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Quid Pro Quo

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William Graham continues to exude obstinacy to any form of therapy. Dr. Chilton claims he has been able to analyze a few of Mr. Graham’s psychiatric anomalies, though the patient refuses to open up to more than a superficial greeting during our sessions. I fear this is due to our past history, but so far William Graham has not requested another psychiatrist for outside evaluation.

Hannibal watched Will crowd himself against the back wall, eye leveled on Hannibal’s; meeting them unhesitantly, and for the longest interval of time since Will had vocalized his displeasure of optical contact. It was obvious what Will attempted to accomplish; he was assessing Hannibal, analyzing him, and trying to get into his head. It was the first time Will was not able to as second nature, but Hannibal knew how to keep his intentions guarded. Even someone as astute as the man before him couldn’t penetrate that.

He broke the contact to look down at Will’s file, absent of today’s notes and mostly sparse; he did not make a habit of carrying around a patient’s full history, and Will’s was colorful enough for a full cabinet. Nostalgia of the months prior flitted through Hannibal’s head momentarily, recalling when Will had been able to stumble through his intermittent thoughts unbidden for Hannibal to mold in his hands. Though he did not disprove of the change; Hannibal liked a challenge. The doctor slid Will’s file to the corner of the desk, noting that the other man’s eyes tracked the movement before falling on Hannibal once more.

Hannibal folded his hands in front of himself on the desk as he lifted his gaze back to William’s. “Would you have us sit in silence again, Will?”

“There’s nothing I have to say to you, doctor,” he answered steadily, eyes still on him. Hannibal smiled faintly but pleasantly, watching that unbridled fury boil underneath the surface, the darkness festering in Will cultivating itself slowly into something tangible, something usable. All he needed was a little more pushing.

The younger man’s fingers twitched against the metal bench he was seated against. He was relaxed, for the most part, though he had no other position he could shift into. His wrists were bound in cuffs linked to chains, feeding into the concrete wall behind him, and looping around the other side to link into the other cuff. His hands could only raise up to the level of his ribs were he sat; if Will stood, the chains would force his hands mostly behind his back. It was a safety precaution for the ward; many of the patients in the hospital were unbalanced rapists and murderers, disturbed enough to attack their doctors. They wanted to insure the optimum level of safety for the attending psychiatrists. Hannibal pondered how ironic Will found it.

He did not know what Will thought on the matter, since in the several sessions they had together in the Psychiatric Hospital, Will had said little to nothing to him. He just watched Hannibal, eyes flickering with evaluation and quietly seething. He had not verbally expressed his revelations to Hannibal, not since they had both visited Abigail Hobbs’s home, even though they both knew the truth. Hannibal would say nothing of the topic to him, as only Hannibal could confirm any accusation. And letting Will stew with his conclusions, ruminate on them until they started to turn sour, would sow the doubt in his mind. Perhaps his encephalitis had played tricks on him. Perhaps it had all been in his head to begin with. It was fascinating to watch the ticks of uncertainty and turmoil twist across Will’s face. Though ever quiet, Will was anything but mundane.

Hannibal was fortunate enough to gain favor with Dr. Chilton, as vile a man as he was, and was granted access to a private interview room with Will Graham. The only record of their time together would be in Hannibal’s notes. There was a camera for the room, but no sound attached. Dr. Chilton told him that there was no tape or feed for the camera, regardless, so long as Hannibal shared his notes; a private pact between psychiatrists, and although a vastly discourteous request, for his own purposes Hannibal had agreed.

“Are they treating you well?” Hannibal asked, letting enough concern filter in that spoke of their past friendship. Will didn’t miss it, and his eyes narrowed slightly. The venom and contempt was clear without words. They both knew how patients were treated in this ward better than most.

Nothing showed on Hannibal’s face, though his finger tapped idly against a knuckle on the opposite hand.

“Dr. Chilton tells me you’ve been responding to therapy,” he continued. “Response” barely defined Will’s conversations with Dr. Chilton, but it would have to do. “They’ve allowed you books.”

