His phone rings just as one of his patients is departing.
“Dr. Lecter…” Jack Crawford’s voice comes. “Uh… I’m sorry for bothering you, but I’m a little worried about Will…He’s been wearing one of his dog’s collars around all day. I was wondering if you knew anything about it.”
Hannibal’s blood runs cold. He sees red. He plunges the scalpel he’s been fiddling with into the desk. Jack Crawford is still talking, prattling on about how he didn’t say anything to Will about it because he didn’t want to embarrass him, that he didn’t seem strange aside from the collar so he wasn’t sure how worried he needed to be.
Hannibal hears none of it. Instead, he’s thinking about Will, unwittingly walking around the FBI with the collar—if it’s his dogs’, it is probably some terrible lime green fake leather—as people gawk at him.
His fingers twitch in an out of fists and, if he could, he would butcher every single person that laid their pathetic eyes on his Will in that state. He remembers the prior day, when he laid Will out naked, but for his collar, on the floor, and fucked into his mouth, how hard Will was by the end of it, nearly sobbing with how his hole ached to be stretched open wide. Will, submissive. Will, needy. Will, controlled and dominated and beautiful.
The thought of anyone seeing him collared, even while fully clothed, makes Hannibal burn with furious jealousy.
“Hm, I must admit I do not know the reason,” Hannibal speaks into the phone, shielding his anger with accustomed expertise. “I will make sure to question William about it when I next see him.”
As he has been trained to do, the first thing Will does, when he enters Hannibal’s home, is strip of every single article of clothing. He leaves them in a neat pile, off to the side, so as not to get in Hannibal’s way. There are not any toys beside the door today, meaning Hannibal doesn’t want him to prepare himself. Will is removing his glasses and placing them on the top of the pile when he hears footsteps at the other end of the hallway.
“Will,” Hannibal says, and fuck, he has that tone and it makes Will tense up in anticipation.
He drops to his knees instantly, hangs his head and glues his eyes on Hannibal’s shoes when they appear in his line of sight. He places his twitching palms on the floor as fingers weave in his hair, needing some sort of balance when met with the whirlwind of Hannibal’s presence.
The grip on his hair turns vicious, painful, though not quite enough to make him cry out. His head wrenches back, baring his flustered face. Hannibal’s free hand cups Will’s chin. Suddenly fingers graze downward and seize the collar sitting at Will’s neck.
“What is this?” Hannibal asks. Eyes sharp, expression dark, he pulls at the leather so it digs uncomfortably into the nape of his neck.
“M-my collar…sir?” Will replies, genuinely confused about the root of Hannibal’s anger.
“Then why, pray tell, does the tag say Winston?”
Will is speechless, wracking his brain for some vague understanding of what Hannibal is chiding him for. In one swift movement, Hannibal rips the collar from Will’s neck—the clasp scratching at Will’s throat as it breaks—and shows Will the tag. Sure enough, there it is—the name of Will’s most newly acquired dog.
“I received a very concerned phone call from Jack Crawford today, Will.”
“Oh…Oh…” Will groans in realization. Memories of all the strange looks people were giving him all day, the whispers of his coworkers and, oh god, Jack. He believed them to be the ones he normally received, although noticeably intensified for reasons he didn’t know until this very second.
Mortification sweeps over him, panic poisoning his blood. He gave lectures today. Students saw him walking around in a collar. None of them are ever going to look at him the same and—
“William,” Hannibal growls, calling him back to attention with a slap against his cheekbone. When he speaks, each syllable is over-annunciated so that the words sound sharp enough to cut. “Explain yourself.”
“I—I—“ Will stutters, trying to pull himself together. “When you send me home, you take—take my collar back and I can’t—don’t—I feel—“
He’s a mess, breath coming in gasps too short to think, and the truth is that he doesn’t remember. He remembers getting home and feeling uncomfortable and naked to the point of agony, despite the presence of his shirt and slacks. He remembers the panic closing in on him from all sides, much like it is now, without anything around his neck to keep him grounded in the moment. He remembers Winston rubbing up against his leg, tags jingling upon his collar and he just sort of reached out and took it, wound it around his own neck instead.
Then, everything sort of felt inexplicably better. As if gravity had taken hold of him and pulled him back to earth. He went to bed and slept really, really well and this morning he went to work, like normal.
