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Pocket Squares and Sweet Surrender

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“… Excuse me?” Will said, turning away from his unpacked groceries to glare at his partner.

“Do you find this idea offensive, Will?” Hannibal replied, opening the refrigerator to put away the milk and eggs.

“Hannibal.” Will pinched the bridge of his nose. “You don’t say something like ‘Your wardrobe is unfit for my company, we should buy you new clothes’ and not expect some offense to be taken.”

Hannibal folded away a package of cheese calmly, closing the refrigerator door to handle this discussion face-to-face. “I believe I said ‘Now that we are a couple, we should buy you clothes suitable for interacting in my life.’ There’s a difference.”

“Really?” Will nodded patronizingly. “And just what difference would that be?”

“Mind your tongue, William,” Hannibal growled, eyes glittering like deadly rubies. Will felt his stomach drop even as his pants tightened. That Look (and yes, it definitely deserved the capital ‘L’), ferocious and hot-cold, always promised very dirty, perfect things for Will Graham. Last time Will had seen that Look, they’d been cooking dinner (okay, Hannibal cooked dinner and Will picked the seeds out of a pomegranate, but that’s irrelevant) and Will had said something foolish about Hannibal’s paisley ties. The next thing he knew, he had been bent over the island and licked open ruthlessly. Dinner had gone cold by the time they were done.

Now, however, the Look was more cold than hot, and Will knew he wasn’t about to be ravaged over any flat surface any time soon. “Perhaps,” he said, forcing down his frustration and residual lust, “you should explain yourself, first, then.”

“Very good,” Hannibal praised, the Look heating with approval. Will bit his lip—the expression had reached the point of sensuality—and busied his hands with bunches of parsley and dill. “The Lyric Opera House is hosting a national tour of Die Entführung aus dem Serail next week and I had hoped that you would be interested in joining me. While Italian operas are evocative and remarkable in their own right, I am eager to hear a German performance. It will be comforting to understand the language as it is spoken.”

“You don’t speak Italian?” Will asked curiously.

“Does that surprise you?” Hannibal replied, gauging Will’s reaction carefully. Always with the psychoanalysis, no matter how often Will asked him to stop. He’d gotten used to it now.

“I just… you seem to speak every language, I guess,” Will said, feeling stupid. “You bounce from French to Spanish to English to languages I don’t even recognize. I guess I just assumed you spoke everything.” He bit his cheek, turning his back to Hannibal to avoid the look of affectionate amusement he knew was being directed his way.

“While I appreciate your confidence in my linguistic prowess,” and there it was, those damnable bubbles of gentle mirth popping along under rolled consonants and stretched vowels, “I regret to inform you that I do not speak every language in the world.”

Will shot him a glare. “Do you know the language of ‘fuck you?’”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that,” Hannibal said, not missing a beat. “Or I’d have to punish you.”

A susurrus of want tingled along Will’s forearms. “Maybe I should say it again, then.” He dared to stare defiantly into Hannibal’s eyes, fingertips itching to mess the doctor up, make him look less perfect.

Hannibal folded his reusable shopping bag, choosing to ignore Will’s blatant want. Like fine wine, Will tasted best after time to stew. “After we go shopping.”

“What do I need to buy?” Will demanded, running restless fingers through his hair. “I have suits!”

“You have tweed sports jackets and polyester-blend slacks,” Hannibal corrected. “Hardly appropriate attire for an opera.”

“I knew it,” Will grumbled. “I knew that if I let you seduce me, I’d end up stuffed into a tuxedo and paraded around like some prize penguin.”

“But you did it anyway,” Hannibal pointed out, eyes finally softening.

“Yeah,” Will sighed, smiling at Hannibal fondly. “Yeah, I did. But… can’t I just rent a tux for the night?”

“If you think I’m going to have my paramour dressed up in a rental tuxedo that most likely was used at some high school dance,” Hannibal growled, “then you’ve got another thing coming.” He picked up all the bags and strode out of the room.

