Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s a beautiful night at the top of the world, and Will Graham’s palms are sticky with sweat.

“Are you alright, my love?” 

He glances across the candlelit table, taking in the scattering of unwrapped gifts and half-empty glasses of champagne. The light catches on crinkled gold paper and simple black ribbons that he’ll tuck away in a drawer until Hannibal forces him to toss them out.

“I’m fine, yeah,” he smiles, the apples of his cheeks glowing pink, because he is. 

He’s also very, very nervous.

Hannibal tilts his head to one side in that way he often does when he’s picking the locks on Will’s defenses. It’s Will’s night, his birthday, so Hannibal won’t press any more than is necessary. His curiosity is plain, though, and Will knows he’s going to have to say it at some point.

“Are you certain?” Hannibal prods. “You seem distracted.”

A gentle breeze flickers through the candles, carrying with it the scent of lilacs and earth. Will drums his fingers along the edge of the tablecloth, nudging at the wrinkles.

“I…” he starts, biting his lip before he can get the words out.

Hannibal was curious, but now he’s intrigued. The predatory instinct in him can’t help but sharpen whenever Will gets flustered, particularly as it happens so rarely these days.

“Was dinner not to your liking?”

Will’s brows knit in a huff as he practically rolls his eyes. They both know that isn’t it. His restless fingers reach his glass, guiding a bead of condensation down its shell. He raises it by the stem for a moment, tracking the bubbles’ ascent before tipping it back and downing the rest in one gulp.

When he sets it down, he has the good doctor’s full attention.

Fuck it, he thinks. Here goes nothing.

“I, um. I wanted to ask you something but I’m…” he laughs, running a palm down the stubble over his throat, thick with nerves. “Ah, Christ. I’m terrible at this.”

Hannibal folds his arms in front of himself. “You may ask me anything you wish. It is, after all–”

Will cuts him off with a strange, inhaled sound of self-conscious frustration. “I know what day it is,” he bristles. 

On Hannibal’s raised brow, he sighs and drops his hands to his lap. Fine. He’s pretty sure he can do it if he stares at the lovely wooden watch box instead of his husband’s face. 

“Okay. Um. You know how we said if there’s ever something either of us wants to try, we should just bring it up instead of hinting and then getting mad when the other person can’t read our minds?”

Warmth returns to Hannibal’s watchful eyes as he remembers why they instigated that rule. He nods kindly.

“I do.”

“Right,” Will huffs, picking at the skin around his nails in his lap. He can feel sweat gathering behind his knees, an odd sensation only exacerbated by the laser-focus on his every move. “Well, yeah. Okay. There’s something… I kinda want to try. I guess.”

He winces internally at his lack of confidence. They’ve tried so very many things in the three years since their escape. It shouldn’t be intimidating to ask. Hannibal certainly has no qualms bringing up his wildest fantasies for both of them. 

“I’m all ears,” Hannibal preens. He’s sitting up painfully straight, excitement barely contained.

Will takes a deep breath and draws in some of that shameless confidence, applying it like a lacquer over his anxieties. After about ten seconds, the deep creases around his eyes and forehead relax enough to allow him to speak.

“I want you to… to use me,” Will stutters, gaze burning a hole in the tablecloth. 

A flush creeps down his neck, the sparse meadow of hair standing at attention. He doesn’t have Hannibal’s sense of smell, but he knows the man well enough to read his shift in posture as a marker of sharp arousal. 

“I would be happy to,” comes the reply, placid but for the palest hint of a rumble under the words.

The corner of Will’s mouth twitches upward. He expected that. The motion pulls at the scar on his cheek, fainter now yet ever-present. Another breeze ripples across the deck as if spurring him onward.

“I know,” he grins, managing to flash his eyes up for a moment to take in the hunger in Hannibal’s expression. “I mean, it’s not that. Or, it’s more than that. I’m not, okay, there’s this thing, and it’s not all that different to… Or, no, it’s just more–”

“Will.”

He pulls the soft meat of his cheek between his teeth, nodding. He can hear himself. He’s being ridiculous. It’s Hannibal. He’s going to love this. Why is he being such a coward? All he has to do is say it. He inhales, holds it, and closes his eyes.

“I want you to use me whenever you want.”

The sentence leaves his mouth in a rush, wheneveryouwant, before his lips shut with a snap. His entire body tenses as if preparing for impact. He stays like that for a beat before peeking up with one eye. His gut tightens as Hannibal’s enthusiasm crashes over him.

“Would you mind explaining further?” his partner asks quietly. His mannerisms are too controlled; a good sign.

“I… I don’t want you to ask,” he manages, wiping his damp palms on his jeans as discreetly as he can. “Just for… I don’t know. A day, or, maybe a few. I want… I want you to take. Whenever. I want to feel like I don’t matter.”

On that, Hannibal’s eyes widen. “It would be difficult for me to pretend you do not matter to me, Will.”

A flinch ripples through Will as he raises a hand to gesture away his poor phrasing. He’s still staring at his lap, fighting his way to clarity.

“Okay,” he concedes. “Not that I don’t matter, but that… whether I’m in the mood or not doesn’t matter. Whether I come or not doesn’t matter. I don’t want to have to think about it.”

Hannibal lifts his glass, nearly empty, observing the way it catches the light. He pretends to ponder before taking a sip, allowing Will to stew in his humiliated, lust-hazy fear.

“Any time, any place?”

Will’s nostrils flare at the possibilities couched within the question. His lips are pulled between his teeth, hands clasped between his jittery knees. He glances up, aware of how ridiculous he looks.

“Mm-hmm,” he nods sharply.

“Will you prepare yourself, or will that task fall to me?”

A harsh gasp of air almost causes Will to cough. His feet bounce against the smooth wood of the deck. Here goes nothing.

“I, um. I will. I have.”

Hannibal blinks twice, taking that in. “You have? Did you hope to begin this experiment tonight?”

Will knows he’s bright red. He can feel a line of sweat drip from behind his knee down his calf, catching on his sock. He fidgets with the heavy band on his left ring finger, pressing the single hidden thorn on its underside into the skin like an anchor. The fierce impulse to apologize and make excuses for such a crude idea softens with the reminder of who they are, and what they’ve promised.

“I mean,” he chuckles, forcing his head up to offer his husband a shy, hopeful grin. “It is my birthday.”

The line of Hannibal’s mouth spreads wide as his lids lower. It’s incremental and devastating. Need, adoration, cruelty. All-consuming love. Will can see the moment an alarm goes off and the man forces himself to check all the boxes before he begins. He's been dreading this part.

“Limitations?” Hannibal requests, giving the impression of a horse peering over the starting gate.

Will's glare hardens as his jaw sets. His leg forgets to bounce.

“I… No.”

Hannibal watches him, cataloguing his expression, checking for inconsistencies.

“No,” he parrots, captivated.

Convinced.

The air around them crackles and hums in the moment before the world shifts. Will almost wishes he could hear the feverish stampede of thoughts in Hannibal’s mind, but he knows if he could he’d simply die of embarrassment. He has balled up his heart and handed it over, and now he waits to see if it will outweigh the feather.

