All he sees is darkness, and then everything shifts, the corners of his mind bleached white and blanched out until everything is bright, until there hangs Hannibal, neck snared in thick rope, hands tied behind his back, meeting his eyes head-on as Will slices deep with the knife, and Hannibal’s blood flows thick, warm and luscious and beautiful and deep in its color, and Hannibal’s eyes glitter in exquisite triumph as he watches Will watching.
The buzz of his cell phone on the night stand tugs at Will’s attention. Will reaches for it, still half-sunken into the dream, into Hannibal’s eyes staring back at him, and of course when he answers it is Hannibal’s voice, accent low and velvety, that assaults his ears.
“Will,” Hannibal says his name, and Will’s breath stutters on the exhale as he breathes, because he can still feel dream-Hannibal’s blood dripping hot across his hands, and it shouldn’t be something that elicits this in him, but he can’t control it, he’s lying in bed, hair wet with sweat, skin fevered, and he’s hard. “Will,” Hannibal repeats, “Are you all right?”
A slow swallow and fingers slipped past the waistband of his boxers. He curls them around the stiff length of his cock and lets the sound of Hannibal’s breathing wash over him. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be all right.
“You missed our session,” continues Hannibal, after it is clear Will isn’t going to answer his question. “I was concerned.”
Will pictures Hannibal sitting in the vast quiet of his office, waiting for Will, a small frown tilting down the corners of his lips, brows wrinkled in concern. Maybe he taps his long musician’s fingers against the smooth surface of his desk in a subdued act of impatience. Will squeezes his eyes shut, arches into the grip of his fingers, slick with precome and sweat, moving quickly enough now that his hand glides fast and smooth. His breath hitches, and somewhere in the back of his head he thinks that the sound must be so very loud over the phone line.
“Will,” intones Hannibal a third time, voice lower still, and there is something like amusement in his voice; underneath that, hidden behind layers, Will hears a hint of something else, something closer to fascination. “What is it you are doing right now?”
He swallows again. Finally wrests words out of himself. “I was dreaming of you.”
A long pause. Will thinks he hears a deep, steadying breath on the other line. “What was I doing in the dream?”
“Nothing. Just…” Will licks his lips, sighs heavily as he works his own cock, thumb rubbing across the head, underneath the ridge. “Bled.” He’s told Hannibal of his fantasies before; it wouldn’t come as a surprise to Hannibal that Will dreams of killing him. It doesn’t.
“I see,” Hannibal replies, feigning only polite interest, but Will can feel the undercurrent of heat in his voice. “And how do you feel about that?”
Will considers lying, but only for a second. No, it’s too late now. “Conflicted.” He swallows again, breath coming hard, thrusting into the grip he’s made for himself, pretending it’s Hannibal’s murderous hand touching him, bringing him slowly to orgasm. “Oh god, Hannibal.”
A rush of staticky air as Hannibal exhales; the faint click of metal and then a rustle of fabric, and Will closes his eyes again and imagines Hannibal wrestling free of his clothes, curling a hand around his own cock. “Does the thought of killing me arouse you so much?” asks Hannibal, and Will doesn’t know if it’s despair or desperation he reads in the tremor of Hannibal’s voice, not so even now, not so sure.
He shakes his head, lets a soft gasp escape him as he spreads more precome across the head of his cock, down the shaft and over the swell of his balls. “No,” he pants, “No, no, not killing you. Just. Seeing you. And you seeing me.” His voice breaks at the last sentence as the breathing on the other end of the line quickens again, and Will wonders if Hannibal can hear it, the wet sound Will’s hand makes on his own dick as he strokes himself fast and hard, touches himself with the image of Hannibal’s eyes, desire and devotion and—oh god—acceptance shining through them.
“I see you, Will,” Hannibal tells him, still in that shaky, broken voice, and repeats it again, and again, “I see you, Will, I see you,” and a groan to top it all off, sharp inhale and exhale over the line, and Will arches off the bed and bites his lip so hard he tastes blood, and comes all over himself, fingers and stomach and chest warm from the heat of his own release, so much like the sensation of Hannibal’s blood in his dreams that Will moans out loud. The sound echoes against the empty spaces of his house.
“The interpretation of dreams is an interesting field of analysis,” Hannibal says quietly into the silence after a minute. He’s regained some of his composure, but his breathing is still too harsh, too rough. “Tell me—what else do you dream of, Will?”