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Will Graham’s stomach sinks like a stone.
Not just through to the floor – oh, no. Much deeper than that. It falls through the foundations of his little house to the earth below and keeps going. To the pits of hell, he’s sure, where he absolutely belongs.
“Hannibal,” he chokes out, voice impossibly small.
“Pardon the intrusion,” the doctor beams, surrounded affably by his pack – the traitors. “The door was open.”
Will wants to pinch himself, because this simply can’t be happening. Here he stands, wrapped in a faded old towel before the object of his damning fixation. A droplet of water falls from his wet curls to his shoulder, taunting him. This is real, and he is ready to throw himself head-first into traffic.
“I–” Will starts, because what is there to say? “How long have you been here?”
The sublime, cruel twist to Hannibal’s barely-there smile tells him all he needs to know. It sparks a shiver at the base of his neck that ripples through him without remorse. He pulls the towel tighter around himself, painfully exposed.
The man is merciless. “Long enough,” he hums.
Will’s rattling inhale comes complete with spots at the edge of his vision. He is a deer in the headlights, a player thrust into the spotlight without knowing his lines. His hand trembles on the only piece of cloth protecting him from that piercing gaze. Not that it matters; Hannibal has seen through him entirely.
“You can’t…” Will tries, flailing for any semblance of control. “What are you doing here?”
A crease plays across Hannibal’s delighted eyes, the sort of gesture most people wouldn’t notice but reads to Will as practically pornographic. Whatever happens next — at this moment, he has the boy trapped firmly between his teeth.
“You left the scene this morning in distress. As your therapist,” he lets the sibilant S hang in the air pointedly, causing Will to swallow, “I was concerned for your wellbeing.”
Will’s jaw is clenched so tightly it hurts to speak. “Y-you… Jack sent you after me?”
With effortless, predatory grace, Hannibal strolls to one of Will’s sad little kitchen chairs and takes a seat. Folding one knee over the other and clasping his hands there, he couldn’t look more pleasant.
“It was a mutual decision.”
Every muscle in Will’s face twitches minutely. The air is getting cold, especially since he is one degree from naked. He swallows again, Adam’s apple bobbing in a way that doesn’t even come close to escaping Hannibal’s notice.
“Can I get dressed, at least?”
The question is perfectly reasonable, but the doctor lets him stew for a moment. A request.
“If you must.”
The low tone of his permission is enough to send Will darting for his bedroom and what little relief he might find therein. His pulse skyrockets, tunnel vision setting in as he scrambles for underwear, jeans and a thermal. He almost forgets his socks in the effort, only remembering when he steps in a puddle of his own shower-drip.
His hand hovers over the doorknob back to the main area of his house. He knows, he just knows Hannibal is sitting there with the smuggest, least human smile he can muster. How long can he have been there? What would he have heard? It doesn’t help, revisiting the last ten minutes of his shower. There’s nothing else those sounds could have been.
On top of that, Hannibal’s sense of smell grants him a permanently unfair advantage. He groans as quietly as he can when that thought sends a spark of heat straight to his cock.
“Fuck,” he hisses under his breath, smacking the heel of his hand off the dresser. It won’t do him any good at all to walk out there half-hard.
“Will?” Comes the inquiry from the other room, too friendly to be sincere. Will’s eyes roll in mortification as he rubs his jaw with both hands, begging his mind to let him be. It’s bad enough without his body betraying him, too.
“I’m c–” He starts, wincing fully as the word almost hands Hannibal more ammunition. “I’ll be right there.”
He can hear the smirk from here.
His breath staggers in and out, trying to steady the nerves that threaten to undo him. It takes a few seconds, but he makes some progress. Finally, he turns the handle and reemerges.
Whatever semblance of calm he's convinced himself of, it vanishes the second he sees the doctor sitting patiently at his kitchen table.
“Feeling less exposed?” Hannibal chides, relentless.
Will can hide the shakes, but the flush of his cheeks and down his neck aren’t going anywhere. He doesn’t look at the man; he can’t. He shoves his hands in his pockets and glances everywhere but at his judge, jury and executioner.