Another slow head-tilt accompanies Hannibal crossing one knee over the other. The bouncing of Will’s leg returns as he hopes, prays that he won’t be asked too many follow-up questions. He doesn’t want to negotiate for hours, or cultivate the experience to his tastes. He wants to shut up, turn his brain off, and be of use.

He thinks that as loud as he can, hoping Hannibal knows him as well as he always has. It’s a breach of the rule they already discussed, but he’s used up his bravery for the night.

“Monday morning,” Hannibal announces, having reached what appear to be several conclusions. Will snaps to attention. “You will be relieved of your duties, pending reassessment.”

It’s Friday night. Part of him hoped for a week, but he knows this is more reasonable. He can’t seem to speak, so he nods. He tries not to look too excited and fails miserably.

“Until then, your body is mine to use as I see fit. You will not rebuke me, no matter when – barring illness, or when the bathroom door is locked.”

Will’s throat goes dry as his nails dig into his thighs. He’s not sure he even wanted that much freedom, but again, reality must be accommodated for. He sees Hannibal waiting for his agreement, so he hums at the compromise.

It earns him a catlike grin. “Sleep is not an excuse,” Hannibal purrs, and it shoots straight to Will’s already hardening cock. “Should I require you, I will take what belongs to me.”

“Yes,” Will practically moans out, the word yanked from him by force. 

The accompanying noise of contemplative pleasure unravels him further. Hannibal is fishing, testing the waters to see what pries the strongest responses from Will’s body. He knows he didn’t offer much in the way of specificity, but that was the point. Hannibal sees him. He wants to give him this.

“Come here,” he commands. Polite, yet absolute.

Will forces himself not to leap from his chair and around the table to land on his knees between Hannibal’s feet. The older man turns his chair sideways and spreads his legs just enough. He wants to face his beloved creature, so eager to comply. He reaches down, tilting Will’s chin up, rubbing his thumb in an arch to encourage those hungry lips to part. Will can feel how hard he is behind the rough confines of his jeans, and how obvious it must be from here. He swallows, open-mouthed.

“You and I are going to tidy up from our meal and then enjoy the desserts I have made in the study, by the fire. I’ve chosen a whiskey specifically to complement the chocolate mousse. I would rather not waste it.”

Will doesn’t mean to pout. It happens automatically, thinking he’s going to have to wait to begin. He catches it almost as soon as it flashes across his face, but nothing escapes Hannibal’s notice. Will’s jaw is stroked with an indulgent, knowing smirk.

“Trust me, my love. I have no intention of putting your offering to waste.”

On Will’s small, strangled gasp, he stands. The motion puts his hips square in Will’s line of sight, and the strain against his slacks is mouthwatering. Will fights the urge to nuzzle against it, but that isn’t what he asked for.

Hannibal adjusts himself slowly, temptingly. A fresh wave of pink blossoms across Will’s nose and cheeks. It’s obscene. His husband – his owner, for the weekend – seems to reconsider something as he traces the line of Will’s lips with his thumb. His expression darkens, the beast rising to the surface. 

“Open your mouth, boy.”

Will fights to keep his eyes from rolling back, but can’t stop the choked grunt of desire that leaps from his throat. He complies.

Without ceremony, Hannibal unbuckles his belt and slips his loops free of their buttons. He unzips, reaches into his silky-soft boxer-briefs, and pulls out a cock so deeply red it borders on purple. He’s leaking, as he always is, thick and sweet. Will’s mouth waters, ready to taste.

“Hold out your tongue.”

He does. His mouth is stretched wide, the scar on his cheek tugging in protest. He stares up through long, dark lashes, making his eyes wide and innocent.

Hannibal wraps a hand around the base of his length and slaps it against Will’s tongue. He does this again, and again, his breath growing shallower. Will flinches the first time, unsure what to expect, then sinks into the feeling. He begins to grow lax, tension bleeding from his shoulders even as his knees voice their complaints.

“You do not get to come unless I am inside you,” Hannibal tells him, earning a low moan of appreciation as he begins to slide his cock further into Will’s mouth. “And I will be inside you. Frequently.”

Will’s lids flutter as he struggles to take more. They’ve done great work training each others’ reflexes over the years, but Hannibal is larger and thicker, and it’s never easy. He loves that it’s never easy.

“Unh-hunh,” he agrees, pretty sure he already looks halfway drunk. His hands have found their way to bracing on Hannibal’s thighs, but he doesn’t dare touch.

He begins to see stars as the swollen, leaking head presses against the tight ring at the back of his throat. He does his best to relax, to let it in, but he’s alive with energy and excitement. He sputters, saliva pooling at the corners of his mouth.

Hannibal looks at him like he hung the moon, petting through his wild curls even as he inches further past the boy’s comfort. Will knows he likes watching him struggle, and he likes that Hannibal likes it, which Hannibal likes in turn; this is the endless, infinite feedback loop of their mutual obsession. 

“Just a bit more,” Hannibal purrs, gentleness in sharp contrast with the way he’s fucking into Will’s throat. “Let me in, darling. You’ll need to get used to this.”

He wants to show him, needs to show him, that this is going to be exactly as rough as Will hoped. Will grinds slowly against the seam of his jeans, helpless. It won’t take him to the edge, but he needs something. Anything.

“Mmm,” Hannibal hums happily, so enamored. Too gentle, maybe, but they've just started. “Beautiful creature. I want you to thank me every time I fill you.”

Will shivers with need. A guttural groan vibrates up his chest, through to his mouth and around Hannibal’s cock. The older man takes this opportunity to push past the barrier into Will’s throat, grunting with teeth as the muscle contracts, trying to fight him off. Will’s hands clench on his thighs, instinctively preparing to fight back.

Panic begins to rise as it gets harder to breathe, but Will wants to be good. Needs to be good. He swallows rhythmically around the intrusion just as he’s been taught, so hot and thick, tears spilling from the corners of his eyes as he blinks up at his tormentor. He knows he’s a mess already. It’s perfect.

There’s no work. No moral dilemmas. No fears, aside from the need for oxygen and the pull to make himself a perfect vessel. It’s blissfully quiet and exactly what he wanted.

“So good for me,” Hannibal praises, savoring Will’s lips almost all the way to the short, greying hairs at the base of him. He allows himself to trace the scars on Will’s cheek, his forehead; his middle finger finds its way to the corner of Will’s mouth and edges inside, next to his cock.

Will groans again, fighting the rising tide of unconsciousness. He is floating, free, and desperate. Entirely present yet miles away. His tongue finds Hannibal’s intruding finger, flicking at it. The man laughs fondly.

“You’re a vision like this, Will. Don’t spill a drop.”

Will’s eyes pop open as the finger slips from his mouth. Hannibal grips the back of his head, giving a few final, brutal thrusts. He comes with a roughshod cry of exertion that makes Will sick with pride. It’s almost impossible to catch it all, but god, he tries. It’s the only thing that matters, the universe reduced to this task. He gulps and splutters, tongue chasing errand strands until at last, eventually, Hannibal pulls free from his mouth with a loud, wet pop.

