Will waits, hands behind his back and head ducked, cheeks flushed torrid red and hair over his eyes. He watches the feet that file out past him, and out the door to go to the next class. He wonders how it is both his rotten luck and utter delight that Doctor Lecter had taken over this class to substitute today. Today of all days, when Will had finally listened to Jimmy and threw the little airplane at Brian two rows in front.
He turns his toes towards each other. One of his socks having slipped lower than the other, but he doesn’t bend to tug it up. He doesn’t move at all beyond how his fingers fidget behind him, curl and twist together in nervous anticipation. One of the boys pokes him as he leaves the room, laughing quietly that the quiet, smart, friendless Will Graham will finally get his comeuppance, and a proper caning.
Will waits. He waits until the shoes no longer populate his vision. He waits until his name is called, in that same warm low tone that Doctor Lecter uses when he has Will in his office for a talk, to touch, to -
“Will, are you listening?”
Will swallows, looks up, eyes wide and flush pink over his nose. He nods, watches Doctor Lecter’s eyes narrow and shakes his head, cheeks darkening at being caught at the lie.
“I said come here to me.”
Will goes, nearly stumbling over his own feet, and finally bending to tug his sock up his leg, only to feel it slip down his calf a moment later. He stands as he had in the corner, hands behind his back, head down and lip between his teeth, though he keeps his feet straight for the moment, doesn’t pigeon-toe them again.
“I thought you were a good boy,” Doctor Lecter sighs, resting his elbow against the arm of his chair, fingers curled to press against his cheek. He watches Will’s brows draw, before adding, “I thought you were my good boy.”
Will swallows, sniffs a breath and parts his lips to apologize but the doctor stops him with a brief gesture. He sits up, opens the top drawer of his desk and Will’s eyes flick to it immediately, wide and fearful, knowing what he keeps there.
“It was unacceptable behavior, Will,” Doctor Lecter says, eyes on the contents of the drawer, expression almost wistful as before him the boy starts to tremble, “first throwing things in my classroom, then lying to me when I asked you a direct question. Good boys don’t do that.”
“I’m sorry,” Will whispers, it’s so quiet the doctor barely hears him, but he does hear the intake of breath, the little shudder to the last word that almost breaks on his lips. He allows a moment pause before continuing, as though Will had not spoken.
“What is the punishment for such insolence, Will?”
Will trembles harder. “Five strokes of the cane, sir,” he whispers, eyes bright with tears that are welling at the thought. The doctor hums, turns as though to reach into the drawer.
“And for lying?”
Will makes a sound, very gentle, and swallows. “Five strokes of the cane, sir,” he breathes.
“Over a bare bottom,” Doctor Lecter reminds him, and Will starts to shake in earnest, just watching here the doctor’s hand rests just within the drawer before he pulls the hated implement from it and sets it to the table with a click, a supple bamboo cane. He watches Will shake a moment more, wonders if the boy will work himself sick with anticipation and it is almost worth the wait to see if he does, before he has a better idea, a far more pleasing way to pass the afternoon free period.
“Should I be lenient?” He asks, tone lightening just enough for Will to exhale in a rush, nod his head quickly, bring his eyes up to meet the doctor’s. He was so close to tears, this sweet little boy, and the doctor had not yet laid a hand upon him.
“Please,” Will says, and bites his lip immediately after, hands working slippery together, palms sweaty where they clasp hard together behind his back. The doctor hums, before gesturing Will step closer, turning his chair, as he does, to set his legs wide on either side of the boy before him where he stands.
“And what do you suggest I do, Will, instead of meting out your earned punishment?”
He watches the boy’s lips part, beautiful, red things, chewed dark in the boy’s terror of the cane. The boy swallows, runs his tongue, nervous, over his lips before swallowing again.
“I -” he starts, so soft the doctor can barely hear him.
“Speak up, Will.”
“I’m -” a swallow, little throat working, pulse hammering where the doctor keeps his eyes on it before blinking and letting them slip to the blue, wide ones that meet his own. “I will take any leniency, headmaster, and thank you for it.”