“Book.”

Hannibal tilted his head in curiosity, but Will kept his silence. For all of Will’s stubbornness, Hannibal was exceedingly patient. He waited until Will shifted uncomfortably, jaw shifting as he rolled the joint before breaking his gaze to look down at one of his bound hands.

“One book. Chilton prefers studying how I use my… gift.”

His imagination, then; left alone with his thoughts and contemplations for hours on end. A torture born of ignorance, or perhaps apathy on Dr. Chilton’s part. Hannibal wondered how many nights Will could not find sleep, drowning in his twisted nightmares. How many nights did he consider what had become of his dogs, if they remembered him, if they cared he was gone, and recalling each of their distinctive faces? Possibly his thoughts were much more distressful, racing  through that moment in Abigail Hobbs’s house when he had looked at Hannibal in horrified epiphany, and contemplating since then whether it had been nothing but a fevered delusion. Perhaps Will still dreamt of the stag. How had the beast distorted since then? Will’s mindscape was a refined, aged wine, sweetened from his illness and fermented beautifully with his perverse secrets. Hannibal craved a better taste.

Hannibal nodded once, not indicating aversion or approval of Chilton’s methods. “Your imagination must be both a savior and a curse then, surrounded by four walls.”

Will smirked for a moment, bitterly, almost petulantly, before letting the sneer drop. Hannibal was not deterred.

“Do you fantasize of new things,” He inquired, “Or those that plagued you before?”

Will shrugged; dismissive, and uncooperative. Though Will did not meet Hannibal’s stare that time, gritting his teeth again; which likely meant that his mindscape anguished between old thoughts, and some new enough to make his nights all the more restless. Interesting.

Hannibal laced his fingers together and spoke with sincerity coloring his tone. “I do this only to help you, Will. As someone I care about.”

That earned him a snort, and a sneer that curled Will’s upper lip. Hannibal could smell the derision in the quickening of heated blood in his veins, anger in the prickle of sweat on the back of his neck. He inhaled slowly, the barely significant change in his breath unnoticed by his counterpart.

Will took a deep breath of his own, much more audibly, and he exhaled sharply before muttering, “That the only reason?”

His tone was sardonic at best, and his words hardly a question. They both knew the answer, after all. But Hannibal humored him.

“Why would you think there is another reason?”

“Oh, I don’t know, doc, you seem to like getting cozy with me,” Will looked around the four walls, grey on shades of grey with a single steel door to the side, “A private room, for private viewing. A bit unorthodox, even for you.”

A biting, caustic retort of insecurity. The way Will studied the room, looking for cameras and focusing on the solitary lens in the corner of the far wall, spoke of his paranoia that Will believed Hannibal meant to kill him, or at least harm him. The thought was marvelous.

“I prefer to stay away from Dr. Chilton’s prying methods. He has a habit of bending the rules of confidentiality. ”

Will scoffed. “I should be thankful, then.”

He wasn’t thankful in the slightest, but Hannibal didn’t want him to be.

“I favor communication,” Hannibal replied easily.

Will smirked that cold way again, and retorted with muteness. Hannibal didn’t skip a beat, simply leaning forward slightly so that he partially braced his weight on his forearms.

“Tell me of your dreams, Will.”

Now, Will chuckled. He actually laughed, and shook his head, before fixing his gaze on a point over Hannibal’s shoulder, “Guess. I’ll shake my head yes or no, how’s that?”

Will swallowed hard, anxious, and still exasperated, his remark more of an impulsive jab than a thought-out tactic. He would learn, though. He still needed to mold his talents, before he utilized control.

Hannibal nodded once. “Alright then.”

Another hard swallow, and Hannibal fought the urge to smile. Will clearly feared he would take the bait, and Will wasn’t a man to go back on his word, if only for sheer bull-headed stubbornness.

“Do you still dream of Garrett Jacob Hobbs?”

Will chewed on his lower lip for a moment, scrutinizing the wall behind Hannibal. He answered with two subtle nods of his head.