The intake of breath is ugly and bruised. Will falls forward, clenching Hannibal’s thighs as he gasps and coughs for air. Hannibal says nothing, merely tucking himself away as he begins to soften. When Will’s heaving finally settles, he reaches down and tilts the boy’s head up again.

His lips feel bruised. His jaw aches. Salty tracks of tears down his cheeks have begun to dry and tighten. His throat is on fire, and he is the happiest he’s been in so long.

“Thank you,” Will rasps, without needing to be reminded.

It’s divine, the few strands of hair that have come loose from Hannibal’s coiffed style. The way his eyes darken when the blade of Will’s animal hunger flicks open. The depths of their malice and masochism are equal; the only God either of them prays to anymore.

“You’re welcome,” Hannibal offers, benevolent as ever. “Now, get up and help me with the dishes.”

Will nods, his spit-wet smile as wide as his eyes. Hannibal turns toward the table to hide a show of weakness that looks an awful lot like love.

----

The mousse is delicious. Will finishes it quickly, along with the whiskey. It might not have been the plan, but the cool, rich chocolate is a balm on his abused throat. The liquor stings as it warms. It brings to mind the sensation of showering the morning after Hannibal’s nails dig their little trenches into his back.

In previous scenes, other moments of indulgence, Hannibal has always been quick to administer his brand of aftercare. They don’t call it that, both reluctant to play by the rules of a world they only circle the outskirts of, but Hannibal is a consummate provider. Cool glasses of water, warm blankets, a book read in some foreign tongue that lulls Will into slumber. 

Not tonight. He gets what he was offered and nothing more.

Will isn’t hard, not now, but it wouldn’t take much. They sit side by side on the comfiest sofa in the study, fire crackling in the hearth as music floats gently in from a speaker in the next room. They chat about everything and nothing, their plans for the spring garden and a possible trip to the South of France. It’s idyllic, really – one would hardly guess what transcended less than an hour earlier.

Hannibal has barely touched his whiskey. Will doesn’t think much of it past a bone-deep distress at seeing any alcohol go to waste. The man is a wine drinker through and through, so he shouldn't be surprised. He thinks about grabbing it and finishing it just for the look on Hannibal’s face, but he’s interrupted by a hand on his thigh.

“So greedy,” Hannibal purrs, spiking Will’s temperature in a flash. “Have I not slaked your thirst enough for one evening?”

Will freezes, swallowing dry and rough. Caught. His hands fidget with his ring again.

“No. I’m – sorry. Thank you for dessert.” He has to fight with each syllable. “And… everything.”

Hannibal catches him in a languid, calculating gaze. Unhurried, yet bright with focus. He makes Will wait for what comes next, breath bated, nerves high.

“My pleasure,” he replies, seductively terrifying. “Come here.”

Will isn’t sure where, since they’re already so close, but he needn’t have worried. A firm hand finds his jaw, cups his ear, and pulls him down into Hannibal’s lap. Will’s frame draws tight, coiled and ready to spring at the awkward positioning, but Hannibal simply threads his longer fingers through the still-wild curls. Calming him, like a startled animal.

“I have no desire to rush this,” he continues, voice lapping against Will’s frantic mind like waves to the jagged shore. “I simply wanted to savor my drink in the optimal circumstance.”

Will wants to ask what that is, but he knows he’s about to find out, so he just wriggles closer and tilts his head up. His crown leans into Hannibal’s stomach. He’s greeted with a deeply affectionate smile, like one might give a favorite pet. It makes his thighs twitch, how a look can be so kind and demeaning all at once.

Without breaking their gaze, Hannibal reaches down and guides Will’s head far enough from his lap to reach his own belt. As if he were plucking an errant bit of dust from his jacket, he once again unbuckles and unzips himself, pulling his half-hard cock free without looking at it. Will doesn’t dare move; he can barely breathe. The casual grace of such a lewd gesture unmakes him in the exact way he hoped. His throat is still sore, but suddenly that’s the least of his worries.

“Open,” Hannibal instructs, once again calling to mind a well-to-do animal trainer, the sort that sweeps the Mayflower without scuffing a shoe. Or perhaps he’s projecting. That’s something to unpack later.

Will obeys. His lip trembles only a little. He knows his pupils must be wide as lakes, black and hungry. He doesn’t even get a smile for his trouble, but he isn’t disappointed. If anything, it simmers in his blood.

His thoughts are cut off by Hannibal pressing himself into Will’s mouth by his thumb. Will’s lids flutter once more as the warm, soft thickness lays against his tongue. He’s almost silky like this, skin loose before it’s pulled taut. Will adores the feeling of Hannibal getting hard in his mouth, a deeply satisfying form of worship.

Looking up through a gathering haze, he beams with dark appreciation as he begins to lavish the decadent flesh. His lips close, cheeks hollowing just so. He starts to move.

“Ah ah,” Hannibal tuts, keeping himself stoic as he reaches down, utterly nonchalant, and squeezes Will’s cock through his jeans too harshly to be mistaken. The boy can’t yelp, so he squeaks low in his throat.

“When I want you to suck, I’ll tell you,” Hannibal continues, releasing him roughly to reach for the side table and his sweating glass of whiskey. Will feels the words all the way to his gut. “For now, enjoy the feeling. This is a gift, Will. To taste me.”

Will shivers. A twisted, artless groan bubbles from him. Part of him knows it can’t be easy for Hannibal to look at him so dispassionately, but he’s doing a fantastic job. This is what he needs. This is what he’s good at. The sharp edges of the world are dulling, growing sweet.

So he doesn’t bob his head or work his tongue against the underside, despite the muscle memory and instinct that nag at him to earn his prize. This is his prize, and the more he thinks about it, the warmer he gets. The deeper he sinks.

Hannibal waits and watches to see if Will can follow through on this task. This is new, but he already knows it will happen again. The sight of his beloved boy with his mouth around him, growing sleepy with calm even as his face is flushed pink; the saliva gently pooling from the side of his mouth. The pressure of Will’s jaw against his balls, still tucked into his dampening slacks, is strangely comforting. A beautiful, elegant mess.

“Very good,” he praises, nodding curtly. “Stay like that until I’m ready for your throat.”

A soft, low, fluttering groan vibrates against him. Will shuffles a little on his side to get comfortable, thighs pressed together. One hand finds Hannibal’s hip and rests there. He looks up, seeking approval, but is granted nothing more than a raised brow. He smiles around the offering in his mouth. His eyes glide out of focus.

They sit like that for what could be twenty minutes or two hours. Will loses track of everything but his purpose as Hannibal sips his whiskey, slow and neat. Will watches his throat work from the corner of one glassy eye. When his companion reaches out for a book and begins to read as if Will weren’t even there, he feels himself leaking. 

He hadn’t even realized he was that hard, or that his hips have been twitching. The discovery wraps around him like an embrace. To be so removed from his own pleasure is exquisite.

Hannibal stays half-hard, shooting Will a look of warning every time the boy is forced to swallow or adjust. He does his best, his very best, to be perfect. He drifts, mind loping from one half-formed thought to another with long, blissful patches of fog in between. There is nothing he should be doing, because this is what he was made for.