“I’ll show you another thing coming,” Will groused under his breath.

“After!”

 

Shopping for a tuxedo was rather more complicated than Will thought it would be. Hannibal knew a tailor in the city, a small, nervous man that had apparently been doing Hannibal’s suits for years. Will felt claustrophobic in the tiny shop.

“Ah, Doctor Lecter, always good to see you,” he said, coming around his counter to grip Hannibal’s hand between two of his own.

“I’ve told you to call me Hannibal, Maurice.” He was all suave grace and smooth words like polished leather and silk. Will envied him for that; he was sandpaper and scratchy wool on the best of days.

“Yes, well, one day I’ll forget my manners, and you’ll finally be satisfied,” Maurice replied, smiling easily. Will could see why Hannibal liked him: Maurice was sharp and cutting, a man of quick judgments and careful deductions, with the social grace required to remain utterly professional in his casual dismissals.

“And who is this?” Maurice turned to Will, black eyes like beetles taking in his pilly, flannel shirt and ratty tennis shoes. Will felt like an ant under a microscope and pulled at the cuffs of his sleeves.

“This is Will,” Hannibal said with unmistakable pride in his voice. Somehow, that made Will feel worse: what had he ever done to earn Hannibal’s pride? He was a barely-sane teacher at the FBI that was too unstable to become a real agent. He planted pumpkins in his gardens because he liked carving jack-o’-lanterns like an overgrown child. He hoarded dogs. He was nothing, really—was he? Some flicker of a personality hidden beneath the silhouettes of serial killers and puddles of neuroses.

“You’ve always had impeccable taste,” Maurice said, and his black eyes warmed. Will froze, baffled. He felt like he’d passed some sort of test while he was too busy berating himself. Had he passed Maurice’s inspection? Really?

“Up on the stool you go,” Maurice instructed. Will stepped up onto the wood, feeling like a lackluster tin trophy to be hidden away, not one to be displayed in front of a mirror. Maurice pulled a thin tape measure from his breast pocket and began drawing it across Will’s shoulders, moving with practiced efficiency as he took Will’s measurements.

“Have you a particular jacket design in mind?” Maurice asked Hannibal over his shoulder, fitting the metal nub of the tape measure into Will’s armpit to get a sleeve length.

“I was thinking full tails,” Will piped up from his perch, teasing. “You know, classiest penguin in the colony, and all that.” Maurice’s lip curled, but from amusement or distaste, Will couldn’t tell.

“I was thinking something simple, yet fitted,” Hannibal said, as if Will hadn’t spoken. “Notch collar, two buttons, and pleated trousers. Patterned waistcoat—Will does love his patterns—perhaps herringbone?”

“How fitted?” Maurice asked, moving away to a rack of jackets and rifling through it.

Hannibal’s eyes roved over Will’s reflection in the mirror, and Will felt a hot blush creep up his neck. “Very.”

“Alright. Take your shirt off, please.”

“Wait, what?” Will asked, turning to Hannibal in confusion.

“The flannel is thick,” Hannibal explained, “and will provide an inaccurate fit.”

“Oh.” Will’s fingers fumbled along the buttons and he tugged the shirt off, leaving him a thin, used-to-be-white tee shirt. Hannibal held out a hand, a silent offer to take the button-down, and Will passed it to him with a grateful smile. Will saw how delicately Hannibal handled the shirt and turned away, embarrassed. He didn’t see Hannibal bring the flannel up to his nose to take a hearty sniff, nor did he see the way Hannibal’s body relaxed immediately afterwards, as if coming home after a long day at work. He was too wrapped up in his self-conscious thoughts to notice.

He slipped on the jacket, shifting his shoulders to accommodate the pads. It looked good on him, square on top and tapered at the bottom. Will buttoned the jacket and raised his eyebrows at how effortlessly the jacket implied grace and dignity. He’d never been dignified before. Felt good.