“Are they the same as they were before?”

Will hesitated, and then shook his head in denial. Hannibal inclined his chin in idle inquiry, but Will shifted his gaze to the corner of the room, away from Hannibal’s scrutinizing stare.

“Are your dreams often of him?” Hannibal asked. Will shrugged, mostly uncooperative though he didn’t anticipate anything less.

Hannibal continued on, gathering his thoughts before deciding to poke the proverbial bull, “Do you dream of Abigail?”

That earned him a snort, Will’s lip twitching derisively; apparently the question was too ludicrous or obvious to answer properly. Yet the sudden, but subtle aversion to contact, and the curling of his hands into fists spoke of something less obvious, a wandering thought his friend refused to address.

Hannibal gave him a reprieve from the troubling dreams, however, asking routine, boring questions neither of them cared about; was he getting enough fresh air, was the nutrition sufficient. When Hannibal inquired if his time here made him feel frustration, Will snorted in what sounded like a poorly concealed laugh, and William chewed his lip to keep from smirking.

The psychiatrist watched Will fidget against the bench as he asked his questions, infinitesimal movements hardly recognizable as the anxious fluttering they were; how his eyes travelled between spaces of the other man’s shoulders, from the floor, to the ceiling, never lingering any longer than necessary on the lines of Hannibal’s suit, or the cufflink gently caressing his bare wrist. But linger he did, just long enough for Hannibal to catch the pattern. They tapered into silence, three seconds for Will to dart hazardously through his intermittent thoughts. His eyes burned holes into the floor after they lingered on Hannibal’s long fingers for a fraction of a second too long.

“William…” Hannibal started after a beat of silence, and felt a rush of satisfaction heat his blood at the hard swallow in good Will’s throat that earned him, “Do you think of me in here?”

Will did not flinch, and gave no indication of an answer. He brought his gaze up to Hannibal’s and his eyes were like ice. Another poorly obvious question. But Hannibal amended his words regardless.

“Have you dreamt of me, Will?”

He didn’t shift his head again, but the hard swallow was answer enough. Hannibal slowly exhaled through his nose.

“I apologize that this may be difficult for you. Considering our history—”

“Please,” Will snapped suddenly, caustic, angry. Defensive. “Don’t patronize me. It’s unbecoming, doctor.

Hannibal felt his lip twitch and a pleasant heat quicken the blood in his veins at Will’s vehement defiance, but he quelled the smile and the warmth nonetheless. Instead he inclined his head in a half nod, and continued.

“I suspect the dreams have been ghoulish. Our last meeting outside of these walls was… ill-favored.”

Will smirked at Hannibal, and sealed his lips shut. He leaned back against the wall and waited again, settling back into his chosen game. Hannibal felt the primal glee burn on his gut, and he concentrated on keeping his hands absolutely still, fighting the twitch that wanted to curl his fingers around something sharp.

“Do you dream of our encounter, then?” Hannibal clarified. Will sighed through his nose, but nodded regardless.

“Does it play out the same as the reality?” Hannibal watched the tick in William’s eyelid before his gaze dragged over the chain bearing into his wrist. Will chewed his lip before he shook his head no.

Hannibal tilted his head, and ventured forth, “Do you imagine how it would have played if Jack Crawford had not stopped you?”

Will swallowed thickly, and nodded. His fingers scratched at the metal bench. Hannibal had to take another deep breath.

“So…do you pull the trigger, William?”

His breath hitched in his throat, his shoulders hackling up. Will didn’t indicate a response, but then again, he really didn’t need to. Hannibal felt his pulse pound in his throat.

“Have you imagined my blood spraying into your face? As Abigail’s had? Do you taste my blood on your lips?”

Will’s breath hitched again, eyelids fluttering closed as his fingers tightening brutally on the edge of the bench. He was holding his breath, eyes darting beneath the lids. Playing it all out in his head. Heat thrummed into Hannibal’s gut, the image of William covered in his blood, a desperate, fevered kill setting his nerves alight, his blood on fire painting over his senses. He wondered if Will would lick the blood from his lips. He wondered if the agony and irrevocability of killing Hannibal would finally split Will apart.