But none of that makes any sense, so how can he possibly explain that to Hannibal?
But, judging by the pensive, albeit still unquestionably livid, look on his face, Hannibal has understood this without Will having to say any of it. Fingers card thoughtfully through his hair. “Do you often do this? Steal your dogs’ collars while parted from me?”
Will shakes his head, because this was the first time. Allows his eyes to fall shut, head to lean into the touch.
From his pocket, Hannibal withdraws Will’s actual collar, fine black leather with a silver tag with Will’s name on it and none of the teeth marks or the stench of the other one. Without pause, Hannibal also attaches Will’s leash.
“Upstairs,” he commands, already pulling him across the floor towards the staircase with sharp yanks that make Will’s body light up in pain. Will scrambles on his hands and knees, struggling to keep up. In the end he is practically dragged up the steps, down the hall, thrown onto the bed by indelicate hands around his middle.
His throat and neck abrade and bruise in a way so familiar that it is more of a comfort than anything. He knows that taking any enjoyment out of this, being handled roughly and controlled like a pet or a possession, probably says all sorts of terrible things about him.
But he can’t help it; first and foremost, the sensation is freeing, addictively so.
Will raises himself up on the mattress on his knees, thighs wide and backside in the air—again, as he’s been trained to do. Hannibal sits beside him, at the edge of the bed. Trails fingertips up his spine to the nape of his neck, where the grip turns cruel, fisting a handful of collar and curly brown hair. In an attempt to make himself as pliable as possible, Will lets his head go slack, easily turned beneath his lover’s grip.
The look on Hannibal’s face makes his heart drop into his stomach.
“I do not want other people to see you this way, William”
“I know, I know, I’m sorry, sir—“ He whispers. If he could move, he would rub against his pant legs, just to show him how much he means it. “It was an accident. I won’t—“ He hiccups. “—won’t do it again.”
“I believe you,” Hannibal says calmly. “But you still must be punished. I need you to learn this lesson. Do you understand, Will?”
“Y—yes, sir.” His voice is little more than a murmur. He knew this was coming, as much as he hates it, and he knows that this time Hannibal is legitimately angry with him and it will be so much worse than when they are only playing.
After tying his leash securely to the bedpost, Hannibal leaves his side. Though Will does not dare turn around, he senses the man riffling through the cabinets, through the various toys and devices he uses on Will from time to time. The knowledge sends a wave of gooseflesh up his limbs, a shiver down his spine.
Hannibal returns and begins tying Will up with thick rope, forcing his legs apart by binding them to his arms, which are forced behind his back, wrist to elbow.
“I am going to put a vibrator in you, Will, and you will stay here and take it for as long as I desire. You will not orgasm. Not now, and not later when I fuck you. Do you understand?”
“Yes…” A firm squeeze on the flesh of his thighs reminds him to say sir at the end of the statement. Then, he moans, feeling the still dildo press up against his hole dry.
His entire body tenses, though he really should not have expected Hannibal to use lubricant, not during a punishment. It rips open the skin of his hole, harsh and stinging. There is no preparation, no fingering him open, only the openness left from the previous day’s activities. He should be grateful, there will be less pleasure if it isn’t wet.
Still, he can’t help but quiver and cry as it presses up inside of him, farther and farther until it hits his prostate. He licks at his chapped lips. Whimpers. He can’t move, except maybe to fall on his side, but tied up like this that would be even more uncomfortable.
He is unable to voice his surprise, when Hannibal presses a ball gag against his lips. Next, heavy, itchy fabric falls over his eyes and plugs go into his ears and there is nothing. No Hannibal to keep him company, no familiar bedroom to keep him grounded and this is so much worse than when he was spanked, cut into, sometimes, with the sharp leather of Hannibal’s belt, during his training.
The bed dips and rises, signifying Hannibal leaving the bed, and the dildo begins to move, vibrating against his sweet spot. He can’t hear it, but the sensation alone is too much to bear.
Don’t cum, don’t cum, don’t cum, he tells himself. Repeats the mantra over and over again in his head, as if it will really make a difference. At first it is simple, the pain of the intrusion, the burn of chafed skin inside him, but soon the pain moves to the back of his mind and he can’t escape the movement on his prostate.