“Sure,” Will gulps, teeth firmly on edge. “I’m, uh… Yeah. I’m fine, you know. You didn’t need to c–” Fuck, Will, stop it, “--you could’ve called.”
Sensing at last just how wound up Will truly is, Hannibal eases back from his onslaught. Better not terrify the boy just yet.
Will winces. Was that his thought, or Hannibal’s?
The doctor simply nods, tucking his darkness away as if folding a pocket square. “I did,” he remarks, head tilting towards Will’s phone, abandoned on the kitchen counter.
The embarrassed heat in Will flares. He can’t go check. He knows what he’ll find; an escape route missed through his frantic self-indulgence. Can’t give that to Hannibal.
He swallows again, still desperate for a way to vibrate off the mortal plane. “Guess I missed it.”
He can practically see Hannibal’s forked tongue flicking between his teeth as he responds. “So it would seem.”
Will knows his cheeks are crimson, if not burgundy. “What do you want?” He huffs out, staring determinedly at the kitchen sink.
“A question you keep revisiting,” Hannibal muses, infuriatingly. “I have always been forthcoming with my desire to see you well and rested. I dare say what you want is far more interesting.”
If the middle of his speech offered some respite, the last sentence rips it away. The doctor’s ability to vivisect Will with a smile is… God, there’s that fucking twitch again. He knows it’s obvious, but he paces over to stand so there’s a counter between himself and Hannibal.
“You’re well aware this is highly inappropriate and clearly unprofessional,” Will attempts, hiding his disobedient erection from Hannibal’s line of sight.
The older man feigns innocence in a way that drives Will to fantasies of strangling him with his bare hands. “Checking in on a patient who is exhibiting signs of extreme duress? I would say that falls directly under my purview, as your caretaker.”
“Caretake–” Will snorts, then pulls himself back under control. “Please. This is…”
He chews his bottom lip, deciding how bold he’s feeling. Maybe it’s the blood rushing from his head to his groin, but he pulls the muzzle off. He’s finally able to meet Hannibal’s gaze as he spits out his misplaced rage.
“You like this. You…” He tries to steady himself, but it’s too late. His shame has boiled over into lacerations. “You stood there and listened. You know what I was doing and you just… you’re fucking sick.”
It twists his stomach, the way Hannibal simply sits and takes it. Worse than that, he seems faintly amused, as if watching a toddler throw a tantrum over something entirely benign. It does nothing to quell the angry buzzing under Will’s skin.
“You have a tendency, I have noticed, to lash out when you feel that you are cornered. I called ahead, and knocked, yet your door was ajar. I worried something was amiss, so I entered. My timing was unplanned and the… circumstances of my arrival can hardly be blamed on me.”
Will sees red at the same time as he has to press against the counter to keep from losing his grip. He’s fully hard now, hating himself for it so viciously it must have its own decadent scent. It’s got to be some sort of sickness, he argues with himself. Some psychological wires crossed. He should really work it out with a mental health professional who he doesn’t want to fall to his knees and worship with his tongue.
Not. Helping.
Realizing he hasn’t replied, Will forces out more biting defenses. “Circumstances, no. Standing there and listening… That’s several leagues beyond a doctor-patient violation, I’d wager.”
Hannibal’s expression remains entirely placid, save for a tiny curl at the corner of those pronounced lips. “Do you often entertain fantasies of violation, Will?”
Will’s head snaps in his direction, eye contact be damned. He must be red from head to toe, gripping the counter’s edge, but he’s not just going to lie down and take this. Even if he can’t walk, at the moment.
“You’ve got some fucking nerve,” he hisses, shoulders tensed as if ready to leap.
“So I’ve been told,” the man responds amicably, plucking a dog hair daintily from his perfectly-pressed suit pants. “I, however, entertain no hostility towards my own desires.”
Will opens his mouth to cuss him out, but Hannibal isn’t finished.
“Tell me, Will – did you listen back to the message you sent me last night?”
The flush in his cheeks pales instantly. Humiliation rages to life without any hope of defense. He can’t blame Hannibal for listening to a message that he sent, even if it was in the middle of the damn night and clearly done during sleep.
Well. Maybe he can, actually, but he’d be lying to both of them if he said he wouldn’t have done the exact same thing.