“S-stop…” Will choked it out, mouth pulled back into a grimace.

Hannibal indulged him, though the look of horror and broken admittance was a significant loss on Will’s beautiful, pristine features. He kept pressing though, feeding Will questions he knew would set his mind ablaze.

“Do you wish it had played out that way?”

It was the closest Hannibal would allow to Will know that Hannibal knew everything; that it hadn’t been a hallucination wrought from his sickness. He didn’t confirm it though; he merely prodded, searching for the hatred Will seemed so keen on displaying in each of their visits.

So Hannibal was mildly surprised when Will, in all his projected hatred, reluctantly shook his head in denial. Hannibal hadn’t expected otherwise, the animosity nothing more than superficial, but the honesty still startled him. Will had full proclivity to lie to him; it would have been impolite, but Hannibal would have forgiven the other man regardless, given his precarious position here. It was striking, his honesty. Will could not lie to the one he had let in. Hannibal quelled the fire threatening to cause physical reaction.

“Take a deep breath, Will. You are in Baltimore State Hospital,” Hannibal coaxed Will back out, and took his own advice as he inhaled a calming breath.

Will’s breath quaked as he inhaled sharply, nodding once, though the scowl was clear on his lips.

“My name is Will Graham. They don’t tell me the damn time,” he muttered, though his breath still shook.

“The time is seven thirty-one,” Hannibal supplied after checking his watch, “Very close to our previous conversations.”

Will smirked, and though the derision was clear the sound of Hannibal’s calm voice still soothed him, as it had always done. The revulsion and self-hatred bled off of William like a poisonous bite in his skin. Immediately William was upright again, walls back in place. But Hannibal had seen the cracks. The cracks had always been there, since he first saw the fire and self-revulsion in Will’s eyes, both ignited and quelled by Hannibal’s presence. With his groundwork laid out, the good doctor ventured onward.

“Are your thoughts of me all nightmarish?”

Will’s frowned, eyes burning on the spot over Hannibal’s shoulder again, before shaking his head in denial.

“Have your thoughts of me been only in these dreams?” He lowered his voice marginally, barely enough to change the cadence but Will clearly noticed. A shudder ran through the other man as his hand clenched on the bench, but Will remained honest as he shook his head in denial again.

Hannibal swallowed lightly, to rewet his throat and allow his words to come in clearly. “Have you fantasized?”

Will locked his eyes on the floor now, stock-still and unable to twitch his head in any indication of answer. His hands tightened on the bench, eyes burning holes into the concrete and though Hannibal didn’t see it, Hannibal could smell the rush of blood that increased the perspiration beading along Will’s forehead and neck. Hannibal curled his own fingers slightly.

Hannibal waited only a second, time enough to decide on the leap before taking it. “Have you fantasized of me touching you?”

It was a chance, not for its accuracy but for the reaction it would cause. Will jolted like he was shocked, and snapped his eyes up to glare daggers into the point of Hannibal’s chin, showing surprise and anger, yet still not quite able to meet his eyes. Hannibal did not blink, and when Will opened his mouth to protest Hannibal butted in immediately.

“There is no shame in desiring physical contact.” Though Will sneered, Hannibal continued, “Human nature dictates us to yearn for it.”

Will, of course, said nothing, clenching his jaw tightly enough to pop the joint. Hannibal quietly added, a twist to accent his prods, “And you are more starved than most.”

The other man’s hands tightened so profoundly on the metal bench his knuckles turned white. Will held his air in his lungs, not trusting his thundering pulse pounding wildly in his neck to hide the waver in his breath.

“So be honest, William. Have you?”

Will visually trembled, before he gave him a slow, hesitant nod. His shoulders slumped slightly, admittance and defeat coloring the posture and the line creasing his forehead, and Hannibal closed his eyes to regain his bearings.

“How long has it been, since someone else has touched you?”

