Hannibal had called it the deepest form of trust.
He’d brought Will to completion, over and over, again and again, with his fingers and his mouth, until Will was lying in bed exhausted and ecstatic. He felt high. Adrenaline and dopamine and endorphins driving him as close to hallucinating as he’d been since encephalitis. Hannibal praised him, pressed kisses to Will’s sweaty curls, and then left him a moment on his own.
They’d talked about this once. No, more than once. And every time they did Will was less averse and more intrigued to try.
And he loved, loved, when Hannibal remained clothed as he tormented Will with pleasures.
So when he returned, hands elegantly gloved in black leather, his suit impeccable while Will looked like he’d been fucked six ways to Sunday, Will’s moan pulled like a sob from his throat.
“Hush,” Hannibal kissed him, gloved fingers catching Will’s chin and tilting it up. “Beautiful boy, you’re being so good for me.”
Will licked his lips and grinned. “Green, Sir.”
“Good boy. Legs spread for me.”
Will obeyed with a wince, hissing through gritted teeth as he let one knee drop to the bed and drew up the other to balance himself. Hannibal settled on his hip between Will’s legs, guiding one up to rest Will’s ankle against his shoulder, kissing his calf when Will whined.
“Do you have any idea how happy you make me, like this?” Hannibal asked him, stroking Will’s hair from his face, gently catching a weak hand that reached for him and kissing his knuckles. “Obedient, lovely boy, I love you.”
“I love you too, Sir,” Will sighed, floating on a haze so thick he could taste it at the back of his tongue. He spread his fingers when Hannibal set Will’s hand against his thigh. He arched his neck when Hannibal drew his hand through Will’s hair again and tugged.
“I’m going to make you feel very good,” Hannibal promised softly, easing Will’s cheek against his palm, watching his eyelids twitch. Will had dropped quickly, he always did; but overwhelmed, filthy, exhausted by pleasure, he was the most beautiful thing Hannibal had ever seen.
“And I want to hear all the sweet sounds you make for me,” Hannibal said, moving his hands to gently handle Will’s soft cock, hushing him again when he shuddered and tried to pull away. “My good boy, you trust me, don’t you?”
Will nodded weakly, brows furrowing as Hannibal continued to fondle him, not enough to bring him to hardness again, that wasn’t the point, but enough that every nerve sang through Will’s blood. Hannibal watched him, watched every reaction, every response; the way his fingers curled over his own thigh, the way he pressed nearer to Hannibal even when it hurt, when he was stretched and dripping still, aching from all their play.
“Deep breath for me,” Hannibal told him, lining up the elegant, steel sound with the tip of Will’s cock. He waited for obedience, and then gently started to press it in.
Will whimpered, tensing his entire body, head dropping back and teeth catching his lip.
But he didn’t shift away. He didn’t tell Hannibal to stop.
Hannibal took his time; sounding wasn’t a process to be rushed, and he relished every single gasp and whimper and whine it drew from Will. Soon, little panting breaths became sobs, needy aching little noises that made Will’s entire body quiver.
“Does it hurt, sweet boy?”
Will shook his head, tears already seeping from closed lids. He gasped when Hannibal eased the instrument a little deeper into him, just half an inch more. “Too much,” Will managed.
“Yellow, please -”
“What do you need?” Hannibal turned his head to nuzzle Will’s calf again, a gloved hand gentle over his skin. “Tell me what you need, Will.”
Will’s sobs turned wet, eyes closed against the onslaught of sensation. “More, please,” he begged, breath catching on a hitch that broke the dam for his tears to properly flow. Hannibal let him cry, hushed him and slowly turned the sound inside Will, seeking for the place that would send sparks behind Will’s eyes.
“No, God, Hannibal, Sir, no, please, too much, please -”
“Breathe, my beautiful boy, breathe for me.”
“I - can’t -” Will’s entire being felt like it was shattering, like he was coming apart at the seams, shaking to pieces; bones cracking and skin splitting and muscles snapping as Hannibal pushed such pleasure through him it felt like a lightning bolt. He was hyperventilating, unable to control his intake of air, unable to take in what little oxygen he allowed his lungs to absorb. “Please -”
Hannibal soothed him, stroked Will’s hair, drew knuckles down his tear-stained cheeks, and then carefully folded his fingers over Will’s mouth, allowing him the barest pocket of air. When Will keened in panic, Hannibal turned the sound once more, away from his prostate, enough to give Will’s synapses to work, even a little, at maintaining his consciousness.
“Just like that my boy,” Hannibal told him, waiting for Will’s breathing to settle some, waiting for it to hitch but no longer shudder from him like a ghost. “My good boy,” he purred, kissing affection against Will’s trembling leg, eyes down to watch his gloved fingers turn the sound and pitch Will into a series of convulsions that brought him to one final, desperate onanism.
The sound was removed in a smooth, practiced motion. Will’s legs were settled side by side. Hannibal climbed into bed and gathered Will to him, fingers dark as Will’s wet hair tangling in the curls as he rocked Will against him and soothed him with gentle words and loving praise.
Will clung to him and sobbed like a child, loud hiccuping tears that smeared against Hannibal’s shirt, his tie, his suit. He clung and he cried and when he exhausted himself he eased into a gentle faint against Hannibal’s chest, breathing slow and finally even.
Hannibal stroked his face, traced his eyebrows and over the bow of Will’s parted lips. He wiped his tears and massaged the headache from his temples. Only when Will’s death grip on his shirt eased, did Hannibal allow himself the luxury of getting up.
He’d put the instruments of their play away, clean up, undress. He would prepare something gentle for Will’s stomach, and water, for when he woke. He would bring Will back to himself no matter the hours it took. Will was worth all of Hannibal’s time; and they had all the time in the world.