“You know I did,” he seethes, clothes suddenly too tight, room suddenly too hot.
A gentle nod. “I was perfectly ready to dismiss it and tell you I had stopped after a few seconds, when it became clear you’d done it in a state of unconsciousness.”
“So you…” Will calculates, eyes narrowing with understanding. “You were going to lie.”
Another quick flash of something lurking behind the older man’s eyes. “Quite so.”
Will bristles, tapping his fingers on the countertop. “Why didn’t you?”
Hannibal sits back a little, re-folding his hands on his thigh. “You denied me the opportunity to be polite.”
Will licks his lips without realizing, wishing desperately for a meteor to plow through his kitchen window (sparing the dogs, of course, but not himself or his antagonist).
“You shouldn’t have listened. It was… Fuck, Hannibal. I told you I was sleepwalking. I can’t help what I dream.” He rolls his neck, muscles creaking under the stress of holding himself together.
“That is precisely why I listened,” Hannibal shrugs. “I hoped to gain insight into your subconscious state, so that we might explore potential paths to resolution. You are a painfully reserved man when it comes to what haunts you, which obstructs your ability to process and heal.”
Will snorts again. “You have a gift for justification.”
Hannibal’s lids lower as he rakes his eyes over the boy’s flushed, petrified form. “I have a number of gifts. Perception is key among them.”
He has to turn away. Hips braced against the counter, he buries his head in his hands long enough to let out a frustrated, agonized groan. It ends with him shaking out his wrists, tipping his head back for a moment, then wheeling around. Still, by necessity, hidden behind the blessed counter.
“It was a mistake. All right? I don’t know what I was dreaming. It could’ve been… I have nightmares. Bloody, horrible nightmares. I don’t know why, or even how I sent that. I woke up in the driveway last week. This is the same bullshit.”
“Is it?” Hannibal asks, tilting his head with barely-contained amusement. “You haven’t described any of your other fantasies as sexual in nature.”
“Fucks’ sakes!” Will yells, turning himself away once more. “They’re not… It’s none of your business! You are way over the line.”
“Is that so?” Hannibal purrs, and Will can hear him rising from his chair to approach. The bell is tolling for him. “You seem quite determined to make it my business.”
Throughout this mocking interrogation, his hard-on hasn’t waned an inch. It’s not fair, this inability to detach reality from his dreams. This Hannibal may be cruel and clinical, but he isn’t about to throw Will to the floor and choke him with his perfect silk tie. He’s not going to grin like a wolf in heat as Will gasps for air and claws at the makeshift leash, begging to be spared even as he leaks through his jeans.
His eyes snap open as if somehow, Hannibal could hear his thoughts. The lack of bared fangs at his throat is mildly reassuring, but the fact that those thoughts won’t leave him alone in Hannibal’s presence is no comfort at all.
“Why are you really here?” He chokes out, voice suddenly small. He can feel the man’s heat hovering just a few feet behind him on the other side of the counter. His eyes drift closed, brows knitting as the hopelessness of it drags him down.
“To confirm a suspicion.” The velvet slide of Hannibal’s voice brushes over Will’s neck, raising the small hairs, still damp from the shower.
It’s easier like this, facing away.
“Why…” Will starts, voice faltering. All his bluster seems to fade under Hannibal’s proximity and his own physical retreat into himself. A vulnerability finds space to emerge, spoken so softly it would take someone very perceptive to hear it. “Why torture me with it? You… you know I’m mortified about this. I don’t know what’s happening to me.”
“Dear Will,” comes that accent, wrapping its hazy tendrils around him. He feels a hand hovering by his neck, wanting to touch him but wisely aware it’ll send him running. There’s a comfort in that restraint, even by this utter monster. “I tell you this only because I know you will understand what I mean when I say it.”
There’s a pause, an intake of breath, as if Hannibal is preparing to confess. That body heat presses against his back, even with the enforced distance between them. Is Hannibal leaning closer? He can’t bear to look.
He is startled, then, by the words that slither out dark and hungry at his ear.
“I find your suffering irresistible.”
Will shudders bodily, eyes snapping open as his pupils attempt to take that in. If he was hard before, he’s aching now. He has the shocking sensation of a hand reaching down into his gut and twisting it into flame. His breath catches in his throat, terrified and violently alive with desire.