Will swallowed hard, but fixed his gaze pointedly on Hannibal’s shoulder. He offered a short smirk before letting it drop again. Still playing the game. Hannibal allowed himself a faint smile.

“Have you ever been touched sexually?”

Will snorted and rolled his eyes. Apparently, that was a yes. Hannibal ignored the rudeness of it.

“But it was in college, wasn’t it.”

Hannibal didn’t even pose it as a question; he let it ring as a statement, that Hannibal knew, and Will had no reason to be so insolent.

The sting was clear when Will flinched, and after a moment, he nodded.

“So you haven’t had contact for many years,” another nod, and Hannibal added, “Your body must ache for it.”

Will’s eyes drifted close, his lip trembling slightly before he nodded once more.

Hannibal tilted his head, studying the crease in his brow, the trembling lip Will caught between his teeth to keep him from noticing the tremor.

“I would have satisfied that for you,” Hannibal sighed softly, making his words sound almost regretful. “You only need to have asked.”

Will scoffed, but the sound was betrayed by his breathless exhale. Hannibal took another calming pause to regain his thoughts. Will had his eyes clenched shut, trying to ignore images of what Hannibal just offered so plainly, what Will had clearly wanted from him. Hannibal was anything but blind, and despite everything, the hatred he displayed for Hannibal could only do so much to mask the strength of the other emotions Will tried desperately to conceal over the months they had known each other.

Hannibal felt a smirk tug at the corner of his lips as he spoke calmly, almost demurely. “At the very least, I would have run my thumbs over the pressure in your temples, or along the sinus cavities to relieve the tension there. It would have eased your headaches.”

Will eased back against the wall, brow still creased, but he nodded unwittingly, letting his lip go to wet the flesh with his tongue. Hannibal continued.

“And then to your jaw. You abuse your temporomandibular joint so fantastically. It likely attributes to your migraines.”

Will’s brow furrowed more in confusion, “That’s—”

“The joint in your jaw. The one you are worrying now. I would massage it, to relieve that persistent ache,” Hannibal interrupted smoothly, not wanting Will to stop their game just yet.

Will ground his teeth instinctively at the words, nodding to show he understood while the tension in his brows lessened after a few beats of silence; possibly imaging Hannibal’s fingertips working the stiff joints and tense cavities free of pressure from his skull. He likely wasn’t far off.

“Then to your neck. I could trail my fingers down your pulse. Or drag them over your clavicle. Would to protest greatly to unbuttoning your shirt?”

Will’s breath halted, hands still clenched on the bench while his eyes slitted open to stare at Hannibal incredulously. Hannibal waited for Will to process that Hannibal meant exactly what Will thought he did. It was his move now.

The other man, the inmate watching his psychiatrist with narrowed eyes, hesitated for three brief seconds before closing them again. He tilted his head back, and bared his neck. Hannibal blinked, and felt his mouth go dry without his consent. But he refused to skip a second.

“I unbutton your shirt then.” He lowered his voice, just barely above a whisper; though no one could hear them in this room, it had the desired effect. Pink bloomed on Will’s cheek as he gritted his teeth, chin tilting forward, defensive, hiding. Hannibal kept pushing.

“Where my fingers travelled, my mouth now lingers. I slide my tongue over the arch of your mandibular bone, and down your neck. I can taste the sweat on your skin, over your thundering pulse.”

Will’s jaw dropped in a silent gasp, as his legs tensed on the bench, the muscles in his thighs squeezing to stop the instinct to buck. He sucked in a shaking breath, holding it, before letting it go as quietly as he could. He was visibly shaking where he ground himself back against the unforgiving concrete of the grey wall, trying to back away, escape the sensation of slick, twisting heat against the thrum of his pulse visibly hammering underneath his skin. The blush in his cheeks increased to red, bleeding down his neck and over his ears.

“Your belt comes lose under my hands. Tugged free, and discarded to the floor. I hook my fingers into the waistline of your jeans, and pull you forward. Your pelvis grinding into mine.”