The whiskey and champagne, the delicious dinner and chocolate and the endless amber-musk scent of Hannibal lulls him into a happiness he can rarely dream of, much less taste. He thinks, with a stifled chuckle (too much movement of the jaw) that this has been a perfect birthday.

He’s startled as if from a deep slumber by a thumb tracing his pulse. He realizes that Hannibal has been speaking. It takes a moment of clawing up through quicksand to find his way back to language, to understanding.

“...On the terrace, yes, but would you mind moving us to one of the tables indoors? The forecast isn’t looking too favorable.”

Will blinks heavily, confused, until he manages to focus upward. Hannibal is watching him, dark amusement thrumming in the background of his genial smile as he speaks into the phone. They have dinner plans tomorrow. He remembers that much. The rest is confetti.

“I understand, yes. Molte grazie, Bianca.”

If he weren’t so laconic, Will might have panicked. Hannibal merely strokes the shell of his ear, causing him to tremble, then places one finger at his lips to remind him of his silence. Despite this, he feels a twitch against his tongue.

“Yes, the private booth near the – oh, would you? Bellissimo. SÌ. 19:00.”

Will can feel his hips trying to grind, seeking friction for his wet cock trapped behind stained cotton and rough denim. He’s trying not to, aiming for stillness, but it’s so much. Hannibal on the phone like this, making plans as Will struggles to disappear into his task, sets him on fire.

Hannibal is quiet for a moment, listening and nodding gently. His own ring, with its own hidden thorn, catches the firelight. Unable to help himself, Will swallows, licking along the warm, soft skin just once. Their eyes lock, Will’s daring into Hannibal’s offense. It is a blazing, violent thing. The older man’s jaw works in deep thought. It sends Will reeling.

At last, he speaks again to the lovely Bianca. He stares directly into Will’s contrarian instincts as he does. “You’re so wonderfully accommodating. I won’t forget it.”

He hangs up the phone with a few more words of praise and places it face-down next to him. Will swallows again, pointed, more spit leaking from the side of his mouth that rests against the seam of Hannibal’s slacks.

He expects reproach. Correction, perhaps. This is why he prods; because he can’t ask.

He asked for this, he reasons. It’s foolish of him to go testing it so soon, but this is who he is. Who they are. Always a hidden blade, a motive ready to strike. It’s why, three years into their life on the run, they are absolutely ruined for anyone else.

They always were, he knows.

Instead of a harsh word, Hannibal smirks. It’s infinitely more terrifying. Will is rising from the depths, aware of the threat gathering behind his lover’s smile. He stares for a long time, thinking, until Will realizes he’s getting hard. Not a little, but entirely. It’s a staggering thing to have to adjust to, and quickly. He wants to protest – this wasn’t his fault, he was good – but there isn’t time. He blinks and groans and comes back to life as Hannibal fills out against his tongue as if he were simply willing it to do so.

Because he is. Because he can.

Fear scampers across Will’s expression, shortening his breath. It only seems to spur Hannibal on. He of the endless, doting sadism. A hand comes to the side of Will’s face and grips it for purchase. Slowly, yet firmly, Hannibal begins to slide in and out of Will’s stretched, drooling maw.

“I told you to be still,” he remarks, neutral as a dagger.

Will makes a noise of acknowledgement, just shy of apology, as he adjusts to the shift in tone. He forces his jaw slack, keeps his tongue flat along the bottom of Hannibal’s cock. The older man doesn’t drive as deep this time, not yet, and for a moment, Will laments his concern. It’s wrong, he knows, to want to be pushed so far, but–

Hannibal catches the look again like a fly in midair. The world sharpens, his hackles raised, as something cruel and wild calls to its own kind. Will’s brows raise as much as they can, worry glittering up through storm-cloud irises that Hannibal can never resist bringing to tears.

They get so blue when he cries.

“Perhaps I should’ve put something in your whiskey,” Hannibal muses, holding Will in place for shallow, overwhelming bucks of his hips. “You’d be so pliant like that. I wonder how much more you could take.”

The starving, wretched noise of want that Will moans out is such an utter betrayal of himself that he wants to die. His legs twitch and flex, hands gripping whatever skin and fabric they can find. He tries to pull back as Hannibal’s cock once again finds its way to the bruised ring of muscle at the back of his throat. Wetness gathers and spills from the corners of his lips, his eyes.

“Would you like that, Will? To be limp and open for me, unable to struggle even this much?”

Will can’t think. Hannibal’s grip is so certain, tugging at his hair as it keeps him from escaping. He’s so thick and hot now, merciless as he picks up speed. He’s embarrassed, so embarrassed by the vicious coil of arousal between his legs. He shoots a look in that direction without meaning to, and the beast pounces.

“It wouldn't mean you couldn't feel the pain, the violation…” On the word, he grips the wet length of Will’s cock through his jeans. The boy mewls around the unrelenting fullness that stretches his scar. Hannibal’s gaze is frightening as he continues, unmoved by Will’s struggle. “Only that you couldn't do anything about it.”

Will nearly comes, choking on the brutality of the words and punishing pressure. He’s spasming, rapidly losing oxygen again, endorphins warring with the reality of pain. It’s perfect, he hates it, he’s going to die, he hopes it never ends. His legs rub against each other like a panicked insect, head attempting to jerk away from the inevitable. This is a gift to Hannibal, too; an invitation to bare his teeth.

“This is what it means to be used,” Hannibal spits out, manhandling Will off the couch and onto the floor between his legs. Before the boy can respond or catch his breath, Hannibal shoves his head down to the base. 

He tries to push away, extremities growing tingly and distant, but Hannibal is a vengeful god and this is his sacrifice. Will garbles out noises of panic and distress, his entire body slick with sweat and desire and terror. This is it, he thinks. This is what I asked for. Sailing away from it all, he tries his very best to show his gratitude through the crinkling at the corners of his eyes.

Yes, he thinks. Exactly like this.

With a stifled cry, Hannibal comes. He spills thick and hot and this time Will really can’t swallow it all. It leaks back over Hannibal’s cock, his pants, dribbling down Will’s chin onto the sofa cushion. There’s a sound of disgust from above him and Will can’t help moaning over it, even as the world goes static and numb.

He realizes with distant, hopeless horror, that he’s somehow found himself rutting against Hannibal’s leg. He didn’t mean to, he isn’t even sure how, but before he can process it, his orgasm crashes into him at full speed. He wants to cry out, to stop it, but there’s nothing for it. He comes against Hannibal’s shin, his shoe, halfway to passing out.

When Hannibal looks down to see what Will has done, his nostrils flare. He seems both appalled and mesmerized, still panting through the last aftershocks of his release. Will must look utterly pathetic, he knows it, and the thought causes him to shudder as his cock twitches one last time.

Chest heaving, eyes wild, Hannibal pulls Will up by the collar to face him head on. They catch each others’ manic gazes for a split second before their lips are pressed together, Hannibal’s tongue claiming Will’s slack, wet mouth.