Hannibal came up behind Will and brushed his hands over the jacket, burning trails of sensation into the small of Will’s back. That felt very good.

“The sleeves need to be shortened,” Maurice came up to Will’s side, drawing thin white lines on the fabric with tailor’s chalk. “What do you think?”

“More fitted,” Hannibal said, drawing the excess fabric back slightly to accentuate Will’s body more.

Maurice raised an eyebrow. “Very well,” he said, pinning the jacket tighter. Will grimaced—he liked the jacket looser better—but Hannibal gave an approving hum and Will lost the urge to complain. Hannibal was buying him a suit to go to functions; Will could wear whatever Hannibal wanted for one night.

Hannibal had certainly done enough to deserve Will's small sacrifice. He'd helped Will completely refurbish his home, he'd cooked Will gourmet meals almost every day, and he'd spent somewhere around Will's annual salary in groceries for said meals. He'd provided Will solace when he needed it most, a layer of fluffy down covering the bed of nails that was Will's life. He'd listened to the horror of Will's nightmares over fingers of whiskey at four o'clock in the morning.

He'd given Will his sanity back.

So yeah, Will could don a monkey suit if that's what Hannibal wanted.

"And how is this?" Maurice asked, pushing the last pin into place.

"Much better," Hannibal said, content. Will had to admit, the jacket looked great, even if it did make him feel self-conscious. He wasn't as thin as he'd been in his youth—microwaveable meals weren't really the most healthy foods ever, and Will barely had the energy to go to the gym twice a week—but he felt like a freshly plucked spring chicken on this little wooden stool of a roost. 

"Alright, off, please," Maurice said, holding out his hands to take the jacket. "This shouldn't take me more than a few days; Wednesday at the latest, most likely Tuesday afternoon. Pants next."

Out came the tape measure. And wow, getting these measurements done was far more uncomfortable, wasn’t it? Will tried not to shy away from the fingers dancing along his hips, choosing instead to focus on Hannibal, who seemed to be fighting an urge to smack Maurice's hands away. Possessive bastard. Will grinned, and Hannibal, seeing the motion out of the corner of his eye, smiled shortly in response. 

Maurice took the inseam measurements last (Hannibal growled almost silently and Will was too amused by it to feel uncomfortable) and scurried away to find trousers.

"Down, boy," Will teased once Maurice was out of earshot.

"That's not what you'll be saying later," Hannibal replied lightly, moving to examine some swatches of patterned silk. Will's chest twisted and he very much wished they were done shopping right now.

"Try these, please." Maurice returned with a pair of slacks draped over an arm. "There's a changing stall right back there." Will took the pants and retreated to the back of the store. The tiny room was well-furnished: a small velvet stool stood opposite a large mirror framed in gold-plate. Will shucked his jeans and slid on the trousers, desperately willing away the slight hardness that was much more obvious under fine wool than it was under denim. 

He put his shoes back on, unsure if it was rude to walk around in one's stocking feet, and walked back over to the stool. 

"Take off your shoes, please, and get back up on the stool," Maurice instructed. Oops. Will toed off his sneakers and stepped onto the wood, flexing his toes against the polyurethane.

Maurice tottered about, tugging in spots to get the fabric to lie flat. "And how fitted should these be?"

"Comfortably so." 

Apparently that made sense to the tailor (it didn’t to Will), because he gave an accepting grunt and started pinning the pants. Will fought discomfort yet again—he'd always felt that his legs were rather shapely in a distinctly non-masculine way—and tried to think about other things.

Luckily, the pants were much easier to fit than the jacket, so Maurice was done in a matter of minutes. The waistcoat was simple, as well; perhaps arms were the distinguishing factor in difficulty, here. Fuck if Will knew.

