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Stoppering Madness

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It’s been a long time since Hannibal started fucking him. He’s sore now, the aching pressure inside him too much and yet not enough. His hands and knees have long ago decided they can’t support his weight, and he’s fallen, limp, onto the sheets, just a willing receptacle for Hannibal to use.

Will woke up hours ago, the sound of Garret Jacob Hobbs in his ears and the feel of Hannibal’s hands stroking over his sides.

“Will, Will,” Hannibal had tutted, gentle hands pulling off his nightshirt. The thing was just barely damp, and Will realized Hannibal had caught him on the brink of a dream, waking him barely before he tumbled into that bleak cold place where the stag presided in uncontested dominion and Hobbs lingered in his sick parody of triumph over death.  

“Don’t you know you’re safe?” Will had moved to mumble something, his eyes falling away from Hannibal, from Hannibal’s confidence and warmth and care; but Hannibal merely caught Will’s chin, brought his face up to feast upon his lips.

Will was groggy and blind, the taste of fear still heady and thick on his lips, but still he opened his mouth to Hannibal, opened up beneath the driving force of the man hidden in his kiss.

“Perhaps,” Hannibal had said, stealing Will’s breath to leave behind his words instead, “I need to take your mind away from all these dreams.”

How could Will say no, say no to the warm heat Hannibal stoked in his belly, the anchoring pleasure of Hannibal’s hands, the glorious stability he offered as easy as breathing?  Let Hannibal have it; let him take the hectic fearful clamoring inside Will’s head and force it silent.

It’s quiet now in his head, now that Hannibal’s fucking him. He’s scooped out everything and left Will with nothing but this, nothing but the slick slide of Hannibal’s cock inside him, nothing but his breath on the back of his neck, hot and as branding as the stag’s.

“Will,” Hannibal says, as if this is one of his blackout exercises, as if Hannibal has to remind him who he is.

He just might. Will arches himself backwards into Hannibal, clenches down on the hard length inside him. Hannibal, his oar, his anchor, is filling him up so far that his own fear has no place to settle inside him.

Will turns his head, angles his neck so he can bring his mouth back to Hannibal’s, so he can feel once again the sharp bite of Hannibal’s teeth on his lips.

“I have something I want you to do today, Will.” Hannibal drives deeper into him, and Will can feel where he’ll be sore later on, mewls because right now it makes him feel present, present in a way he can’t always be. “Will you do that, Will, will you do it just for me?”

Hannibal moves his hand under Will’s body and strokes Will’s cock because he’s too gone to do it himself. Will scrabbles at the sheets with his nails for a moment, arching his calves and hips, his cock too sensitive from the brutal pounding of his prostate. “Hannibal—” Will cries out.

Will feels Hannibal’s sharp teeth on the back of his neck, and the ever shaper feel of his disappointment. Will goes silent and still in Hannibal’s hands, under his body, his nerves crying out with some pleasure-pain hybrid he can’t even recognize.

Will lets Hannibal pull another orgasm from him as if his body doesn’t even belong to himself.

When he’s come, hot and sticky in Hannibal’s hand, Hannibal cups him gently, just holding him . Hannibal is slow to take his own pleasure, but Will can’t mind. He drifts for long moments, his body humming, his mind blank but there.

He only comes back to himself when Hannibal orgasms inside him. Bare. Will jerks as he feels himself inside, wet in that immediately recognizable way. A flare of panic ignites in his gut. “Hannibal, what are you—“

Hannibal holds Will down by the back of the neck as he withdraws. “Relax, Will. I know you are clean.” His grip is tight, firm, and Will struggles with the instinct to let himself fall back down to that stable place Hannibal had just left him.

“That’s not the point—” Will realizes he’s lying limp under Hannibal’s grip. He hasn’t even moved his hands to push away. He takes a deep breath, feels where Hannibal’s come is beginning to trickle down the inside of his leg.

Hannibal left that there, evidence of their shared pleasure. Will feels Hannibal touch the inside of his leg. “Will?” Hannibal prompts. Will buries his face into the sheets. Hannibal likes him, cares for him, enough to mark him. He cares enough to want this intimacy. To take it.

Will breathes out into the sheet, relaxes. Hannibal is his oar, his anchor.

Hannibal’s hand moves down from his back, strokes him as if it’s the finest praise.