“Y-you–” He forces himself to turn around, startled when he sees Hannibal standing a respectful distance away, nearly back to his chair. Will’s gaze darts about the room, as if he might find some hidden trapdoor. “What… h-how?”
Hannibal offers him one last merciless grin as he gathers his coat and glides to the door. Having Will unraveled and shaking seems to have satisfied his every need in making this house call.
“I’m glad to see you’re feeling better,” he offers, affecting tidy pleasantness even as the bottomless pits of his eyes drink Will in like a soul he’s bargained for. The deal is signed in blood and now – now, all he has to do is wait. “Join me for dinner tomorrow. Seven o’clock. I’d like to discuss your condition further, if you’re amenable to it.”
Will has no idea how to process the sudden shift in temperature. The dogs all watch Hannibal, blissfully unaware that the devil himself is taking his leave.
“M-my–” Will attempts, though it’s beyond useless.
“Sleep well,” Hannibal grins, canines bared for a moment before he crosses the threshold, re-emerging into the world as a respectable, gracious gentleman of means.
Will, on the other hand, can’t breathe. He is a mess, shaking with anxiety. Brutal, endless fear twisted up with blazing-hot arousal crashes over him. His neck drips with sweat as he realizes he’s rutting against the counter, wetness blossoming through his useless jeans. He can’t – this can’t go on. He needs to run after Hannibal, tear him to shreds for acting so inappropriately – maybe report him to Jack and then get back to work.
He needs to do all that.
He should.
What he does instead is wait five minutes in simmering frustration before walking out to the porch to ensure that the ostentatious Bentley is long gone. Satisfied with his isolation, he heads back inside, locking every door and window with a series of neat clicks. When the place is secure enough for him, he strides to the bedroom and turns the bolt.
He barely has time to kick his jeans off before he’s lying back on the bed, desperate cock dripping across his knuckles. He is beyond mortified, so embarrassed he’s crossed over into violence. He grips himself by the fingertips, sliding along the skin with as much restraint as he can gather.
He wonders, because there is no stopping it now, if Hannibal would be proud of how very wet he is. Maybe he would tease and berate him for it; he’s not sure if that’s better or worse. He can picture those whiskey-dark eyes, with all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming, memorizing Will’s face as he whimpers and bucks into his own hand.
“Insatiable,” he purrs, watching with his ankles crossed, regal in the imaginary leather chair opposite Will’s bed.
“Fuck you,” Will grunts, hips arching off the bed. He keeps his shirt on - his jeans and boxer-briefs too, pulled down to his thighs.
“You find such comforting modesty in your clothes,” Hannibal muses, a drink in his flexing hand. Whiskey – no, wine. The man observes the glass changing as Will decides, turning it in his hand. “But please, do make yourself at home. This is your fantasy, after all.”
Will’s fingers stroke up his length, spurred on by the slick, frictionless glide and the one who caused it. One hand snakes its way under his shirt, feeling his own stomach muscles clench and release in time with his thrusts.
“Ordinarily, Will, I would be rather displeased with you touching yourself when I haven’t given you express permission.”
“Fuck,” he hisses, breath stuttering. It’s too hot, dressed like this, but he likes only his cock being exposed.
“However,” Hannibal continues, voice low and direct, “you’ve crossed this bridge so many times already I fear you’d crumble under my punishment.”
“NNnnn–” Will gasps, the words tear through his skull. It’s so real. “I, I w–wouldn’t–”
And then they’re back in that office once again, Will spread on the chaise as Hannibal observes from his throne. Twirling his wine glass, considering the boy’s fate.
“Wouldn’t what? Be able to withstand a perfectly justified correction of your behavior?”
He whines, toes curling in his mismatched socks. He isn’t tied, not this time, but he remains fully dressed except for his angry, leaking erection. In fact, no – the fabric shifts against his skin as he decides – he’s in a bespoke suit, deep blue to compliment his eyes. A suit Hannibal picked out and had tailored to fit him perfectly. A suit Hannibal wants him to ruin.