An excellent answer, and not even practiced. The doctor allows a smile, watches as Will hones in on the expression, as his brows draw tighter. Any other boy would be relaxing, pleased by the words but not his boy, not Will Graham who sees so much and understands it all. He knows the things he can do to not earn the cane. He knows the things that will be asked of him, and he fears them just as much as welts against his thighs.
“Come closer to me.” The doctor says, waiting until Will does, before sitting up and drawing his knuckles warm over Will’s cheek, the boy shuddering and turning into the soft gesture as he always does, as he always has, so starved for touch and love that something so small pulls from him a full-body response. “Stay still, right where you are.”
Will does, swallows, blinks his wide eyes open to direct them to the man before him, his friend and protector, and the man who abuses him with the softest touches and the kindest words.
The doctor draws his fingers down Will’s front next, over his little tie and to the buttons beneath it, down to his brown belt and the shorts he wears. Without a word, he starts to undo the belt, letting it hang loose as his fingers move to the button on Will’s pants and the little boy shivers again.
“Headmaster, please, you said -”
“- I would be lenient.” The doctor confirms, meticulous in baring the boy for his hands, little cock curled in his briefs before those, two, are pulled down to reveal him, and Will stays stoically still before him, cheeks burning, lips pressed tight together, eyes shining with tears again.
“My beautiful boy,” the doctor sighs, sitting back to look at him, as Will closes his eyes and trembles in front of him, bared and embarrassed, skin flushed pink from his cheeks down his neck, down to his little cock. The doctor feels his pulse quicken, allows it to.
“You will stand for me,” he says, “legs spread and back arched, and I will punish you with my hand until I feel you have earned the punishment’s end. Do you understand?”
Will swallows, eyes still closed but lashes stuck together already, with nervous tears. He nods. The doctor allows a smile, while the little boy can’t see.
“Look at me and answer me properly, Will, or it will be the cane.”
It seems enough to jerk Will from his reverie, to blink his eyes open and part his lips. “I understand, headmaster,” he boy breathes, bites his lip hard as the doctor raises an eyebrow, expectant, “thank you, headmaster.”
“There’s my good boy.” He praises, and Will shudders at the words as he had at the gentle touch. The doctor knows he doesn’t like this, has seen the way the boy has cringed, squirmed when he had touched him before, had stroked him until he was shaking, hands fisted at his sides and whimpering the most beautiful sounds. He knows Will doesn’t like this, and he will touch him regardless. Because it is a punishment. And because the doctor will make his little boy enjoy it.
“Set your legs wider,” he instructs, watches Will duck his head to keep his balance as he does, “now bend for me, set your hands right here,” he taps his thighs and waits for the boy to set his sweaty little palms against them. The doctor hums, sits back to look at the boy, legs spread and back arched, holding on to him and looking so beautifully, utterly punished already.
“Look up.” Will, very reluctantly, does. “Now you will stay still for me. You will take your punishment like the good boy you are, and you will not make a sound, do you understand?” Will nods, shaky little things, “The door is open, my sweet boy, and I would hate for someone to interrupt your punishment before it’s done.”
Will turns quickly to check, eyes wide and shaking his head when he turns it back but the doctor is already touching him, palm down to stroke against the head of his cock, feeling it twitch in response, despite the boy’s determination to not enjoy this, he always does. He always will. He just has to teach the boy to admit to it, and beg for more.
A few strokes has Will’s cock curved up to his stomach, not fully hard but enough to bring out his blush darker down his neck, then the doctor’s hand ventures around his hip, over his briefs still as he sets his fingers against the curve of the boy’s bottom, squeezing it just a little, spreading the boy enough to make him shiver again, but he stays obediently still. Fingers, next, down the cleft, pressing the fabric against Will’s little hole that he had touched not three days earlier for the first time. He smiles when the boy clenches against him, tries to move away.
The boy stops moving, with a soft noise, pleading, and eyes up. The doctor looks, he takes it in, he allows the boy a softening of his expression before working his fingers in a slow walk over the fabric of his briefs, gathering it beneath his fingers before gently pulling away, and touching his fingertips to the hot skin between Will’s legs.