His thighs were still clenched, but it did nothing to stop the jerk of Will’s hips, one upward thrust to mimic the words Hannibal supplied before he snapped his hips back down, feet rooted firmly to the ground. His lips pursed firmly together while the other man breathed unevenly through his nose. He relaxed his legs, and started to clench and unclench his fingers over the metal seat, staving off the urge to buck up. Instead he sucked his lip between his teeth, chewing the malleable flesh until, when he let it go, the plump of his mouth was swollen red and dark with blood. Hannibal kept talking to conceal the shudder in his voice.

“Do you feel the heat, Will?” Hannibal asked. Will stifled a ruined, choked sound in his throat. “The ache pounding through your blood. How badly you want my next touch.”

Will shook his head hard, once, a denial or a refusal to answer despite the sweat beading along his brow and burning heat through his beet-red cheeks. Hannibal didn’t let up, “Your jeans are discarded, and then your boxers. I touch nothing but the arch of your hips with my thumbs, bearing pressure down on them. Instead of touching further, my mouth closes around your chest and sucks.”

Will arched forward with a soft, halted gasp, and Hannibal had no doubt in his mind that Will was imagining his lips around the nub, hardening on contact with wet, slick, biting heat. He wondered if Will would whimper when he caught the nub between his teeth.

Will shook his head again, chewing his lip and letting it go when the sensation became too much. The scent of his sweat and lust was palpable in the room now; no amount of bitten back gasps, tensed arms or shaking legs could hide that.

“I continue to the other. Sucking it slowly, while my fingertips trail over your hips, and down the insides of your thighs.”

Will couldn’t help it, he knew Will couldn’t, when he spread his legs with the thought, not widely so but enough that his knees were finally apart, and Hannibal could see the beginnings of arousal tenting the front of Will's ugly orange jumpsuit. His brows creased together in shame, but still he did not move to close his legs.

Hannibal tapped his fingers against his knuckles rhythmically, to distract the itch in his hands. “Tell me. Is this anything like your fantasy?”

Will choked on a laugh that tried to break free, but didn’t nod or shake his head. His eyes fluttered open, glazed eyes fixing on Hannibal’s chest. He couldn’t meet his eyes, his breath speeding up with the rate of his heart, but he refused to acknowledge the want pervading through him like intoxication. Hannibal watched him for a moment, drinking in the sight, before he spoke again.

“Your fantasies held more than just touching, didn’t they?”

Will clenched his jaw tightly, and judging by the flinch, he had bitten down on his tongue. He nodded his head and closed his eyes again.

“Did you want my hands wrapped around your cock, stroking from base to tip?”

Will trembled violently, hips grinding back against the bench to keep from bucking upwards; tried to shake his head but he couldn’t manage the lie so he just sniffed back the moan that strangled the breath in his throat.

“Can you feel the tip grow slick with your come? My fingers sliding through it to ease down the hard tissue of your erection, and squeezing it to coax more out.”

Will shook with his bitten back whine, fingers clutching tightly into the bench he was against. His lip was caught permanently between his teeth, trying to stave off the sounds of enjoyment he was clearly experiencing. Hannibal took a deep breath to control his own excitement, keeping his tone calm and level as he continued.

“But you want more, don’t you William?”

Will nodded his head quickly yes, entire body taught like a bow string, fighting the urge to rut, to buck, to arch or give any indication just how much he was adoring this, he much he wanted this.

“Have you been with a man before, Will?” Hannibal almost whispered it, and he studied the bob in Will’s throat as he swallowed hard, hesitancy even in his haze of lust. He shook his head no, fingers clenching tighter, nervous, ashamed. A virgin to male intimacy.

“Nothing wrong with inexperience. It only means I would finger you open first.”

Will’s mouth dropped on a barely contained groan that time, shaking his head not in denial but to slough away the sweat stinging his eyes. The muscles in his thighs tensed to keep him from rutting entirely against the bench. The flush that burned Will’s cheeks and sudden turn of his head spoke of private memories, things he likely didn’t want Hannibal to know. Hannibal smiled softly.