“N-no,” Will counters, enjoying the contrast of the expensive cloth against what he’s doing to it. “I, I w-w–”
He gasps sharply as Hannibal’s brutal hand grips his hair at the base of his neck and pulls, hard. Will’s hand falters mid-stroke.
“Use your words, William, or I’ll be forced to rescind my temporary mercy.”
A guttural noise of fear and excitement worms its way from Will’s throat. Hannibal has never called him by his full name in real life, not once, yet the formality in this place unspools him. It’s worse than pet, worse than desperate or needy or pathetic. It’s a vicious taunt, holding up a mirror to how composed he isn’t.
He’s afraid to keep touching. He needs to do as he’s been instructed.
“I’m–” he stutters, hand hovering close enough to feel the heat of his want. He forces his eyes open, makes himself stare hell in the face. “I w-wouldn’t crumble.”
Fondness tears through Hannibal’s grin, verging on worship. Will knows this must be a fantasy, because nobody could ever look at him like this and not be repulsed. It’s unthinkable, and yet.
“No, my sweet boy,” Hannibal says after a moment of reverence, reaching to cup Will’s chin. “I suppose you wouldn’t.”
He’s still not sure if he can keep going. Will’s hands have drifted obediently to his sides, awaiting instruction. It’s so difficult, straining like this, but he can do it. For Hannibal, he can do it.
“How marvelous you are,” Hannibal croons, adoration heavy on his lips. Noting Will’s self-restraint, he reaches out and runs two fingers up the twitching length of him. “Steadfast in your devotion to my control.”
“Hnngg,” Will struggles, in the dream and in his rumpled sheets. “I-I’m. Yes. I want to be.”
“And what a lovely picture you make,” the doctor continues, teasing low and languid with his words and fingertips. “All dressed up with nowhere to go.”
Will breathes heavily, all bodily sensation focused on the points of contact between Hannibal and his cock.
“I wonder what intrigues you most about this particular scenario?” He takes Will in hand, gripping him as he rubs his thumb under the head lazily. “To be exposed only by your sex.”
More whimpers tumble from Will’s lips, brows knitting as if to escape the deep crimson flush over his cheeks and nose. “I, I–”
“Quiet,” Hannibal commands, squeezing at the base of Will with controlled malice. He relents immediately, but the sharp threat combined with the unquestionable tone only sends Will keening further.
“As I was saying,” he goes on, musing over the situation as if it were dinner or a well-read book rather than Will’s undoing, “I am intrigued by the desire. Is it perhaps the idea that I have dolled you up in things finer than you could afford just to ravish you in them?”
“Hnn, hnn,” Will moans, eyes rolled fully back. He is trying and failing not to buck into Hannibal’s hand, which never gives enough pressure for him to get anywhere. His hands grip the sides of the chaise, white-knuckled.
“Or,” the doctor supposes, “is it the way it reduces you to your basest needs? Nothing of you accessible but your most shameful, needy appendage?”
Will cringes as he feels the words pull more wetness from him. He is lost, helpless to this touch.
“If I may be so bold,” Hannibal grins, like he isn’t slicking his thumb over the head of Will’s cock, “ I suspect it’s some combination of the two, combined with the transcendent helplessness you experience at my hand.”
Frustration overtakes Will. He slaps a hand against the side of the chaise, need for release warring with his desire to obey. He needs to come and he wants this to go on until he is subverbal, floating in ecstatic pain.
“My dear Will. You truly are suffering, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Will cries out, eyes wrenched shut because he can’t possibly look into the face of his demise.
“Yes, what?” Hannibal underlines the question with another brutal squeeze, forcing a wheezing cry from Will’s throat. It hurts, God it hurts, but it’s so good.
“Yes, s-Sir. Doctor Lecter. Fuck,” he babbles out, hips rolling helplessly. Hannibal has abandoned his shaft to cup and tug at his balls, driving Will out of what’s left of his goddamned mind.
“I think,” the doctor growls, voice at his ear like a tongue lapping directly into his brain, “It can all be traced back to one simple source.”
Will wants to know. Needs to know. He can’t ask, so he lets out a high-pitched, needy plea. His eyes flutter open when the touch vanishes, leaving him twitching in the open air. What he sees before him, on his knees over Will like an animal, is the ravenous beast he knows is hiding under Hannibal’s perfect skin.