Less than half an hour later, Will was back in his flannel and jeans, feeling decidedly less attractive in the ill-fitting plaid than he had when he walked into Maurice's shop. He drifted over to a rack of satin cummerbunds, trying not to hear just how much this tuxedo was going to cost Hannibal. He was sure he could sell his soul for less.

Their next stop was a retail suit store to buy shirts and pocket squares. This, too, was more arduous a task than Will had expected. Hannibal had gotten Will's measurements from Maurice, thank God, but he still wanted Will to try on the shirts, just to be sure. 

Will felt dirty, pressing his sweaty arms into the virginally white material. The shirt fit close to his body, outlining his muscles and barely wrinkling at his underarms. Add a pair of leather pants and Will would fit right in at a gay bar.

And that was a thought, wasn't it? Will imagined Hannibal sitting in a club, sniffing disgustedly at the dance floor, and had to stuff his knuckles into his mouth to hide his laughter. 

Hannibal approved of the fit of the shirt, running his fingers suggestively around the back of Will's neck to "fix the collar." He didn't like the starchy white, though, for which Will was grateful. He picked out a rich cream color instead.

"Won't I stand out, though?" Will asked, holding the shirt loosely in his hands. Tuxedos were a white and black affair; everyone knew that. "I don't want to be any more obviously out of place than necessary."

"You'll be fine, Will," Hannibal assured him, picking through a box of pocket squares. "Its color suits your complexion much better, and it is perfectly acceptable for the Opera House."

Hannibal found a pocket square that he liked and passed it to Will before picking up the entire stack of shirts.

"You can't mean to buy all of them," Will said, shocked. He hadn't been able to avoid seeing those price tags, and he could buy a month's worth of food for just one of them.

"Die Entführung is not the only opera I plan on taking you to see," Hannibal said, moving past Will to the checkout, "and I firmly believe in having 'extras.'"

Yeah, but why would they need extra shir—oh. Well, then.

Hannibal paid for the shirts and pocket square with a platinum card and dropped the bags onto the back seat of his car. The last stop (thank God) was to a shoe store to buy Will dress shoes. This was arguably as uncomfortable as having Maurice take his inseam; shoe salesmen always gave him the creeps. One glance at the man's oily smile sent Will spiraling into another headspace. Oh, look at those ankles, he could practically hear the man think. I would suckle that Achille's tendon for hours, if I could. Lick between each toe, nuzzle into the arch of the foot, scrape my teeth over the heel. The things I could do to this man's feet. Oh, but he's taken. Pity. Not that this man would be any less scrumptious... in fact—

Will felt fingers brush his cheek and wrenched himself out of the salesman's thoughts. Hannibal was peering into his eyes, one hand on a shoulder and the other on the opposite elbow. "Are you alright?"

"Nothing I'm not used to." Will grin-grimaced, glancing over at the salesman. Understanding flooded Hannibal's face for a moment before it hardened. 

"My husband needs size ten dress boots, black leather," Hannibal said, turning to the salesman, voice professional and cold. Will thrilled—husband?—before realizing that Hannibal was staking his claim in the most convenient way possible. The salesman looked for a second like he was about to argue ("Maybe the guy would like to make his own decisions, you pretentious douchebag," Will heard. This man's mind was particularly hard to ignore), but he must have thought better of it because he went to find the shoes wordlessly.

"Some people," Will said, rubbing at his temples, "are a bit louder than others."

"You find it easier to slip into certain thought patterns than others because their body language is more expressive," Hannibal clarified, eyes narrowing in an attempt to understand. Despite everything they’d been through, Hannibal still didn’t fully grasp how Will’s empathy worked, though he continually did his best to figure it out.

"Not quite," Will muttered. “It’s not that they’re more obvious about it, it’s just… louder. I can’t really explain it. It’s like… you hear a piece of music and you listen to the harmonies, the blend of every instrument working together to create one sound. But then you learn one part to the music, one instrument’s contribution, and suddenly that’s all you hear. If you hear harmonies, it’s in relation to the part you’ve learned. You pay attention to those rhythms, those crescendos, those tapers. And it’s not that it’s more obvious—it’s still the same piece of music you first heard—but it’s louder somehow. Does that make any sense?”

