raking of nails down his body
that sends his skin to tingling sensation.
He feels Hannibal shift above him and uses the movement of the bed that causes
to move himself, just a bare brush of his thigh against Hannibal’s, just enough
to know how close the man is sitting over him.
"Please?" A soft moan, a gentle thing, returning to the mindset of the little
scared boy. Will wonders if this is why Hannibal wants this, to play and mask
it as a lesson.
Another rustling of fabric, louder with his senses so restricted, and Will
hears the man’s belt buckle click open, a clear enough signal of what he’s
doing. Hannibal’s pants are shed with little enough touch to Will - no more
than a grazing of the expensive material against his legs, before these too are
folded and set aside.
Hannibal’s eyes narrow at the boy - lovely, devious thing - and he holds the
buckle of his belt in a closed fist to keep it quiet, halving the leather
between his hands to crack it loudly.
“Ask me again,” Hannibal suggests.
Will trembles, bites his lip harder before letting it go with a breathless
little laugh. He knows the sound, intimately, enough to draw both terror and
pleasure at just the thought of it against his skin. For a moment he just rests
back, fingers curling tighter in the ribbon.
"Please?" he whispers, obedient, still, flushed and nervous and coy all at
once.
Hannibal’s smile softens his tone, like satin across a straight-razor. “No.”
The strap of leather drags across Will’s chest, supple but for the edges that
carry a roughness to them that the boy knows would - will - cut his skin, and
leave blooming in its wake bright spots of blood, dark and glittering as
rubies.
He brings it down again, the same motion as if he were leaving stripes in
Will’s flesh, but without force behind it - a threat, perhaps a promise,
depending on one’s inclination.
Will’s inclination is made obvious by the shuddering sound that unfurls past
his lips.
“Hannibal -”
The name has hardly cleared his throat before the belt is around it, threaded
through his arms and back through the buckle, cinched tight enough to squeeze,
not enough yet to stop his words or the breath that fuels them. Hannibal holds
him taut, and straddling Will’s hips, slips a hot hand between his legs,
fingertips pressed against his opening.
Will makes a choked sound, color flooding his cheeks as his lips part wide, as
he forces his body to still, to relax, despite wanting desperately more to
spread his legs, to arch and beg and feel Hannibal press into him, whispering
all the while that Will is an awful boy, an insufferable creature…
Around his throat, the belt does not yet tighten, just a steady pressure there,
for Will to feel his pulse hammer through it, through his entire body, up
behind his eyes where he holds the silk obediently.
“Do you want me to beg?” he asks, smiling. “You know I can beg you so sweetly,
Hannibal.” He swallows, when he speaks again his voice is softer, helpless,
almost desperate, “Hannibal, please touch me there. Please touch me more, I
need you to…”
Will sighs, turns his head to the side, ribbon still entirely covering his eyes
as he does.
“Please, god, I want you to.”
Withdrawing his fingers, Hannibal nearly shivers in pleasure at the whimper
this causes, to be denied again. He sucks them into his lips, tastes Will
there, a heady flavor of eager boy and tender skin and sweat and himself, from
spreading Will - knees shoved to his ears - earlier that day. And with nothing
more than that to ease the way, he returns them to where Will lays spread and
still, and breaches him with two.
And when Will gasps, Hannibal jerks the belt, cinching it tight around the
boy’s breathless throat.
“Again,” breathes Hannibal, the words welling black from inside him, to snap
Will from the games he’s playing, to remind him, to make him see. “Tell me what
you feel.”
"Not enough," Will groans, makes a pained sound when his breathing is denied,
long enough to bring stars popping behind his eyes before he is allowed relief.
He pants, lips spreading wider until he’s grinning, white teeth beneath deeply
pink lips.
"I can still feel you from before," he moans, still obediently still despite
desperately wanting to spread, to arch, to bend. "You pushed in so deep," Will
breathes, moans when Hannibal's fingers breach him further. "I want to feel you
there again, like before."
His body burns with the need to move, with the touches already granted him, the
mercies he can count on one hand. The belt tightens again and Will laughs, lips
slick when he licks them before breathing becomes harder and he chokes, stays
as he’s held.
"Hannibal," he whines, "fuck me."
