Hannibal checks his watch. It’s only a quarter to six. He should be done with this client by then. If not, well, the hooker can wait. He’s being paid to wait on someone’s pleasure anyway.
He took a chance this time, paying an exorbitant finder's fee to a seedy gentleman who apparently doesn't seem to care if his employees wind up dead or alive. That part was paid for by a credit card under another name, naturally, but he did have the hooker sent to his home. Therein lays the risk.
But all of life delights in risk now and again. Why else do we go on living?
Hannibal's appetite is whetted already. It's been weeks since he killed, longer since he planned a treat like this. He intends to enjoy tonight to its fullest.
* * *
Will rings the doorbell and tries not to look too bored. It’s a nice house. Probably belongs to some rich asshole who wants to fuck around while his wife is out of town for the weekend.
He learned early on it’s easiest to do whatever the client wants. That way you get paid and there’s no trouble. He can do that. He can bend over and touch his toes while getting fucked. He can beg and pretend he's desperate for the client to give it to him. He can lie still and silent underneath someone who just wants a hole to fill. Will can do all that. Doesn't mean he likes it. Sometimes his mouth gets away from him. Sometimes he can't help himself.
He knows this job is partly a test. If he fucks it up, Martin won't give him another chance.
There's no answer at the door. He was supposed to be here at six on the dot. So it’s six, he’s here and the fucking client isn't.
Will glances around, half tempted to leave. That would probably get him into more trouble. He decides to give it at least five more minutes. He sits down on the front steps.
A long expensive car pulls into the driveway and past him into the garage. Will gets to his feet, and waits, looking at the garage door as it closes behind the car.
The guy doesn’t come out. It takes a second to register. The guy sure as fuck saw him sitting there on the steps, and went ahead on in leaving him there. Okay, so he’s dealing with an asshole. He's fucked assholes before.
Will shakes it off and presses the doorbell. He might press down a fraction longer and harder than he has to.
The door opens and he looks up, brushing his hand over the back of his neck. "Yeah, I had a six o'clock appointment?"
The businessman holds the door open. "Let me guess. You have a pressing meeting afterwards?"
He makes Will want to say yes, flip him off and go. Instead he grinds his teeth, quickly flattening them out in a non-threatening attempt at a smile, and says, "Nope, I'm all yours."
He walks in.
The client closes the door. "Then you can wait here."
He leaves Will standing there in the hall as he goes through one of several doors and closes it.
Will stares after him, then shrugs. Okay, okay, seriously. What does it matter what the man does as long as he pays up? And doesn't beat the shit out of him, he amends, leaning against the wall. He's had clients like that. It's not pleasant. This is annoying, but typical really.
Another door opens in the hallway and Will straightens up.
Hannibal surveys him as he stands in the hallway. This is not what he expected.
* * *
He had asked for something with no particularly close ties and the man had chuckled rudely. "You mean disposable."
Hannibal pursed his lips. "If you care to view it that way."
"Don't worry, I'll send you this nice little piece of ass. I don't care what you do with him."
* * *
Hannibal's gaze slides over him now, assessing him. This is disposable? He would make a delectable fillet, but there's more potential here than merely that.
The young man's waiting. "Uh, the payment..."
"Yes, of course." Hannibal takes the envelope form his jacket pocket and hands it to him before going back into his study. It's half politeness, the young man will want to count it, and half a test. If he makes a run with the money, that's that.
Hannibal glances through the open door to see him counting methodically.
Will stuffs the envelope in his jacket and knocks on the study door.
"So where do you want me?"
Hannibal’s not entirely sure that he does. He should break his neck here and now. This young man promises to be more trouble than he’s worth. This is what happens when you decide to leave some parts of the plan to someone else. Normally he rents a car for the night, selects a prostitute, and drives home. There is sex, and then there is death, with Hannibal reaping the benefits of the latter longer after the enjoyment of the former has faded.
"You may undress here if you like." Hannibal watches as he removes his jacket. He undresses with the gangly ease of youth, untying his shoes and slipping out of them. "How old are you?"
"Twenty-four." The age muffled by his t-shirt over his mouth.
He looks younger. "And your name?"
The young man hesitates, holding his t-shirt. "Danny."
It's a lie. Hannibal's skin prickles in a disappointment. "I see."