His eyes glint red, thorns stretching like antlers up from his crown. Even in this position, his dominance over Will is unquestionable.
“You, dear Will,” he grins, teeth bared, “are a greedy, desperate slut.”
Will cries out to the rafters as Hannibal descends, forked tongue circling his swollen cockhead like it means to devour him. The words are so crude, so cheap in such a refined mouth, that they slice clean through to his core. Their game, usually so erudite and laced with clever entendres, can hardly withstand the impact of a little good, old-fashioned filth.
“God, yes,” Will cries, adding ‘ D-doctor Lecter!’ as a frantic afterthought.
The man, more creature by the second, takes Will into his mouth like blasphemous communion, swallowing him down effortlessly. The sensation, the velvet-hot tightness of that throat, is unthinkable in its pleasure.
“Y-you, oh, Christ,” the boy moans, always tempted to prayer in moments like this.
It doesn’t matter that Hannibal’s mouth is occupied; his voice carries on slithering through the darkness.
“You cannot wake in the morning nor sleep through the night without thinking of yourself under my heel,” it rasps. It’s true, Will knows it’s true, and his shame drives him to greater heights of sensation.
“I can’t,” Will sobs, seeking absolution. “I can’t. I need it.”
Those cheeks hollow, and the suction is unbearable. He has no idea how he hasn’t come already save for his screaming need to be good.
“There is no moment of your day not consumed with desire to throw yourself at my feet and beg to become a tool for my pleasure.”
“I–fuck,” Will curses, trembling and tensing all over. “I’m sorry. I know.”
There are tears at the corner of his eyes, brightening his gemstone blues whenever he dares open them to look at his God. He can’t, not for long. He’s too bright, too perfect. That pressure builds, coiling in spite of his attempt to bargain with it.
“Never apologize, Will,” the voice replies, tinged with dark indulgence. “Not for that. You are a singular gift. Created, born and then born again into glory, solely for me.”
From Hannibal’s crown, the thorns and antlers branch out, seeking. Will beckons them, drawing them toward the hunger in his chest. It’s not a dream. It’s a fantasy. He can take what he wants.
And so, with a gorgeous cry of agony, two of those twining thorns pierce his sides. They dig into him as knives would, like the antlers Cassie Boyle was mounted on. Once inside, they snake their way up through his organs, his lungs, straight through to his heart. As Hannibal’s throat tightens and pulses around him, utterly perfect, sharp black branches weave under his skin. They curl around his ribs and his lips, prying him apart.
He is open, gored, hopeless as his hips roll. There are claws at his thighs rending him, claiming him irreversibly. He is branded, sliced, consumed.
“Marvelous, unforgivable boy,” that unearthly voice whispers, tongue savoring the sweat of his neck even as it’s so obviously occupied elsewhere. Logic has no more place here. He’s bent back in the field; he hangs from hooks on the wall like meat. He is disassembled and made anew in the molten fire of Hannibal’s control.
“I need you,” Will sobs, so close. He’s breathless outside of time, manic with desire. He wants to be like this in the real world; squirming and pleading for release as Hannibal denies him again, and again, and again, until he’s oversensitive and panting and would promise anything, anything to be able to come.
“I know you do,” the voice teases as four, perhaps six sets of teeth nip at his ear. “And you’ll have me. If you can be brave.”
His breath shallow, Will nods feverishly. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he entreats the thorns to pierce his wrists like Christ and nail him to the chaise lounge. The blood, syrupy and dark, drips and pools in his palms. He wants to rub it on Hannibal’s face and lick it off.
No. Not his face.
“I do,” Will babbles, “I can. B-be brave.”
“Then, my sweet, good boy,” Hannibal purrs, rough and certain. “You’re going to have to ask.”
Panic sweeps over Will even as his impending orgasm roils hot in his gut.
“C-can’t,” he gasps, struggling even though he never, ever wants to win. “You don’t – h-he doesn’t want, couldn’t–”
In one swift, shocking movement, Hannibal retracts all his fingers and teeth and branches, leaving Will bereft and riddled with evidence of his twisted want. He looks up, suddenly startled and hollow, to find the most human version of Hannibal he’s seen thus far staring deep into his seaglass eyes.