“What a fucking mess you are,” he exhales roughly, almost a whisper, before pulling Will off of him and shoving him to the floor.

It’s even harder than last time to find air. Will’s lungs ache, his muscles scream. He’s curled up on the floor, hands around his stomach, nearly retching in his search for breath. His lips are bruised and everything hurts. His jeans are wet. There is nothing left of him, and it is gorgeous.

He hyperventilates until a hand finds his shoulder, a steadying pressure that he normally welcomes but suddenly, violently rejects. He bucks away from it without meaning to, lost to the struggle for air and the beauty of being so completely ruined. The hand retreats and he’s hit with an ugly, resentful need to clarify that he isn’t mad, he just doesn’t want to come down yet. He hates himself for it, everything gets hot and sharp, until he looks up and sees Hannibal standing over him.

In the brief exchange of looks, all the stress is yanked from Will like a ripcord. Hannibal knows. Will doesn’t have to pretend, doesn’t have to grow soft. If he weren’t already in tears, the understanding of it all would have him sobbing.

Hannibal doesn’t offer him water or a blanket. He merely smirks, letting just enough love through, and thrusts the bottom of his shoe down on Will’s spasming chest.

The boy practically barks in shock. There is nothing left in him but raw reflex.

“Clean yourself up,” Hannibal commands, digging his heel into Will’s jerking ribs. He manages to maintain a faint look of distaste, as if Will’s display weren’t entirely of his making. “Then come to bed. Make sure you're ready for me, in all respects.”

Will feels himself choking on his words, so long disused. He is shivering and possibly on the edge of shock, curled up under the shoe of the worst, best person he’s ever known.

All he can do is nod, weak and eager, hands flayed out at his sides. When Hannibal doesn’t move to release him, his mind races for what he’s missing. When he finds it, he sinks into the beauty.

With glazed eyes and a slack mouth, he smirks up at Hannibal Lecter and licks his lips.

“Thank you,” he croaks, voice scraped beyond recognition.

Hannibal reaches for the last sip of his whiskey and drinks it, gasping tightly as he finishes. He never looks away from Will’s wet, messy, pink-flushed face. He sets the glass down, straightens himself up, and steps off of his husband’s chest. There's an imprint of his shoe from the dust across their deck that he hopes will never come out.

“You’re welcome,” he hums kindly, as if they were both perfect gentlemen. 

Will’s eyes roll back and he begins to curl in on himself, dizzy with agony and bliss. Just before he turns to leave, Hannibal leans down and whispers against his sensitive ear with a possessive little nip.

“Happy birthday,” he murmurs, then strolls out of the room.

*

*

Chapter Text

When Will finally makes it to bed, showered and changed, Hannibal is reading against his pillow. He’s idyllic in his crisp, deep burgundy pajamas. He greets Will with a soft smile, pleasant and sweet as if nothing out of the ordinary had taken place. There’s a glass of water on Will’s bedside table, but little else.

Clad in a fresh pair of boxers and soft sleep shirt, Will makes his way to his side. Hannibal stops him mid-motion, marking his page with a finger. He rakes his eyes up and down Will’s body, still warm and pink from the shower.

“Naked, I think,” he suggests, though it isn’t a suggestion at all. 

Will blinks. His face reddens. Hannibal is looking at him over his small set of reading glasses, appraising. It causes something in the younger man to wrench itself into a knot, reduced to an object so congenially.

He protests just to see it enforced, scratching at his arm. “What if I get cold?”

Hannibal’s brow raises incrementally. “You won’t. Strip, Will. I won’t ask again.”

His stomach flutters as he obeys, pulling the shirt over his head and folding it back into the drawer. They’ve seen each other nude a thousand times, but tonight, an old shyness creeps back in as he peels his boxers down past his ankles. He peeks back over his shoulder; Hannibal has already returned to his book. It sends a jolt to his cock, which he hisses at from between his teeth.

Taking a drink of water, he slips quickly under the sheets. Hannibal flips a page, so he reaches for his own book – a charming little study of Scandinavian woodworking he got for his last birthday – but Hannibal snatches his arm.

“Not tonight,” he hums smoothly, guiding Will’s head down toward his lap. 

Will’s eyes widen, his tongue growing thick; is he going to be expected to perform again? There’s no way Hannibal’s ready for a third round in as many hours. He has impressive stamina for his age, but even the Ripper’s biology has its limits.

No such demands come. Hannibal simply settles Will’s head against his thigh over the blanket and continues to read. Eventually, his fingers find the silky curls at the base of his skull. He pets them, scratching Will’s scalp gently. The gesture is almost too soft, but the exposure he feels, the crackling possibility in the air, keeps him humming quietly to himself.

Physical exhaustion catches up to him almost immediately. He falls asleep with a full heart and an aching jaw. He dreams of nothing at all, static and murmurs in a gentle current. The soreness has scraped him clean. 

Some time in the still, deep dark of the night, his consciousness begins to float to the surface. It’s an odd sensation, as if he’d forgotten to close the blinds and the sun was rising like blood orange through his eyelids. His brows knit, clinging weakly to sleep. There is no light. It’s too early, and too late, but there’s a pressure he can’t seem to ignore.

He hears it first, before anything else. A soft, muffled, wet slicking, accompanied by a stifled exhale of breath. There’s heat at his back that stands out in stark contrast to the chill in the air, and then it clicks; when the third finger slips in and grazes his prostate, a moan trips from between his chattering teeth.

“Ssh, my love. Rest,” comes the thickly-accented voice at his shoulder.

Will’s mind begins to scramble for purchase, unused to the shock of pleasure pulling him from sleep. There’s no time to adjust; before he can even form a response, Hannibal pulls his fingers free and replaces them with the swollen head of his leaking, insistent cock.

“H- hah,” Will tries, blinking enough to see that yes, they are still swathed in darkness. 

It’s cool in the room; Hannibal’s proximity is his only source of real relief. He’d prepared himself again after his shower, hopeful yet uncertain. Even after everything, the act manages to surprise him. 

“Quiet,” Hannibal murmurs, setting his teeth against the tense muscles curving up toward Will’s neck. There are goosebumps raised along them, tiny acts of betrayal. “No need to think, now. Let me in.”

Will’s hands twist in the sheets under his pillow. He’s on his side, Hannibal’s hand digging into the full flesh of his ass, holding him open as he guides his thick, wet length past the tight ring of Will’s entrance. A groan of appreciation pools against his neck as it pops inside, harmonizing with Will’s own mumbles of pleasure. A firm palm finds his stomach and presses down on it, like a goal Hannibal’s set for how deep he can go.

“Oh, g-god,” Will whines softly, biting at his lip. 

His knee raises and bends, offering up a better angle. He’s half-asleep but rapidly waking; hard not to in such circumstances. Will feels himself hardening. As the stretch deepens, his cock taps at the back of Hannibal’s hand, hot against the corded veins that undulate with Will’s breathing. His need goes entirely ignored. Hannibal simply presses down and fucks in, slow and steady. 