"No," surprisingly the young man answers. "It’s just... My boss makes us use fake names. He thinks I look like a Danny." He drops his t-shirt on the floor and reaches for the zipper on his jeans. The memory of Martin pressing his head down. “There, take it, good boy, yeah, you’re a Danny,” is among his least favorites.
"What do you think about it?" Hannibal watches his hands as he pulls his jeans down, revealing slender thighs.
"I hate being called it." It mostly doesn't matter. Not everyone asks. Will pulls his socks off, and then his boxers, letting them drop on top of his jeans.
"What is your name then?" Hannibal’s gaze skims over his naked form.
"Will. Will Graham." This is breaking the rules, but in the moment Will doesn't care. He finds that surprising.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Will." Hannibal holds out his hand. "My name is Hannibal Lecter."
Will has a good handgrip, firm but casual. Hannibal imagines bringing his wrist up to his mouth and scraping his teeth along the veins there.
"What do you want me to call you?"
"Hannibal will do for now. If you're uncomfortable with that, Mr. Lecter will suffice."
"I like Hannibal." Will looks around. The walls of the study are lined with bookshelves, paintings hung between them. The curtains to all the windows are drawn, leaving only a crack of sunlight as the evening approaches. The air in the house is cool, but not so much that he’s cold. Will stands there naked, waiting as Hannibal gazes at him.
"When was the last time you showered, Will?"
"Yesterday. Morning." Normally he would have lied. But this client is different. Somehow he’d know.
Hannibal nods. He moves closer, leaning in to sniff along the back of Will’s neck. Will holds himself absolutely still as Hannibal smells him. It's not unpleasant, just different.
Hannibal draws back. "There is a bathroom upstairs, first door on the left. Shower. Wash yourself with soap and water, but not too much soap. Then come downstairs."
Will nods and walks upstairs. Hannibal watches his body hungrily. The procurer was right about one thing. Will's ass is succulent.
He pours himself a drink.
* * *
Will showers quickly but thoroughly. He uses enough soap to clean his skin, but not so much that the smell is over powering. He doesn't mind the chance to shower. He's had clients tell him to wash himself cause he stinks. But this isn't that. He has the sense it was more because Hannibal wanted to smell him.
When he’s done Will dries himself off and hangs the towel up. A brief look in the mirror. He knows he looks younger than he is. Naked, there's not enough to hide behind. He takes a breath, holding his gaze in the mirror, counts to thirteen and goes back downstairs.
The study door is open but Hannibal's not there. Will hesitates, but he hadn’t told him to wait there. So Will goes down the hall, coming at last to the kitchen where Hannibal's drinking a glass of wine. His tie is loosened slightly. His gaze sharpens as Will stands there in the doorway. One bare foot rests upon the threshold.
"Get back to the study."
Will retreats immediately. He's crossed some line by almost entering Hannibal's kitchen. Once safely in the study, he waits, heart beating double time. Will crosses his hands over his chest, trying to calm it down, but it just speeds up.
When he looks at the door, Hannibal’s there, blocking the exit.
"What are your instincts telling you right now?"
"That I'm in danger." Will’s gut won’t even let him lie. He drops his hands and faces Hannibal.
"So why don't you run?"
"With some threats, standing still is the best choice. Lions," he doesn’t finish the sentence as Hannibal circles him. Will wants to sink to his knees and cover his head. There is no safety here. He holds his ground as his throat tightens.
Abruptly Hannibal stops, and nods.
Will’s heart slows to normal; the danger recedes. He can breathe again.
Hannibal licks his lips, tasting the scent of wine still lingering there. Seeing Will there in the kitchen doorway, naked, like a willing sacrifice, the overwhelming instinct to seize him then and there. Even now, he wants to wrap his hands around Will’s neck, feeling the pulse of life before he rips Will's heart out with his teeth. He could do it, he could kill him quickly and then he would have the pleasure of his flesh, but the way Will looks now would be lost.
If he fucks Will quickly and breaks his neck, there is plenty of time to prepare a meal. Hannibal tells himself this, but then his attention is caught by Will looking around his office. Naked and vulnerable, he still takes time to look at the books.
I can always kill him later. Hannibal thinks. In the morning.