“I assure you, pet,” he growls, “I will make it worth your while.”
Will can’t move, can’t breathe, for how badly he wants that to be true. It’s cruel, heartless even, for his own fantasies to taunt him like this. He doesn’t know why he’s been driven mad with this painfully inconvenient desire, but it destroys him to think of how Hannibal might laugh in his face. Drive him away. God forbid, tell Jack.
His racing thoughts are ripped from him by a lightly calloused finger at his lips. It tastes of Will. Without thinking, he takes it into his mouth as dream-Hannibal speaks.
“When I visited you today, how did I seem?”
Will can only stutter around the digit. He’s still on the edge, Hannibal now circling his swollen tip with the palm of his other hand.
“M-mm… Y-you…” He has to wrench his eyes shut to concentrate, tongue flicking instinctively across the pads of those fingertips. “You liked it.”
A pleased, rumbling sound fills the room and vibrates off his skin. Hannibal frees Will’s perfect mouth for confession. “That I did.”
“Y-you,” Will tries, terrified but distracted by the feeling. “You enjoyed it. Teasing me. Kn-knowing what I did.”
“Go on,” Hannibal intones, lowering his mouth again to take Will between his lips.
“F- fuck. You, you… Nngh. You knew. You listened. You heard me c-coming, and you knew – fuck,” at his own foul mouth, he lets out a tight laugh. “Jesus – you knew I was thinking about you.”
He has to choke out the last words, but Hannibal hums proudly around his cock. It spurs him on. Is this what it takes to get him to open up?
“I’ve never said my therapy was conventional,” that voice teases, half-way to a sneer. Despite everything, Will smirks.
“You’re… You know what I want. You want to give it to me. T-to hurt me.”
Hannibal encourages him through the bob of his throat and more wordless groans of enthusiasm.
“Fuck. Yes. Y-you… God, I’m going to feel so fucking stupid when it turns out you–”
Teeth scrape against the soft skin just below his head. Will howls.
“No,” the beast inside Hannibal roars. “I, what? Tell me. I already know. I want to hear you say it.”
He goes right back to work as Will keens into his mouth. It takes everything Will has to keep going, teetering on the edge for this long.
“You want this,” he manages, shivering as the tension in his thighs spreads. “You, you want me.”
“Yes,” the voice hisses, utterly and devastatingly pleased.
“You want me,” Will repeats as spots threaten the edges of his vision again. He is pinned by this, by the words and truths and pleasure. There is nothing else, no world beyond the places their bodies meet.
“More than anything,” Hannibal whispers, nuzzling against Will’s neck at the same time as he works his throat over the boy’s swollen, painfully hard length.
It’s enough. The confirmation, true enough in this moment, sends Will careening over the edge. He comes all over that perfect tongue, over his own trembling hand. More flashbulbs of what could be explode in his mind, but this time they feel hideously possible – Hannibal, making Will look him in the eyes as he thrusts his fingers into his good, greedy boy. Hannibal, feeding Will from his spot at the head of the table while his submissive creature kneels on a pillow at his side. Will, thrusting inside the man’s punishing heat as he bucks and moans because today, that’s his only job.
“Gnnn-AGH,” Will cries out (so much crying these days) but there’s no other word for it. He is undone.
It takes some time for his breathing to settle. He waits, ready for shame to pull him tightly into its grip. It’s there; he can see it, watching from the corner.
But it doesn’t come any closer.
It’s not a real thing, not like dream-Hannibal, but the awareness of it is tangible. He is startled, more than anything, by the lack of self-loathing needling its way into his veins. That’s the natural conclusion to pleasure, isn’t it? Hasn’t it always been?
He exhales at this revelation with a laugh that’s equal parts amusement and disbelief. Eventually, he sits up, wiping his hand on his abandoned towel.
So.
Dinner, then?
He has to laugh again, a sickly-sweet thing. Sanity has abandoned him and left madness in its place.
As he idly licks the last drop of spend from his fingers, imagining it’s Hannibal’s, he wonders what they might have for dessert.