“You said you wanted me to do something?”  Will savors the feel of Hannibal’s hand, enjoys that simple intimacy. The touching, this soft stroking, just like this, feels just as good as the sex. Will buries his face to hide his embarrassing enjoyment.

Hannibal makes an amused sound, his hand trailing down between Will’s thighs. “How good you are. Yes.  Yes, I did.” His hand plays with his own spent come there, trailing through white trails just gone slightly tacky.

Will tries not to preen at the praise. He buries his face further, pretending not to notice when Hannibal begins to play with his tender opening. It hurts in the best of ways. Will knows that his flesh is just a little swollen, just a little red, can feel each touch of Hannibal’s hand rubbing against his overused flesh. It’s alright. It belongs to Hannibal anyway.

Hannibal diverts himself with the side drawers for a small moment, and Will can only resent that it results in Hannibal’s attentions away from him. It’s a bargain he makes, Will thinks. He barters his body for these complete moments where he’s the entire focus of someone’s world.

Hannobal soothes him with deft hands, brushing Will in all the right places. “I bought this for you. Something to keep you grounded, to keep that gorgeous mind of yours focused.” Focused on me.  Hannibal doesn’t say, but Will knows. In these moments, Will knows that all of his thoughts should be focused on Hannibal.  Will doesn’t know what it is, doesn’t dare turn to see what is that cold metal glancing against his backside with the slightest pressure.

“Shhh. Shhh.” Hannibal carresses his back. But the metal is cold, is entering that sacred warm mindspace where everything is Hannibal and yanking him out. Will settles anyway. What does this small discomfort matter, when he has spent the whole of this morning warmed under that attentive care.

It’s cold, but it feels soothing on his abused flesh. Soothing until it’s tucked up inside him, the hard curve of it present and demanding in a way Will has only experienced Hannibal’s cock. He nearly flinches at the sensation, that cold fullness slowly acclimatizing itself to the heat of Will’s body.

Hannibal strokes him there, his clever fingers lingering around the intrusion in his body. He’s sore under those fingers, but he holds still just the same.

Will can’t see Hannibal’s face, but all the same he knows there’s a smile there; a smug conqueror’s grin. Somehow he finds it relaxing. It’s just enough for his body to relax around the plug holding him open. It’s a subtle shift, his body bearing down now not to force the plug out but to keep it in.

“You are so good for me, Will.”

Will feels the light smack of Hannibal’s hand against his ass. The plug jerks inside him. He’s been patted. It almost feels like a benediction, a blessing, like Hannibal, the divine officiator of his world, has given him purpose and design. Will’s mind settles under the touch. Tonight, when he returns to Hannibal, he shall be made whole.


Will would suspect it would be harder now to focus on the work with this inside him. It shifts when he moves, when he sits. Its weight pulls, reminding him how tender he is. It makes him feel every inch of the soreness Hannibal fucked into him last night and this morning.

It doesn’t. Every shift, every rock against his insides is a reminder that he has succeeded. Every failed, stuttered social interaction filled with dodging eye contact refuses to chafe his introverted skin. It’s more than pleasure. He has succeeded where it matters, with Hannibal. He has found focus and peace inside his weary mind—he has found connection with another human being.

When he plunges into the mind of death; senses consumed by the tick-tick-tocking of his beleaguered brain and the subtly demanding odor of Jack Crawford's cologne, it’s a warm metal lighthouse drawing him back. He cannot be lost in the tortured mind of this killer and stuck between mirror shards and the sick, viscous and wet feeling of popped eyes. He’s Hannibal’s for today. These horrors cannot hold him in their thrall.

He’s Hannibal’s design.


Later, the taste of pork and pomegranates across his tongue anchors him just as surely as the plug still resting inside him. He reaches out his hand, fiddles with his wineglass. Here he is, amassed among Hannibal’s things.

“Another glass of wine, Will?”

It makes Will tense. Amassed among his things, yes, but not as fine as the others. He, with his plaid and sweat and the disinclination to follow the heavenly food with this no doubt fine wine. He is the slightly off-key note that sours the whole melody.

“Just a little,” Will says anyway.

Hannibal smiles, as if his polite answer has allowed him to pass. Will doesn’t know how he lived, without these smallinfusions of approval. “I don’t think you really desire more of the wine, Will.” He places the bottle back down on the table and makes a small neatening gesture with his precise hands to the table runner, aligning it perfectly with the bottle and the border of his placemat.