“But you have fingered yourself.”

There. That earned him a choked, startled moan, loud and unabashed in its surprise, followed by a quick jerk of his head that insinuated a nod.

“Then imagine my own fingers inside you. Just one, at first. Thrusting slowly to ease you into the next. Two fingers now, pushing in, and curling up against the prostate.”

“Doctor Lecter—” Will gasped, face burning brightly as sweat slid down the side of his cheek and his neck. Hannibal allowed himself the thought of licking the salt from his perspiring throat.

“I keep massaging your prostate, and I only stop to add a third finger.”

Will’s eyes rolled as he tossed his head back, knocking the base of it against the stone wall. He didn’t seem to notice though, or didn’t care enough to acknowledge it as he ground his hips forward, trying to relieve the pressure but unable to use his hands to touch. Absolutely delectable.

Hannibal shifted slightly in his chair, hands curling into loose fists before relaxing them again. “Have you used toys, William?”

Will groaned and whispered out a hoarse, “Y-yes.

The next question, Hannibal simply couldn’t help himself. “Did you ever fantasize that it was me instead?”

He already knew the answer, but the broken, moaned, “Yes!” is a confession, an absolution that tore from Will’s mouth and crashed down the propriety he was attempting to keep. His hands jerked forward instinctively, but the handcuffs chained into the wall keep him absolutely still so he had to resort to rutting shamelessly against the bench, chest heaving for breath, and in his jumpsuit Hannibal could see the achingly hard line of his cock jutting forward in invitation. “Doctor L-Lecter, please, fuck—!”

“Then imagine so now. Feel me push inside you, stretching you wider than your unsatisfying toys.”

Will whimpered with his words, knees spreading and for a moment, his hips still, the vivid creativity of his thoughts providing the rest of the work for him. Will released a shaky exhale, as though he had really been penetrated. Hannibal had to swallow to keep his bearings.

“Tell me how it feels, Will.”

His voice, lower and rougher than Hannibal realized it would be, made Will arch off the bench with a gasp, only for a moment, barely a fraction of space between his rear and the support but it was enough to make Hannibal’s trousers a touch more uncomfortable.

“H-hot,” Will finally managed, and sucked in a harsh breath, “T-t-tight.”

“Can you feel the glans slide over your prostate, just as my fingers had?”

Will sucked his raw lip between his teeth again and bit back a sob, nodding his head quickly in a fervent yes. Will was lost, the look in his features distant and wrecked as the ongoing verbal supply fed a starved imagination running rampant. A gift, and a torment all at once.

“The first thrusts are shallow, to let your body adjust,” Hannibal almost allowed himself a chuckle before he added, “We don’t want to break you.”

The laugh that bubbled forth was breathless and hysterical, the meaning not lost even in his enthralled haze that made Will’s hips buck at the thought.

“Why, I’m f-flattered,” Will choked out, dragging his gaze forward again so he could look Hannibal in the eye, “B-but I’m not. Made. Of glass.”

His eyes are blown wide, frenzied, and primal. The submission Hannibal had grown so accustomed to warred behind the animosity but Will would not let it free. Will knew who Hannibal was; he would not submit so readily again. It made him his equal, an opponent worthy of meeting his eyes at last.

“Then we will forgo that. Would you rather I grasp your knees and spread your legs, keep you still as you’re so disinclined to do and bury myself deep inside?”

Will’s breath hitched, and he fell silent again, his hips shaking with the want to move them. But he didn’t like Hannibal said they wouldn’t, and he simply attempted to control his breathing. Hannibal couldn’t have that.

“Do you feel how it stretches you, Will? How much thicker I am than you thought I would be?”

Will let out a restrained sob of frustration, eyes twisted shut like he was trying to block him out; in all honesty he probably was. The front of his jumpsuit was damp now, the tip of his arousal completely soaking the material with his pre-ejaculate. He was so very close to the edge.