Hannibal put a hand on Will’s chest and looked down at their feet. Will fought the urge to fidget; he hated heavy silences, but he also knew when it was inappropriate to break them.

“I think you will very much like the opera,” Hannibal said finally, voice thick. Will felt a vague sense of accomplishment: he’d done something right, there, with that music analogy. Perhaps now wasn’t the best time to tell Hannibal that he’d played the triangle in his high school’s orchestra, then.

“Sirs?” The salesman had returned with the shoes. Will wanted to snap at him, to tell him to go away because he was having a moment with his beloved and that was more important than some stupid pair of shoes, thanks. But that would be rude, and Hannibal despised rudeness.

“Thanks,” he said instead, taking the box from the man’s hands. He could be nice, but he’d be damned if he let the guy near his feet. Not with those thoughts of his.

The shoes he had brought were unlike Will had expected. Today seemed to be one of those days where he was constantly taken by surprise. He’d expected something with tassels. Actually, he had no idea what he’d expected, but it wasn’t this.

These shoes were, well, cool. The ankle-high boots were sleek and stylish, but very masculine. They looked European, like they belonged pressed up against the engine of a Vespa. Will toed off his sneakers and slipped the shoes on, marveling at the muted shine of the leather. These shoes were awesome.

“What do you think?” he asked, turning his foot this way and that under the fluorescent lights.

“My opinion is of little importance, Will,” Hannibal replied. “What do you think of them?”

“They’re perfect.” Will grinned beatifically at Hannibal.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Hannibal purred, and Will felt like he was talking about more than just the shoes. A blossom of bright warmth flooded his chest (love, Will had to remind himself, that’s love) and Will curled his fingers into his pockets so he wouldn’t molest Hannibal in front of an entire store full of people.

“So you’ll be buying these then?” the salesman said bitterly.

“Yeah,” Will said, without turning away from Hannibal’s eyes. “We’ll take them.”

They broke away to buy the shoes (Will turned his eyes away, desperately trying to ignore just how much money Hannibal was spending on him) and left the shop. Will was still basking in the still-unfamiliar sensation of being in love, wondering how the hell he’d managed to land a healthy relationship in spite of the clusterfuck that was his life. He shoved people away; it was his modus operandi. So how had Hannibal managed to stick? It felt like a worm in his apple, a wriggling parasite biting through the flesh of his neuroses. Will had felt this way before—an over-thinker to the last—but he could never make sense of it. Why did Hannibal stick around? Why did Hannibal spend oodles of money on a tuxedo so Will could go to a fucking opera? Why did he care?

“You’re upset,” Hannibal observed, never taking his eyes off the road. One of the downsides to dating a shrink: they always knew when something was wrong, whether you wanted them to or not.

“I just… I just still don’t understand why you tolerate me,” Will admitted. “I mean, you just spent more money on me than I make in a month. I have no way to pay you back for that, never mind the food and the counseling and helping me repair my house. It doesn’t make sense.”

Hannibal hmm-ed quietly. Will pinched at his wrist in punishment: one of the last things you should do in a too-good-to-be-true situation is to point out how too good to be true it is. Especially when the situation is the only thing keeping you sane.

“I think perhaps I’m not as skilled a therapist as I’ve allowed myself to believe,” Hannibal said, the words dragging as if he was mulling over their impact as he spoke them. “I thought I made myself very clear when we had sex for the first time.”

Will flushed hot. The juxtaposition of Hannibal and sex always made him feel embarrassed and desperate, like a teenager suffering through his first erection in public. He didn’t want to interrupt Hannibal, however—he knew he’d only make things worse for himself at this point—so he stayed silent.