And with all other senses deprived of him, there’s nothing to distract him. Time isn’t even passing, not really. He tries to count the seconds, but the building arousal is too distracting and he quickly loses track. He grows hard and heavy between his legs. When he shifts, his cock nods and brushes against bits of rope.
At one point, he lets out a frustrated groan. It must be loud, though he cannot hear it past the growl in his throat, and he wonders if Hannibal is actually in the room to hear it. He wonders, if he came right now, if Hannibal’s angry assault on him would come immediately or would be delayed until the man returned and saw his cum splayed out across the blankets. He shifts his weight slightly, feels the rope around his thigh dig in deeper, and knows that he won’t cum, can’t. He needs to make Hannibal happy with him again. If his lover isn’t, the suffocation, the emptiness will be too much to bear.
When Hannibal returns to the bedroom, the sun has long set. In the hours of Will’s castigation, Hannibal has made himself dinner, cleaned up and lounged about his personal library rereading some of his more ancient psychiatric journal acquisitions. He glances at his watch as he enters his bedroom, deciding, by the look of his boy, that six hours is more than enough.
In addition, he is tired of waiting. The contemplation of Will bound and gagged on his bed, likely leaking precum all over the silk duvet, is entirely too appealing. It has left him half-hard all evening.
After sparing a moment to watch William wobble unsteadily on his knees and elbows, wet spit tumbling down his chin, Hannibal lifts his hand and brings it down hard against the flesh of Will’s ass. Just below the dimples he often sinks his teeth into. It is the first indication Hannibal gives Will of his presence.
The man immediately snaps out of whatever dream state he has been in. The impact of it makes his hole clench noticeably around the toy, making him mewl and nearly cum on the spot—Hannibal can tell by the overtly restrained forward twitch of his hips. He prevents it, barely, and is ashamed, no doubt, that he could have orgasmed so easily with Hannibal so near.
Hannibal is impressed, although only mildly.
He crawls onto the bed between Will’s spread thighs and, with a firm hand, pulls at the leash. Will possesses neither the leverage nor the strength to actively follow, so instead he is left dangling, elbows off the bed even as he remains angled forward. The collar digs in his throat, almost cutting off his air supply completely and he knows there will be sharp bruises there later, as well as where fingertips dig into his waist and hip.
The hand moves to his buttocks, pressing the flesh aside to grip the dildo. He presses the off button, but, without missing a beat, begins thrusting it in and out, circling it so as to stretch him wider. After a time, he plunges, harder than any previous, before exiting him completely.
He must feel painfully empty, because a small whine builds at the back of his throat.
“I know you are close, William,” Hannibal says in his ear, after removing the ear plugs, breath fanning out across his sensitized flesh. “Are you going to disappoint me?”
Will shakes his head frantically, as best he can against the bonds and Hannibal choking grip on his leash.
“We shall see.” And Hannibal unzips his trousers, pressing his underwear aside to free his erection. For just a moment, he presses himself up against the heated flush of Will’s backside, feeling Will grind backwards unconsciously.
Then, in a single, powerful thrust, he feels Will to the base. Almost as an afterthought, he removes the ball gag, just to hear the boy moan and scream.
When Hannibal shifts slightly to the left, he can see Will heaving, licking at his lips, tongue moist and glistening. If the angle were different, Hannibal would bite at his mouth until his Will bleeds, then suck the crimson liquid from him. Instead his settles for gnawing at Will’s upper back, between rope and collar.
As much as his obedient little lover cries and screams, he never ceases to force himself back, skewering himself harder on Hannibal’s cock, and up, flesh pushing deeper between Hannibal’s teeth. He arches, cock bobbing against his stomach with each and every thrust.
After removing Will’s blindfold, Hannibal sees that he’s crying now, unsurprisingly. He has likely been on the verge of tears for hours. First from being chastised, then from the effort exerted to keep himself from release, and now from being used and abused by Hannibal’s cock, like nothing more than a fuck hole.
“You cry,” Hannibal says, only slightly irritated. “But I know you like this. Being debauched and ruined by me.”
“Quiet. I said you are not allowed to cum, William. Do not beg for it like a harlot.” For emphasis, he circles the base of Will’s dick with his fist, keeping it constricted in a tight, iron grip. “I trained you better than that.”