Will’s breathing begins to hitch. He can’t help it; he starts trying to buck his hips back to take more, faster. Ice trickles down his spine as Hannibal chuckles quietly. His hand glides from Will’s stomach to his dribbling cock and wraps around it lazily. 

He stops thrusting. “Sleep, darling. I told you I’d keep you warm.”

Hannibal lets go. He uses his hand to pull the sheets up over their shoulders, cuddling closer, deeper. Once he’s settled in, he returns his loose grip to Will’s aching length, stroking it languidly with his thumb. It’s the same absent sort of petting he felt through his curls as he fell asleep, and that causes him to twitch in Hannibal’s embrace.

Will waits, silent, eyes struggling to adjust to the dark and the flood of sensations. Hannibal is all the way in, one leg pressing against the back of his thigh, buried in his tight heat. He isn’t moving now, isn’t stroking, and it occurs to Will all at once that he has no intention of ramping things up.

His breathing starts to slow. Will has no idea if he’s faking, what with his own heart beating at a frantic pace, but then Hannibal’s weight begins to sink down in the way it does when he drifts off. It’s always been a comforting thing, an anchor. Will’s body is torn between the calming pressure enveloping him and the fact that he’s stretched around Hannibal’s shaft.

He couldn’t possibly fall asleep like this.

Could he?

He wants to move. The fullness is unbearable. He needs motion, friction, but there’s none to be had. It’s the same, he thinks, as the way his mouth was made useful earlier in the night; but that was only half-aroused, and this is Hannibal filled out all the way. It almost hurts, it will hurt later, he has no idea how the cock inside him is staying hard if the man it’s attached to is asleep. 

Did he drug himself? Is Will dreaming?

He thinks about it for so long, mind racing, that he barely registers when the thoughts begin to stumble and slow. Hannibal doesn’t soften an inch. The discomfort has no choice but to settle into a strange sort of acceptance. A new normal. 

He is tired. So tired. 

The entire scenario is so painfully erotic that he’s convinced, despite the mounting evidence, that he’ll never be able to sleep. This is what he hoped for, the casual dominance of being taken without any regard for his body’s limits. It makes him wet and needy, but it’s also three or four in the morning. Hannibal’s wrapped around him, the sheets are clean and warm, and after twenty minutes of internal debate, he glides away from himself and into much more vivid dreams.

He wakes several hours later with a jolt when two firm hands pull him up by the hips, shoving his face down into the pillow.

“H-wh–” he garbles, air rushing into his lungs as he begins to piece together what’s happening.

It doesn’t take long. His arms twist out from underneath him as his body catches up to Hannibal fucking into him at a steady, self-indulgent pace. He’s on his knees behind Will, skin slapping against skin as he drags the head of his cock across the sensitive nerves deep inside.

“Oh, ff-fu,” is all he can say between mouthfuls of pillow. A hand finds the back of his neck and pushes down, forcing him to struggle for air.

“Good morning,” Hannibal greets him, snapping his hips forward to fill his beloved to the brim. “How did you sleep?”

Will can’t find the words, or even the idea of them. His eyes roll back as his body is manhandled, pulled and pushed as Hannibal forces him to accommodate for his size. It’s near impossible to discern where one sensation ends and the next begins, but he knows his rim is sore and that a steady line of warm liquid – he can’t be sure what – is dripping down the back of his right thigh.

“Was it comforting, having me inside you?” Hannibal huffs. His voice is still rough with sleep, but his words are sharp. “You seemed peaceful. Your body adjusted to the stretch so easily.”

His pace is punishing, meant to cross all the wires in Will’s mind. It’s working. He can feel himself drooling against the pillow. He’s only half-hard, but each movement forces him to reckon with the wet patch underneath him. A sharp intake of breath startles him as he wonders if Hannibal came inside him in the night.

The not knowing has his cock filling out with a vengeance.

“Perhaps we should always sleep that way,” Hannibal continues, reaching down to tweak Will’s right nipple without any preamble. It makes him writhe, makes him moan, thinking of being the thing Hannibal slides into every night. Just a toy, a sleeve, a thing without objections. “You might get used to it, and then what? Unable to rest without being full. Wouldn’t that be something?”

“Fuck, Hannibal,” is the first sentence Will manages to choke out, sweat forming a golden sheen across his back. 

He’s wide awake now, prostate nudged with each merciless thrust. Hannibal’s deft fingers twist and tweak at one nipple, then the other, pinching them cruelly as Will babbles for mercy he does not want. The small buds grow redder, desperately sensitive. Every shock of pain causes him to squeeze around Hannibal, to leak from his untouched, ruddy cock.

“I think it might spoil you,” he ponders aloud, dragging Will up by the torso so that he’s almost sitting in Hannibal’s lap, flush against his chest. “Soon, I wouldn’t be enough. You’d need something bigger.”

Will is a metronome surging wildly back and forth between pain and pleasure, lost to any sense of shame. The words are hypnotic, prying open the darkest parts of his fantasies, leaving no room for denial. Without thinking, he reaches one hand down to palm himself, just to relieve the pressure for a moment.

Hannibal slaps his wrist away roughly, hooking his elbows around Will’s to jerk them back and restrain them. He seizes both nipples, tugging at them harshly in reprimand. It sends Will’s eyes rolling back with a cry. His thighs quiver, and even Hannibal can’t hide the low groan of pleasure that comes from Will clenching around him.

“Would you like that, Will? If I trained you? Stretched you, until even my cock could not sate your hunger?”

Will whines tightly in protest, lips parted through rhythmic gasps as he shakes his head like a dog shaking off water. “N-no, no–”

Hannibal’s left arm tightly brackets Will’s core, guiding him up and down through shallow, brutal movements. His right continues to torture one oversensitive nipple without pause. Will feels like a rag doll. 

It’s bliss.

“No? You wouldn’t?”

Will is barely aware that he’s speaking. It just happens. “Y-you. Only you.”

“A shame,” Hannibal purrs against his throat, dragging his teeth along Will’s feverish pulse, “that you have no say in it.”

A shudder rips through Will. Two fingers climb the plush wetness of his mouth. They slide in past his teeth, pressing down on his tongue. Holding him open.

“Your body is mine to use as I see fit.” His tormentor is getting close; Will can tell from the low scrape of his voice, the shortening of his breath. “You handed over your right to protest last night.”

His cock aches with need, bobbing pathetically with each bounce of his hips. Drool begins to slip over the edges of Hannibal’s fingers and down his chin. He is messy, ruined, wet.

“You wanted this, Will. Remember that, when the regret settles in. When your body cries out for mercy, and the one little word that could make it all go away rises up like bile in your throat.”

Will groans out a string of punched-out vowels as Hannibal finally grips his cock, thumbing through the leaking slit. They have a word that they’ve used before. Will doesn’t want it. Doesn’t want to think about it. He is made of tremors and sweat, barely human. He doesn’t deserve the right to call it off. 

He wants to say so. Wants to tell Hannibal no, to beg him to pretend there’s no escape, just this once. He wants, and he doesn’t want, and it’s too much thinking this early in the morning with his body so full and on fire.