“You are more than a set of neuroses that laymen call a ‘gift.’ You are more than the killers you track, and you are more than the victims you fail to save. You have your own personality, Will. You are perhaps one of the most magnificent people I’ve ever seen. When I first met you, I called you a mongoose, do you remember that?”

“’The mongoose under the house when the snake slipped by,’” Will quoted.

“Exactly,” Hannibal glanced over at him, approving. “You are the predator unseen, the fluffy creature that looks innocent and yet can take down a python twice its size. You conserve your energy—in this case, being your ability to interact with people on a compassionate, empathetic level—because you realize that you need that energy for more important things. You allow the snake to slip by, because you know the real monsters have yet to arrive. I find that quite exceptional, Will.

“I believe that you romanticize the idea of me just as you deprecate yourself. I am a peculiar man, Will. I find it difficult to connect with people in quite an opposite way from you: I am able to mince and mingle my way through polite conversation, but I find myself flummoxed by the intricacies of deep emotion. Just as you extol my ability to play at civility for a time, I am enraptured by your utter humanity in the face of malevolence. It is selfish of me, perhaps, but you intrigue me, Will, in such a way that I may never find succor without your presence by my side.

“You’ve no need to recompense me. I love you, I respect you, and I give of myself because it is the easiest way to prove that to you. I share my life with you. It really is that simple.”

Will toyed with his thumbnail, processing Hannibal’s declaration. It felt wrong, somehow, that Hannibal could give him so much—baubles and heartbreaking soliloquies and love—and he had only himself to offer in return. Unfair.

The rest of the drive was quiet. Hannibal seemed content to let his speech linger in the air, sweetness gone stale over time, and Will had no idea how to respond to such open admissions. He was used to plucking emotions out of people’s heads—an unwanted vulture, picking through carcasses of thought—and he felt exposed now.

Hannibal took the bag of shirts from the backseat, leaving Will to take his shoes, and walked into his house. Will followed behind, taking off his sneakers and hiding them away in the coat closet. When “Hannibal’s house” became equated with “home” he started taking off his shoes, as he would do in his own house. Hannibal had at first been surprised when he saw Will walking around barefoot, as he almost always wore slippers around the house, but he’d given Will this little approving smirk, so Will had done it ever since.

He climbed the stairs to Hannibal’s room and, making a lightning fast decision, crept his arms around his lover. He kissed along Hannibal’s collar, unfastening the buttons on his waistcoat.

Hannibal put his hands over Will’s, effectually stopping him. He turned in Will’s arms and searched his eyes, ever the psychiatrist. Will stared determinedly at Hannibal’s chin. He knew what Hannibal would find in his eyes—grim desperation and frantic frustration, the need to give back in any way he could—and he didn’t want Hannibal to see.

But, of course, he did. Hannibal nudged Will’s chin up with his knuckle, forcing eye contact. Holding Will’s eyes for as long as possible, Hannibal leaned in and kissed Will pointedly. The message was clear: you owe me nothing, so stop.

Will relaxed into the kiss, pulling his arms around to rest on Hannibal’s chest. Hannibal licked along Will’s upper lip before delving inside Will’s mouth, coaxing Will’s tongue into action. Will responded happily, dragging his fingers through Hannibal’s hair as he melted against the doctor’s torso. He still felt distressed, but the firm glide of Hannibal’s mouth against his made the ache lessen, if only to be replaced by a darker, more pressing one.

This time, Hannibal let Will’s fingers traipse all the way down his waistcoat. He took it off and flung it to the side, then moved to do the same with his tie.

“No!” Will reached out a hand to stop Hannibal, but then thought better of it and held the arm close to his chest. “I… I want you to keep it on.”

Hannibal chuckled darkly and took Will’s mouth in a bruising kiss. Lust swirled in Will, dust motes of desire curling around behind his eyes. “In some ways we are very different,” Hannibal said, sucking open-mouthed kisses down Will’s neck, “but in others, we are very, very similar.”