Warmth spreads across Will’s chest, smooth and already heated, as Hannibal
drags his tongue over the boy’s heart. The taste of his quickened pulse, the
beating of his heart sped in hindbrain panic and animal desire both - Hannibal
sighs in a rumble of delight, breath cooling the dampness left in his wake.
His fingers press deeper, both at once, hardly slick from the spit he applied
to them, and curls them roughly inside the boy.
“Stay still,” he snarls, teeth leaving a broken-lined circle in his skin,
pressed hard enough to bruise when to his pleasure, his pride, his boy remains
unmoving but for the uncontrollable tremors of his body and the breath gasping
short past his lips. The ribbon is stretched tight across his eyes, wrapped
around shaking fists squeezing the blindfold white-knuckled, and Hannibal can
see as he turns his eyes upwards that the boy’s own blue eyes are closed
beneath it.
“Your obedience,” grows Hannibal in approval, “is an act of defiance for you.”
Without warning the belt is let to hang loose, his fingers pull free, and
Hannibal shoves Will onto his stomach, snaring the soft fabric from his hands
and sliding it around his neck instead.
“Do not open your eyes. Do you understand?”
Will grits his teeth, lips back in something like a snarl if his brows weren’t
raised in an expression of unmistakable pleasure.
“Yes,” he swallows, shifts enough to get his knees under him and lie as he is,
body still alive with sensation, finding it harder to keep his eyes closed now
that nothing is covering them. He knows Hannibal anticipates disobedience, he
knows that soon enough, Will is going to open his eyes, because he will have no
other choice.
He moans, a soft and pleased noise, and arches his back, curls his shoulders
closer to the sheets, grasps them between slender fingers.
“I feel alive,” he answers, without being prompted.
“So it goes,” agrees Hannibal, tightening the ribbon around his hand as he
spits unceremoniously into the other, “the nearer we are to death.”
A few brusque strokes is all it takes and the few seconds afforded to this
enough to cause Will to brace. Hannibal presses against him, into him,
stretching the boy wide around his cock, unyielding by way of speed or depth.
He pushes in against resistance, sighs something like a laugh at the choked
sound that he forces from Will’s lips, and only once he is buried completely
does he bring his arm back to his side, and the boy’s throat bent sharply back
by the ribbon.
Soft fingers stroke Will’s hair back from his face when Hannibal tilts Will’s
head back to follow the curve of his body, and his approval resonates when he
finds that the boy’s eyes are still squeezed tightly shut.
In truth, this was the goal of the endeavor, a thinly-veiled lesson built on
the happenstance of discovering the lovely strip of fabric and Hannibal’s
endless desire to see the boy yield for him in as many ways as he can devise.
He knows the boy is clever enough to see through it, could call his bluff and
earn a beating for his effort, but it is in his indulgence that Hannibal
satisfies his own.
“Touch yourself,” Hannibal rumbles against Will’s hair. “Do not cum until I
tell you.”
Words as familiar as any other shared between them, an instruction that does
not need repeating but often is, if only for the pleasure it sends shivering
through them both.
Will moans, bites his lip before releasing it, breath short and face flushed,
body alive with electricity and need. One hand seeks between his legs, obedient
even here, to curl around his cock and hold, enough to stimulate but not bring
him over, already hard from the treatment, the way he’s been forced to stay
blinded to the pleasure he knows so well and now can only feel.
His other hand Will brings up to slip beneath the silk, affording a deep
breath, another, before he feels a hum against his temples, soft lips there.
“Let it go.”
Will swallows, a delicate string of saliva connecting bottom lip to top when he
parts them to breathe.
“Drop your hand. Take what I give you.”
Will makes another sound, brows furrowed but eyes still resolutely closed. It
takes a beat, several, before he obeys, drops his hand to settle against his
thigh, breath hitching when he manages to take one, other hand between his legs
slowly stroking himself as he’s been told. Hannibal can feel Will’s entire form
tremble against him.
Then Will laughs, a broken little sound with how little air he could allow it,
bites his lip on a smile and squeezes his muscles hard around Hannibal.
A hiss from Hannibal behind him is confirmation that his act of rebellion was a
success, made more certain still by the next thrust that drives Will into the
mattress.
Hannibal cannot play to his age the way Will can, to push inside each other’s
mind in mimic to how their bodies join - not without becoming a parody of the
tedious, lecherous men that Will runs circles around, not without earning a
laugh from the dreadful boy rather than prying him open to wrap his fingers
around those parts of him most sensitive. But Hannibal’s age has given him
wisdom, skill, talents so much like Will’s but far beyond.