“Ask yourself this,” Hannibal hisses, hot breath tracing the shell of Will’s ear. “Do you really think it would stop me?”

Lightning crackles through Will’s liquid haze at the shock of what feels like Hannibal reading his mind. His eyes snap wide. The slick muscles of his ass tighten far too tellingly, causing the fingers in his mouth to drive in further, rougher. He makes a sound of question, of panic.

Hannibal ignores it. He raises up on his knees, switching up the angle so he’s once again hitting Will’s prostate on every stroke. The hand around his cock keeps up its brutal pace, and there will be no stopping his orgasm once it starts.

“Why would I care if you used it?” asks the wolf nipping at Will’s earlobe. The veil is gone; only the monster remains. “It’s an empty gesture, Will. Your body is far more honest.”

“Ghh-hah,” Will confirms, trying to stave off his release long enough for Hannibal to finish. The knowing sends a hot, fresh flush blossoming under his skin.

“You’re little more than an object, like this,” Hannibal huffs, teeth bared. He licks a firm stripe up the side of Will’s throat. “Objects don’t get to say no.”

The trembling starts low in Will’s stomach, spreading outward like an earthquake. His muscles tense and he folds in on himself as he comes, cock spurting helplessly over his own stomach, over Hannibal’s tight grip. The fingers slip from his lips and find his right nipple, circling the tight bud with purpose. He hears himself yell, or grunt, or both. 

He’s still coming as ten bruising fingertips crush his hips. Hannibal drives in, spilling hot and thick inside Will’s abused, oversensitive hole with an answering cry. They fall forward as if their strings were cut, sweat-slick skin colliding noisily as they hit the mattress.

For a moment, all they can do is pant and tremble. Will wants Hannibal to peel him open and climb inside his ribs; it’s the only way for them to be as close as he needs. Everything hurts, even with the oxytocin swimming through his veins.

“Will,” whispers a reverent voice at his nape, arms holding his heaving chest close with a level of worship that almost, almost betrays Hannibal’s show of cruelty.

Will’s right hand finds Hannibal’s beneath him, in the hollow of his sternum. He weaves their fingers together and clenches tight, trying not to choke on the emotion burning at the corners of his eyes.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, remembering the rule.

Hannibal beams. He squeezes back, pressing a too-soft kiss to Will’s shoulder.

“You’re welcome,” he sighs, unable to keep his devotion at bay.

In the safety of the pillow, Will’s grin is as bright as the rising sun.

----

The rest of their day passes with relative calm, Hannibal seemingly having reached the limits of even his refractory periods. He serves up a hearty breakfast with plenty of fresh fruit, working to keep the faint color of his cheeks under control every time he catches Will wincing in his chair.

It wouldn’t do to show his soft underbelly to his pet so soon. Appearances to maintain.

Will, for his part, doesn’t mind. Once the chemical anaesthetic of sex had worn off and they’d been forced to peel their bodies apart, the reality of being fucked quite literally all night had set in and made itself at home. He’d showered and dressed gingerly in his softest clothes, popping a few ibuprofen before meandering downstairs.

Hannibal says nothing about it. As they eat, Will turns over a thousand questions in his mind, dismissing them each in turn. 

Do you really think it would stop me?

It sends a shiver down his spine. In the end, he decides he doesn’t want to know where the game ends. Not yet.

They spend the afternoon puttering about. Hannibal cleans and writes in his study. Will reads his book, curled up carefully on their most comfortable armchair. He’s tender everywhere, nipples chafing against even the gentle cotton of his shirt, but the ache is delicious. His thoughts are blissfully abstract. He watches with detached curiosity as they drift by.

Hannibal does not offer to bathe or comfort him. Will wonders how difficult it is for him. An indulgent, pleased smirk dances across his face until some time after six o’clock.

“Upstairs, please.”

The command startles him out of a nap Will doesn’t remember falling into. He blinks wearily, taking in the living room and its dimming light. His joints protest as he stretches out, flinching at the various aches. 

“Hm?”

He comes to more clearly as he sees Hannibal in front of him, standing prim with his arms behind his back. He’s dressed up; a surprisingly muted charcoal suit with a checked tie in shades of burgundy. Simple, elegant. 

Ominous.

“Dinner is in an hour. Your outfit is laid out on the bed; wear it exactly as it is. We leave in thirty minutes.”

Will’s lips fall open with a question, then close on Hannibal’s expectant eyebrow raise. It sends a spark of heat through him. His respite is over, it seems.

Instead of answering, he nods. He gathers himself with as much grace as he can muster, smoothing a hand over his jaw as he stands. He doesn’t mean the action to weigh so heavily with suggestion, but the click of Hannibal’s throat underscores the shift in mood.

“Thank you,” he replies, blinking up from under his lashes just to watch his husband’s teeth clench.

He slips from the room before either of them can delay their departure.

----

On the plush bedspread, Hannibal has laid out Will’s outfit with care. A deep blue suit with silky charcoal lining to complement the burgundy. Crisp black shirt. A tie he’s never seen that shimmers between cobalt and navy, depending on the light. Old socks, new shoes. A pair of rather delicate briefs edged tastefully with lace.

He almost snorts, but for the heat that spreads from his neck down his chest. Despite his shower this morning, he threw himself in for another quick rinse to try and tame his curls, and stands now with his towel around his waist. 

He’s worn his fair share of racy underthings for Hannibal – they both have, when the mood strikes – but rarely out of the house. He swallows, reaching for them, then pauses halfway.

The accessories are lined up neatly beside the clothes. White-gold cufflinks. A simple watch with a black leather band, one of Hannibal’s. And, sitting pretty in a velvet-lined box, a very expensive-looking plug.

He inhales as he pulls his lower lip between his teeth. This, too, isn’t entirely new. The concept of it, at least; this particular item must be a belated birthday gift. 

His face heats as he plucks it from its nest to inspect its shape. It’s rounded and slightly curved, with one larger bump at the head and two smaller ones making up the shaft. It isn’t massive, but he won’t be able to ignore it. He knows what the shape is meant to stimulate. His hole twitches just thinking about it, still so sore from the morning and the night that led up to it. 

The worst part is the base. The flared oval has a clearly-marked charging port and several small, indecipherable buttons. 

He closes his eyes, gripping its length in his fist. Despite everything, a jolt of desire races to his cock. It’s not Hannibal, but it isn’t small, either.

A challenge, certainly. Excitement tingles along his skin.

Remembering himself and their schedule, he hangs his towel up quickly and reaches into his bedside drawer for the small plastic bottle. He’s still quite open, but incredibly sensitive. He slicks the toy up generously, lifting a leg up onto the duvet at a safe distance from his suit, and begins to work it inside.

He hisses through his teeth as the large round bulb prods at his entrance. He has to bear down, a grimace tightening the scars of his face until it finally breaches him. His rough, pained sounds give way to a sigh of relief as his body begins to accept the toy. 

He breathes in deep, giving himself a moment, but the stretch grows unbearable. With a nod of determination, he presses it in further, teeth on edge until the moment his entrance finally swallows the last nub and can close around the thin bridge between the toy and its base.