Will made a sound that was supposed to be questioning, but sounded more like a breathy gasp.

Hannibal unbuttoned Will’s flannel and sucked an earlobe into his mouth. “Why do you think I bought so many shirts?"

Will groaned and ripped the flannel off his body, tugging off his t-shirt and pressing his chest against the smooth Egyptian cotton of Hannibal’s shirt. Bliss. Will nuzzled along Hannibal’s collar, licking a stripe up to his ear. “Roll up your sleeves.”

If Hannibal was surprised, he didn’t show it. He wrapped his arms around Will, pressing the man more firmly against his front, and rolled up his sleeves. Will leaned back when he was done and took a good long look at Hannibal. The sight made him shudder in delight.

Hannibal kneaded dough in front of him once before they had become intimate, when Will was still pressing down his attraction to his psychiatrist with every ounce of control he could muster. Hannibal had been wearing a white shirt, similar to today’s, with the sleeves rolled up and his tie flung over one shoulder. It had been the single most arousing thing Will had ever seen, and he’d developed a secret kink for it. On days when Hannibal had late appointments or Jack swept Will away to a crime scene over state borders, Will would imagine Hannibal leaning over him, pristine white shirt soaked with sweat, forearms glistening with tension, face a mask of glorious concentration, and he would jerk off roughly, counting down the hours until he could kiss his love again.

But not today. Today, Will had Hannibal right here, in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and dew drops of sweat on his hairline, and he was going to take fucking advantage.

He sat on the bed and pulled Hannibal forward by the belt loops. He leaned forward and, making sure to keep eye contact, undid the button with his lips before taking the tag of the zipper between his teeth and tugging oh-so-slowly down. Hannibal bit his lip, bringing a hand up to rest heavily on the back of Will’s neck. Will looped his thumbs into the waistband of Hannibal’s boxers (grey silk, with a nearly-black wet spot peeking out at the front) and tugged them down, pulling the pants as well. Before Hannibal could move to step out of the material pooled at his feet, Will licked a long stripe up the underside of Hannibal’s cock. Hannibal inhaled sharply, fingers turning to claws on Will’s shoulders. The pain felt magnificent; it spurred Will into action.

He leaned back and tugged his jeans down and off his body, hurling them somewhere in the direction of Hannibal’s dresser. He folded his legs around Hannibal’s thighs and pressed his face into the expensive fabric on his stomach, inhaling Hannibal’s spicy cologne. “I need you to fuck me. Right now.”

“I think I can do that,” Hannibal purred. He reached over to the nightstand and withdrew a half-used tube of lube. He coated two fingers in lubricant and swooped down to catch Will’s lips in a kiss as he pushed both fingers in at once. Will hissed, reveling in the burn even as his body fought to shy away from it. Hannibal worked his fingers, nudging at Will’s prostate. Will pushed his head into the mattress, arcs of pleasure sizzling down his arms.

Hannibal took his time preparing Will, as he always did, ensuring that Will would feel no pain when they joined. Affection shone through the haze of desire in Will’s mind, and he reached a hand up to cup Hannibal’s jaw. God, he loved this man.

Hannibal’s eyes warmed, and Will couldn’t resist pulling him down for a kiss. Will poured his love for Hannibal into the kiss, pushed it into Hannibal’s mouth with his tongue, licked it into Hannibal’s hard palate. When it came down to it, their relationship had nothing to do with Will’s sanity, or Hannibal’s money, or even the way Hannibal looked in a button-down (though that fucking helped); it was them just like this, blending and meshing and fighting and overcoming and feeling with everything they had. It was Hannibal lowering his impeccable guard enough for Will to actually look in his eyes and see something more. It was Will fighting his social anxiety because he wanted to do things for Hannibal like go to the opera and fit into high society.

They surrendered themselves for each other.