Will glances at him. Hannibal's working something over in his mind. That or he just likes having a young naked guy stand around in his study. That’s all right. Will's known weirder kinks.
Abruptly Hannibal decides. "Come here."
Will goes over to stand in front of him. Hannibal scans his body, searching for something, before he looks into Will’s eyes. There's a look there that makes Hannibal want to peel back and explore.
"Go over to the sofa and bend over the back of it."
Will does, relieved at last they're finally getting to this. He knows his place in this. He bends himself over the back, resting his hands on the wide cushion.
He can hear the faint brush of Hannibal's shoes on the carpet as he moves behind Will. The first touch is surprisingly not on his ass as Will expects, but upon the nape of his neck. Hannibal’s fingers rest there then travel down the slope of his spine, all the way down to his ass to between his legs. Will spreads his legs wider automatically. Hannibal strokes over his hole and balls, assessing.
Will never likes this part; it's so hard to get right. They always want to know how eager he is for it, how often he gets fucked, how tight or loose he is. And then they get angry and take it out on him. He waits for the first question, but it doesn't come. Hannibal's fingertips slide down his thighs, past his knees to his ankles. Then they’re gone.
“Straighten up and turn around.”
That Will isn't expecting. He turns, preparing himself for it. Facing Hannibal is harder. It shouldn’t be at this point, but Will still often finds it difficult to mask his thoughts. It’s one of the reasons he doesn’t get repeat clients.
Hannibal looks at his body first, those same light fingertips brushing along his hips, across the straight line of his chest down to his groin. He eyes Will’s cock, resting against the light pubic hair there.
“The bruise on your thigh, how did you get it?”
“I made someone angry.” He’d seen something during his last job; the image of it in the corner of his eye startling him. He'd jerked away and the client had retaliated by shoving him down harder and holding him on the bed.
Hannibal traces his thumb over the mark. Conflicting desires twist together inside him like a vine. This has never happened before. This was meant to be a special event and Will Graham has effectively put a wrench in the proceedings.
Hannibal wraps his hand around Will’s cock and tugs.
“Fuck.” Will stumbles forward, following his hand. Hannibal eyes the hard brightness in his eyes. If he did it again, Will would cry out. Instead he lets go, leaving Will smarting and red.
Hannibal goes over to his desk and draws out the lubricant he put there in the top drawer.
He tosses it to Will who catches it. “Sit on the sofa and get yourself ready. Slowly.”
Will obeys. This is easier than having someone shove their fingers inside your ass. This way it gets done properly, but it’s another level of surrender. Do it for them, so they don’t have to bother. Will slicks his fingers, spreading his knees far apart as he pushes the first finger into himself. A little further in and his sore cock stirs.
Hannibal watches from his desk. He’s so quiet. The quiet ones can go either way. Dirty talkers either need to show off, or they want to force Will into annoying them. Hannibal’s silence is disconcerting. Will adds a second finger, working himself open. Hannibal’s tall, his fingers long and well-portioned. Most likely he has the cock to match. The lube slides over Will’s fingers and he starts to add a third, but Hannibal shakes his head.
So Will waits, sitting there with two fingers inside himself, sweat gathering at the base of his neck.
Hannibal comes over to the sofa and sits down, stretching his arms out along the back of the sofa. “I want you to fuck yourself on my cock.”
Will pulls his fingers out, hesitating. Hannibal doesn’t move so he reaches over to undo his pants. Hannibal’s still under his hands, not hard yet. Will glances up at him, uncertain, but Hannibal just looks at him. Will lowers his head.
Hannibal resists placing his hand over Will’s hair. He watches the motion instead, the way Will’s head bobs in the rhythm of the act, his body curved over to reach Hannibal’s cock. It would be easy to sink his fingers into him, so Hannibal slides them down the crease of Will’s ass. He pushes two fingers into him and Will shifts his ass slightly to accommodate him, his mouth busy.
At last he pulls off, his lips spit-slicked and wet. Hannibal’s fingers still, and then pull out of him.
Will hesitates again.
Hannibal guesses what he wants to know. “Facing me.”
Will straddles his lap, daring to reach over Hannibal’s shoulders to rest his hands on the sofa back. Slowly he lowers himself onto Hannibal’s waiting cock.