He tightens the ribbon a little more, just a bare curl of his hand, enough that
he knows from the rattling gasp of his breath that Will is seeing stars behind
his eyes.
“Is it too much for you?” Hannibal whispers. “Have you reached your limit,
spoiled boy, that you would pull it free? Shall I release it - release you - so
that you may consider your own weakness?”
Jerking Will’s head back - his eyelids flutter but do not open - Hannibal
thrusts brutally against him again.
“Perhaps I expected too much from you.”
Will makes another choked sound, hands stretching in front of him to grasp the
sheets before he is calmly reminded that he was told to touch himself, that he
had not been given permission to stop. One hand ventures back, the other clings
desperately to the sheets Will can reach.
He cannot answer, head throbbing already with the lack of air, body tight and
tense in the most blissful way as Hannibal fucks into him harder, as his own
hand works him closer and closer to orgasm he knows he is not allowed.
Will moans, over and over, eyes still closed despite his desperate need to open
them, to see, to struggle free of this and claw at the sash around his throat.
“Please -” it’s a croak, barely voiced, and Will’s eyes flicker open for just a
moment, vision blurred and filled with bright spots of color before he closes
them again, whimpers loudly and trembles as Hannibal keeps the pressure tight,
keeps the rhythm of thrusts constant and harsh.
“Fuck -”
Hannibal pulls the silk hard enough to yank Will off the bed, arm around his
belly to press the boy against himself, driving shorter - but no less hard -
into him, hips digging into the soft curve of Will’s ass.
“When I release you,” Hannibal growls through his teeth, “you will cum. Do you
understand?”
A weak nod, his face darkening to a livid scarlet, is all Will can manage, his
own strokes against himself stuttering and uneven. Hannibal kisses his cheek,
unmistakably tender, before turning his mouth against Will’s shoulder to watch
his shaking fingers against his cock.
And with a grin, he loosens one end of the ribbon, to let it flutter loose
against the boy’s chest.
Will’s orgasm hits him so hard he can barely register anything but the darkness
that envelopes him immediately after. Body shaking, sounds he knows are his own
- whimpers, cries, begging and sobs, quiet little sobs - coughing until he can
feel the cool air in his lungs again, can feel the bed beneath him and not
weightless as he had been.
It is extraordinary.
For a while he does not know if he sees black or if his eyes are closed. He can
feel Hannibal fucking into him, just as deep and just as hard as before, and it
brings a grin to his face, lips slick with spit when he had attempted to catch
his breath.
“Oh my god.” Will’s voice is rough, lower, scratching against his abused throat
until he coughs again, groans, forces his body to bend back against Hannibal,
delighting in the sensation, seeking out more of the man against him.
Shuddering now, his thrusts ever slightly more irregular, Hannibal hears the
boy come to again and grins. One hand on Will’s hips to hold him steady, he
reaches with the other to run his hand over Will’s face, across his eyes, to
himself be the blindfold as his release finally pulses from him with a low,
long groan.
He starts to sink heavy against the boy but slips to the side instead, arms
curling around Will’s middle to keep the boy close against him, to keep himself
inside for as long as he can. Nuzzling into the Will’s hair, Hannibal breathes
him in, all the sweetness and relief and endorphins that he knows render the
boy nearly senseless even still.
For long minutes, they simply catch their respective breaths, allowing their
pulses and the rise and fall of their bodies to settle into time together.
Little claiming kisses are draped adoring into Will’s hair, across his bare
shoulder, onto his neck already florid with bruises.
A faint smile appears, a terrible pleasure. “Twice, Will. Incorrigible boy.”
Will moans, body lax and weak, heart still pounding from the adrenaline
flooding it. He feels like he can do anything, like he could run for miles and
never tire, like he could read for hours and remember every word.
He laughs, delighted, high on the fact that he is still here, still alive,
still held by the man behind him. It’s a rush he cannot explain, bigger than
killing, bigger than anything he has ever tried.
The soft threat makes him laugh again, bringing a hand to his face to press
there, his knees up until he is almost curled as a ball. He feels Hannibal slip
from him and gasps at the sensation, trembling before swallowing down the
breathless laughter and turning his face to mumble into the pillow and grin.
“Use the belt.”
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