Archive of Our Own ^beta

Hannibal spots the boy lying on his stomach on the grass in a secluded spot, not technically out of bounds but it’s a close thing.

He’s engrossed in the book he’s reading, giving Hannibal the opportunity to observe him unnoticed. He’d grown his hair long over the summer (definitely past the school’s regulation length but Hannibal hasn’t been able to bring himself to chastise him about it) so his once messy curls are now soft waves. It makes him look achingly pretty.

As he turns the page he shifts a little, rolling onto his left side, his face grimacing slightly at the pressure the new position places on the edge of his buttocks and thigh. Hannibal smirks when he realises it must be due to the sting he's still feeling from his visit to Hannibal’s office this morning.

Hannibal likes the boy. If he allows himself to be honest, it’s grown beyond the simple affection teachers sometimes develop for their students. He feels a strange kinship with him. The way he holds himself apart from the other students. He admires his quick mind and quicker tongue.

Even if it is that rude tongue that sees him sent to Hannibal’s office too frequently for his own good. An offence that Hannibal would usually abhor but for some reason he finds almost unbearably charming when it comes to the boy.

Years of teaching at the boarding school have honed Hannibal’s ability to sneak up silently on miscreants, and so the boy doesn’t realise he’s beside him until a shadow falls across the pages of his book.

“Professor Lecter! Sir!” he yelps guiltily, scrambling to simultaneously close his book, hastily stand up, and pocket the unlit cigarette that had been dangling between his lips until Hannibal approached.

He manages to achieve two out of three of those things. Hannibal can’t help but arch an eyebrow significantly, “My my Graham. Smoking on school grounds? I didn’t realise you were so eager to bend over my desk again today.”

The boy blushes, the already soft pink of his cheeks reddening delightfully, but picks up on Hannibal’s teasing tone, replying cheekily, “You know I’m always eager for you, sir.”

Hannibal is unable to stop himself from reaching out to cup the boy’s cheek and stroke his thumb across it, “insufferable, insatiable boy,” he says fondly, “I noticed you looked in pain. Did I hurt you too severely?”

The boy regards him with a look that’s part incredulous, part amused, “Did you hurt me too badly? I was sobbing by the third stroke, sir.”

Then a much more calculating look crosses his face, hidden quickly by widening blue eyes and a deliberate provocative pouting of his lips, “perhaps you can find a way to make it up to me, sir?”

Hannibal can only laugh at his audacity, grateful that his cunning boy seems to want both the pain and the pleasure he gifts him in equal measure.

“Come to my room tonight,” he can't help but order, thoroughly entranced by the boy, “I’m sure we can find a way to provide you with some relief.”