“You said you were not glass, good Will. I would keep thrusting into you, hard and quick while keeping you still and I would not hesitate to continue slamming into you, even if it was much too tight. Letting my fingertips dig into your hips to ground you, and not let you run away. Not unless you told me to,” Hannibal hesitated only a portion of a second before adding the last statement. He needed Will to see him eye-to-eye. That he was not aiming to humiliate him. He wanted to elevate him, give him his choices. It wouldn’t be a very fun game if he didn’t.

Now he rung out a cry; a quiet, nearly pained sound as Will dug his nails into the bench so exquisitely Hannibal could smell the blood from his cracking nails. Will bucked his hips again, small, rapid, aborted grinds that were almost shy, like he was rocking back against the phantom itch of fullness he could not have. Will groaned through a tight throat, but his brows were pulled up rapturously, mouth slack around his moaning pants. Hannibal sucked in another slow breath.

Then, Hannibal breathed out, “Do you want me to stop?”

Will had his eyes closed, pleasure rocketing through him too much to focus on keeping the lids opened, and he shook his head so quick a normal man may have missed it. But Hannibal wasn’t about to let him go that easily.

“William, tell me.”

Will shook his head again, but Hannibal remained silent. A trickle of blood ran from his lip where his canines tugged and chewed his flesh raw, and Hannibal was overcome with the desire to suck it clean. He held his breath, and waited for Will, who still bucked against the bench, who still jerked his hands frantically to touch himself but could do nothing more than writhe.

“Don’t—” Will strangled out, “Don’t s-stop…”

“Pardon?” Hannibal asked torturously so, and felt the coil of enthralling heat burn in his gut at Will’s unabashed, shaking cry that sounded like tears may be wetting his eyes. He could smell the change in salt that was not from the sweat slicking the expanse of skin.

“D-don’t stop! Fuck, Lecter, please don’t stop—!” Will smacked his head back against the wall in an effort to ground himself, teeth gritted hard while his hips jerked spasmodically in the air, rhythm sacrificed for lust and want. Just on the tip of his tongue Hannibal could hear the slip of a disused accent, a Louisiana twang Will had likely forgotten he buried.

“Then I wouldn’t. I would keep slamming into you, taking care to pound the glans against the wall of your prostate. Perhaps taste the sweat on your neck. My nails would dig into you until you bled.”

Will gasped sharply, neck bared for him and Hannibal could see the pulse fluttering wildly in his reddened neck, begging silently to make good on his word. A few, halted breaths hitched in his lungs, brow creased like he was in pain but mouth opened wide from pleasure and desperation to catch his breath. He looked like a fallen god, an angel with broken wings.

“H-Han—” Will stopped himself short, “I’m gonna—”

“Then come, Will. Come for me.”

The chains pulled taut as Will’s hands flew up as far as they could go, wrists bruised around the cuffs as he arched his hips entirely off the metal bench, shoulders dug into the wall as his cock swelled and spilled heavy, slick come inside his suit, staining the front starkly with his ejaculate. Will didn’t breathe, didn’t even move beyond the tremors that wracked his body through his climax, ecstasy painted on his face like a wound. Hannibal catalogued the image away, so that he could draw this moment and immortalize his fallen angel.

A few minutes passed in silence, broken only by Will’s laborious panting. Hannibal took the moment to close his eyes, to calm his own breath, and drive away the arousal evident in his slacks. Once he carefully slotted the control back into place he raised his eyes back to Will, who had slumped against the bench, eyes closed, cheeks still slashed with red. He was absolutely exhausted, and when he opened his eyes, Will could not quite meet his scrutinizing state. Will watched his chin, his lips, and then his jawline for a remarkable five seconds before the weight of his eyelids overcame him, and he rested his head back against the wall, a slump in his shoulders that marked the submission of defeat.

Hannibal stood from the metal desk, gathering his files carefully back into Will Graham’s allotted manila envelope. He nodded once to Will with a congenial smile.

“Same time next week then, Mr. Graham?”

The smile that twisted Will’s lips was cold, and when he opened his eyes again, he met his gaze dead on.

“Next week, Doctor Lecter.”

Their war had only just begun.