“Not particularly, no.”

“Do you wish to talk about today’s case?”

Will takes a risk. “No.”

Hannibal smiles even deeper then, and his eyes light up with that dark, nearly animal thing that Will, for all of his empathy, can’t quite divine. “Do you wish me to take you to bed?”

“Yes, Hannibal," Will says, and it feels like drowning. 


The taste of pomegranates and pork still remains on his tongue, accent now to the semi-bitter taste of Hannibal’s own pre-come. Will buries his head in his arm and tries not to think of how much he prefers this particular chaser.

“Shh, shh.” Hannibal soothes, his tongue lapping at Will’s exposed hole. His fingers play in the plug’s small oval handle. Will only just realizes the low tortured moans coming from his own throat. He spreads his legs wider, arching his back against the sheets to expose himself further to Hannibal’s care.

Hannibal gives the plug a small tug, just enough to jerk the solid metal inside him and force his body to accommodate to the shift in shape. “Did your mind wander far today?”

“This was,” Will sighs, his body orienting itself underneath Hannibal’s hands, “marginally more effective than noting the time and my location.” He's drifting now, and even as he knows his reply was lazy and rude, he can't help it. 

Hannibal slaps Will across the face. For a moment, Will can only gape, body kept in an endless loop of feeling of the sick-hot shameful burn of Hannibal’s handprint across his cheek, the sharp points of his teeth being bruised against the insides of his lips.

Then he comes. All over his stomach. A Jackson Pollock painting in sticky come.

There is no oxygen in his lungs, nothing but a raw oversensitive vacuum in his chest left behind by the stinging pain of his face. Hannibal snarls, inhuman and animal in a way utterly distant from wine and fancy bite-sized aperitifs. The sound reminds Will of blood. Or maybe that’s just the metallic flavor on the inside of his cheek.

Hannibal grasps his hips and flips him over, and something in the impact of his face and chest against Hannibal’s too soft sheets lets him draw in air again.

Hannibal’s hands are rough, proprietary as they push his hips in the right place. Will remembers Hannibal’s hands sure and neat on the table runner; neatly and deftly tucking all details  into place.

The plug is pulled from him.

Will’s body exists in a horrid sort of limbo, empty and aching. He’s been full, full in a way his body has formed around and acclimated to. Full in a way that almost felt like love. Now it’s gone.

Hannibal fucks into him. At once he is both too wet and too dry, the sealed remnants of Hannibal’s come slick him in a way only serves to remind him of how much he likes how Hannibal makes him ache. Will presses his sore face into the sheets.

Hannibal fucks him for a long time. The slick slide of his cock is hypnotic, the push and pull of him in and out of Will’s flesh the balm he has always needed. He feels so good, his body stretching to accommodate the undivided focus of Hannibal.

Will cries out as Hannibal’s comes inside him. He’s never felt so stable in his life.

Will’s half-hard again. He doesn’t touch it. His body doesn’t feel like his, like the very command of his limbs has been stripped and taken from him. Good. He shouldn’t have been trusted with it in the first place. It was too much to give him both autonomy and empathy.

Come is once again trickling down his leg. It is this morning and now all at once, Hannibal’s touch ghosting over Will with too many hands.

Hannibal is gentle now, rolling him into his spot on the bed, arranging their bodies to slot together, just like the fancy dinner forks that rest in each other’s curves inside Hannibal’s kitchen drawers. He tips Will’s face to him, until he can see his own red mark on Will’s face.

His fingers scoop up the wet trails of tears on his face, before returning them to Hannibal’s mouth. Hannibal feasts on them, a God of Dark Things that takes its tribute in sadness. .  Will goes lax on the sheets. Hannibal’s eating him, consuming all the dark, unstable bits of him. He's a wound being debrided, rotting flesh scraped away to leave clean bleeding flesh beneath.  Will presses a kiss to Hannibal’s fingers, when they stray too close to his mouth. 

“See,” Hobbs says from his place across from Will in the bed, his milky dead eyes filled with something, some knowledge that will someday belong to Will. “See,” he says, as pieces of his imagined corpse pool and vanish away from him, in streams like gouts of ever-cooling blood.

See. Will closes his eyes. Behind his eyelids Will can see a thousand different lives; but not that one thing hiding in Hannibal’s eyes.