“Yes, sir,” he whispers breathlessly. Inhales sharply and holding the air tightly in his lungs. Hannibal slaps his thighs a couple times to make him exhale. Appreciates the red handprint left in its wake.
Will is almost unendurably captivating, like this. Pretty and over-heated and trying so hard to please, even with the knowledge that he will get nothing out of it. The image born before him, of his Will laid out and open around his cock, whining and submissive, creates a familiar feeling in Hannibal, possessive and unwilling to share him even for a moment.
Consciously, he knows that no one saw him in so precarious a position, not really, but wearing that ghastly collar to work no doubt created a similar image in the mind of at least one of the boy’s acquaintances.
“You are mine, Will,” he growls out, on the edge of a grunt.
“Yours, sir—ah! Yours,” Will chants back, agreeing though he was not explicitly asked to do so. Hannibal feels himself losing control, feels orgasm rushing in around his peripheral vision, paired with the desire to break Will Graham into a thousand tiny pieces and to keep every single shard of him to himself. Broad palms squeeze at his tenderized flesh, blunt fingernails digging in enough to pierce through skin.
“Oh, hn—“ he cries out through the pain. If it were anyone else, the pain would make it easier, would distract the individual intermittently from the all-consuming pleasure. But for Will, so habituated to the vehement agony, it only spurs him on, drives him towards the foreboding precipice.
Will groans, suddenly, clenching around Hannibal. When he screams, it is high pitched, pained and melodious, like the most beautiful of concertos, of opera scores: “I can’t, I can’t—too—too much, please!“
Hannibal sees Will’s rapid blinking, hears his sniveling and feels the way every inch of his flesh vibrates with need. He knows that if he so much as grazed his fingers along the head of the man’s erection, he could have Will spilling himself all over his stomach. It would be easy. Afterwards he could punish him even further without complaint, push the boy’s body farther than ever before, mark his chest and arms with claiming bruises and even slice through flesh.
Because Will would believe he deserves it.
Instead, he sees Will bawling with the belief that he isn’t good enough, that he’s making Hannibal angrier than he was before, and decides uncharacteristically to show mercy. He grips Will’s leash a bit tighter, pulls him up more and allows his thrusts to become more rapid, harsher, though straying from Will’s prostate.
When Hannibal orgasms, finally and affectedly, he buries himself deep, bites into Will lower back until blood fills his mouth. He feels the warmth of his seed filling Will’s hole around his softening cock. Feels an animalistic sense of gratification, that he has marked his possession in the most primeval of methods.
Upon withdrawal, Will’s tense body goes lax, but only momentarily, as he battles the bonds to turn himself onto his back. Looks up at Hannibal with wide, tearful eyes that make his cock stir once more. He is aware that Hannibal has shown a superfluous amount of compassion, of generosity.
“I—I’m sorry, sir, I couldn’t—“ He babbles, unable to really speak coherently through the blinding pain, the inescapable passion. “I tr—tried—but—I wanted to be—I wasn—“
The language gives way to more crying, overemotional and melodramatic and Hannibal can’t help but find it endearing, that his Will would be so over affected over a perceived failure in Hannibal’s eyes. Anger almost entirely gone, he dips to kiss at Will’s forehead, stooping further to eat up the boy’s tears.
Once he tires of Will’s wailing, deigns he has suffered through Hannibal’s silence for long enough, he quiets him with half-praises and endearments. “Hush, now, William. I know you will do even better next time; it was a lot to handle, correct? My needy little darling, your tried so hard, didn’t you?”
He stifles his crying as best he can and nuzzles into the fabric over Hannibal’s chest. He longs for skin contact, but would never be presumptuous enough to ask for it. It is no bother to give in to William’s desire to be smothered by Hannibal’s weight, shielded and protected from everything else. As Will calms down, he works to remove the rope from his limbs, pulling knots apart wherever he can, and cutting with a withdrawn blade where he cannot. Even without the ropes, their imprint remains, stretching across Will in the form of angry red lines. By the morning, they will be bruises, lasting for a week, at least, perhaps two.
“I’m sorry,” Will whispers, referring to more than the tear stains on Hannibal’s clothes, more than the near orgasm.
He’ll need to keep covered from the top of his neck to his wrists and ankles and that pacifies Hannibal’s green monster, at least momentarily.