Hannibal removed his fingers and grasped Will’s hips to position himself. Will tucked his legs up onto the bed, spreading them as far as possible, and groaned as he felt Hannibal slowly push into him. Hannibal hung his head, thumbs rubbing hard circles into Will’s hipbones. His muscles were tense under his shirt, the fabric wrinkling just so around his biceps. Will tightened around Hannibal involuntarily, a wave of lust and satisfaction coursing through his body. Hannibal growled (God, Will loved it when Hannibal growled, like Will was an animal to be devoured whole, every part honored, every atom consumed) and shoved Will’s legs up to rest on his shoulders, calves digging into the fine cotton. He leaned forward and placed one hand on either side of Will’s head, tie draping over Will’s stomach, and pulled out, just to slam back in.

Will closed his eyes, forcing back his orgasm toosoontoosoontoosoon. Hannibal had effectively caged him into his fetish, surrounded by forearms and muscles and cologne and white fabric, and Will knew that Hannibal knew what he was doing. Well, he wasn’t going to give Hannibal the satisfaction of seeing him fall apart. Not that quickly.

Will flexed his inner muscles, clenching his thighs to gyrate the tiniest bit on Hannibal’s cock. Two could play that game. Hannibal smirked and started moving in a slow, dragging rhythm that set Will’s nerves on fire. Will sighed, letting the pleasure flow over his skin like an eddy of warm air. He pushed down with his calves, meeting Hannibal’s thrusts without trying to increase the pace of their lovemaking. His skin itched with need, but he was content to drift on currents of barely-desperate pleasure.

Hannibal started swirling his hips, grinding instead of thrusting, and Will keened long and low. His prostate was being battered ruthlessly, and Will knew without a doubt that he was going to lose this little competition of theirs. Hannibal knew him all to well, and Will loved him all the more for it.

A droplet of sweat fell onto Will’s chest and he focused his eyes, nearly coming on the spot. Hannibal’s shirt had been soaked through, wet fabric clinging to Hannibal’s frame deliciously. His hair was askew and spiky, bangs falling into his eyes like tiny icicles. Hannibal’s face was contorted in concentration, eyes meeting Will’s like hot lasers, and Will felt himself falling apart. He came untouched, reaching out blindly to squeeze Hannibal’s arms as he shouted his release. White spurts of seed shot up both of their bodies, staining Hannibal’s shirt in glorious graffiti. Will almost wanted to come again just from seeing it. Hannibal’s arms tensed under Will’s hands and he felt Hannibal pump into him, coming in a series of tortured gasps.

Hannibal leaned down, bending Will double to kiss him. He slid out of Will, causing the younger man to inhale sharply. “I’ll be right back,” Hannibal mouthed into Will’s lips.

He stood up, shaky despite how hard he tried to hide it, and finally took his pants all the way off from where they were pooled at his ankles. He walked to the bathroom, giving Will a wonderful view of his backside and the shirt glued to his back with sweat. Hannibal loosened his tie and removed the shirt, throwing both unceremoniously into the garbage before retrieving a washcloth from the linen cabinet and dampening it at the sink. He washed the sweat and come off his abdomen and cock, rinsing the washcloth and returning to the bedside to clean Will. He was gentle, taking care not to jostle Will’s oversensitive cock too much. He kissed Will’s inner thigh when he was done and took the washcloth back to the bathroom.

When he returned, Will had crawled beneath the sheets and was holding open one of the corners. Hannibal slid in next to him, taking the sleepy profiler into his arms and kissing him briefly on the forehead. Will sighed happily and snuggled down into Hannibal’s chest, bringing one hand up to lay flat on his sternum.

He was almost asleep when a voice brought him back to full consciousness. “Next time,” Hannibal murmured, sounding on the verge of sleep himself, “you get to wear the shirt.”

Will grinned into Hannibal’s shoulder, already falling back asleep. “Agreed.”