“Wider.” He commands, watches the boy shake his head, press his lips together, tears brimming on his eyelids now, but as silence greets his similarly silent begging, Will slowly sets one foot wider, then the other, and whimpers quietly when the doctor rewards him with a gentle stroke over his hole.
“That’s my good boy,” he sighs, breathing hitching already at the sensation of his boy so vulnerable and spread, “you like this, don’t you? You pressed back against my hand when I did this to you in the office, you wanted me to keep touching you.”
Another shake of the boy’s head and he ducks it, humiliated. For a moment, the stroking continues, then fingers turn harsh, grasp one cheek of Will’s bottom hard enough to elicit a pitiful sound.
“The cane, for lying, Will, be truthful.”
“Please, sir -”
“I liked it,” Will whispers, “it felt strange, it felt nice.”
“Better.” The doctor turns his head, just to look over Will’s shoulder towards the silent corridor, before tilting his head a little and raising his free hand to lift Will’s chin. “Look at me. Eyes on me.”
When Will does, the doctor turns his hand, presses his finger past the tight little ring of muscle and into his boy, drawing his lips wide, a cry sharp from his throat that Hannibal stops with a palm against his mouth.
“Stay quiet, or so help me I will whip you for being a bad boy.”
Will mumbles something against Hannibal’s palm and closes his eyes on a sob, tears warm against Hannibal’s fingers where he holds him silent. He is beautiful to watch, and the doctor pushes his finger in all the way to the knuckle before pulling it free and doing it again. Will is trembling, unable to stop, tears rolling free down his cheeks now in hot drops that smear over Hannibal’s hand when they hit it.
“Now you’re my good boy again, taking your punishment so well,” the doctor sighs, watches as Will’s shoulders visibly relax at the praise, eyes open but stay down. Hannibal keeps his hand against him, feels Will’s shaking breaths against his skin. “We’re nearly done, you’re being so good.” He assures the boy, waits until he raises his eyes before smiling. “Now, my sweet boy, you will push back against my hand, take it all the way in like I pushed it in before. You will do this until I tell you to stop, and you will thank me, do you understand?”
Will sobs again, nods, hair in his face and sticking to his cheeks where tears have caught it. The doctor peels his fingers from Will’s lips one at a time, until the boy draws a shuddering breath and bites his lip to keep quiet.
It takes two more commands, a threat, before Will bends his knees a little, his back, and presses back against the doctor’s finger, long and harsh inside him. The tears don’t stop, they seep and slip and slick down the boy’s face as he cries, and fucks himself back as he’s told, the friction painful, jarring, the doctor turning his finger to stretch the boy further as he continues to rock back against him.
The doctor hears it first, the sound of someone walking down the hallway, quiet steps but shuffling, nervous, someone skipping a class, perhaps, or very, very late for one. Will hears it too, looks up with wide, wild eyes as the doctor shakes his head, does not release him.
“Bend your knees further, you can take more.”
“No, sir, please -”
“Do not deny me, Will, this is a leniency that I will immediately take back for insolence.”
“Please, sir, someone might see -”
“Bend. Your. Knees.”
Will sobs, crying in earnest now, but obeys this too, bending his knees and pushing harder back against the doctor’s hand. One stroke, another, and the doctor brings his hand up to wrap around Will’s shoulders, turns to press his own arm to the desk, and hushes Will as he sobs and shakes against him, as someone passes the door and looks in, seeing only a little boy finding comfort in the arms of his mentor.
The doctor waves them on, concerned for the boy against him, and the other runs past, pleased to have been let off so quickly, so easily by the headmaster himself.
Against him, Will is shaking, sore and crying, upset and humiliated, and worst of all, cock leaking clear against his stomach. The doctor soothes him, removes his hand and settles the briefs over the boy’s bottom again before sitting back to watch, Will still with his legs spread, one hand up to wipe tears from his eyes, the other down to cover himself.
He is exquisite.
“Do up your pants,” the doctor says, “do not touch yourself today, the entire day. And when it is finished, you will come to my office.”
“Why?” Will whispers, quick to work himself back into his clothes as the doctor smiles, pleasant, warm.
“Because I need to reward my good boy,” he replies, “and I intend to do so, thoroughly.”