“Fuck,” he huffs out, almost coughing. He adjusts it, searching for an angle where he can ignore the intrusion, but there simply isn’t one.

He has no idea what he’ll do if Hannibal turns it on.

If? No. When.

With a dry swallow, he stands up, shifting foot to foot tenderly. There is some relief in having it sheathed all the way, sitting snug inside him. It’s easier than how he fell asleep, at the very least.

He wonders how hard a man can blush before it kills him.

With the end of his towel, he cleans up the rest of the tacky liquid from around his ass and upper thighs. When he deems himself ready, he slips the silky briefs over his ankles and tugs them up into place.

The feeling is unexpectedly nice. They hug his skin like an embrace, the fabric fine and sheer enough that it hides next to nothing. He tucks his soft cock to one side, tracing the unmistakable outline of it with his index finger. The garment clearly wasn’t designed with his anatomy in mind, distorted by even the slightest twitch of arousal. He wonders how much of tonight it can realistically endure.

With a secretive, shy sort of smile, he strides to the full-length mirror. He feels every step, the weight of the plug inside him refusing to be ignored. Turning and giving himself a once-over, he sees that the base of it is clearly visible to anyone who would bother to look.

Something sweeter than lust broadens his grin as he reminds himself that only one person gets to look. One person who will most likely take deep, selfish pleasure in looking to his heart’s content.

He puts on the rest of his outfit quickly and neatly, hoping the deep blue of the suit fabric will grant him the modesty he’ll surely need before dinner is through.

----

“Prenotazione per due, Erikson. Sì, 19:00. Grazie.”

“Ah, benvenuto, signori! Mi segua, per favore.”

Will stands with his hands in his pockets, eyeing up the heavy damask curtains that line the walls of the restaurant. Gorgeous (and probably ancient) arched windows overlook the palazzo below, currently drenched by sheets of steel-grey rain. Candlelight and dim sconces lend the whole place an air of secrecy and warmth, a fireplace in a castle’s hearth.

“Daniel?”

He looks up, remembering his assumed name from the way Hannibal delivers it. They’re on their third set of identities at this point, not counting the short-lived alter egos they adopt when they travel, and for a second he can’t remember whether his husband is Sigmund, Stellan, or–

“Søren,” he responds, grinning as it clicks into place.

Hannibal nods, offering his hand as a gesture for Will to follow the petite blonde server to their table. The place is a little over half-full, mostly couples and small gatherings. The mood is somewhat subdued, likely a result of the dreary weather, but people seem to be enjoying their meals. The comforting scents of basil and rosemary waft up from generous portions of pasta and bread. 

No pompous, tiny dishes, then. Excellent.

“Da qui, signori,” prompts the hostess, bowing toward an archway set into the white brick of a back wall. 

There are more curtains inside, covering two of the walls in deep, rich red. The windows are smaller here, tucked away. The seating is intimate; only one large booth, and two little tables. The booth faces an actual fireplace, flickering gently. 

Will’s face flushes as he realizes just how private a setting Hannibal has chosen for their evening. He coughs into his hand, nodding his approval when he catches the expectant look on the hostess’ face.

“Uh, grazie,” he mutters, rolling gently from heel to toe without looking her in the eye. 

There hasn’t been a single moment since they left the house that he hasn’t been aware of the plug. He wonders how much of his struggle Hannibal can smell through the suit. He wonders what happens when it turns on.

Yet, ever the gentleman, Hannibal inclines his head genially to her. “Sì. Grazie.”

They exchange a number of quick sentences – Will catches something about wine – before she gives a short bow and leaves them to seat themselves. As soon as they’re alone, Will’s shoulders slump. The pink of his cheeks reddens, particularly when Hannibal gives him a long, slow once-over and gestures to the booth.

“Have a seat.”

Will sucks the meat of his cheek between his molars and narrows his eyes. Hannibal doesn’t move, though his eyes glint with mischief. Will loses the battle, sliding into the booth much more gingerly than usual. 

“Comfortable?” Hannibal asks, barely containing his glee as he takes the spot diagonal. 

The slight wince as Will shifts in place should be answer enough, in Will’s opinion, but his companion merely steeples his fingers and waits.

“As much as can be expected,” he shoots back.

Hannibal’s canines flash briefly as he reaches for his menu. 

“Excellent,” he replies, focusing intently on the options.

Will’s Italian is still fairly basic. He can make out the general concept of the dishes, but not the particulars. He’s pretty sure it won’t matter; Hannibal loves to order for them, and the dynamic they’re spending the weekend in certainly lends itself to that kind of control. 

As expected, when their server arrives with a bottle and two glasses, Hannibal doesn’t even bother asking Will for his reaction. He scents and samples the deep red, nodding his approval to the eager, bright-eyed young man assigned to them. 

Hannibal seems to know him, perhaps from lunch visits when he’s out sketching in the city. The boy – Will guesses he’s in his early twenties at most – is transparently charmed. He’s blonde and trim with long, fair lashes over sea-blue eyes. The sort of youth that inspires poetry and art. 

The kind he might have been jealous of, once.

Hannibal knows. Of course, he knows. He drinks it in. Encourages it. They laugh in fluent Italian, and it’s quite a performance. Watching Hannibal in his element is either fascinating or annoying. Tonight, it’s both.

Will catches the boy glancing his way, gauging whether or not he understands. His chest puffs with a hint of possessiveness when he realizes their conversation is going right over his head. It’s cute. Hannibal’s got him wrapped around his finger.

“E per tuo marito?”

Will knows that word. Husband. The boy says it with an admirably restrained hint of distaste, speaking only to Hannibal.

“Lo stesso.”

The same. He hands the menus to the boy, giving away nothing but a knowing smile. The boy stutters briefly, unsure if he’s being reprimanded or praised for his boldness. Hannibal watches and waits as he decides the best course of action is simply to go put in their order. His strut out of the little room is a bit less sure than it was on the way in.

“You’ve done a number on that one,” Will murmurs, adjusting his position to try and keep the plug from putting pressure on his prostate. It’s not easy.

Hannibal turns to him slowly, only half-feigning innocence.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he blinks, coy as he lifts his wine glass.

Will lifts his own in response, brow arched. “To my beloved Mr. Erikson and his endless machinations.”

Hannibal’s lips curl up at the corners, just so. “To my darling pet and his relentless skepticism.”

There’s a slight tremble in Will’s hand as the term lands. He brings the glass to his lips quickly, more than ready to start drinking in earnest.

Unfortunately for him–

“J-jesus!” he splutters, grasping for his napkin as a stray drop of wine scrambles down his chin.

His shoulders hitch, caught entirely by surprise as the plug inside him jolts to life.

“Something the matter?” Hannibal asks, so pleasant it’s beyond sinister. 

He has one hand on his wine glass, one in his pocket. Will’s eyes dart between the two, pinging off his expression to piece together the game. A remote. The bastard. He should’ve expected this. 

His teeth grit as he assesses the situation. The vibration is low enough that he might be able to get used to it, but he’d bet at least one of Hannibal’s offshore accounts that it won’t stay that way. The plush seating of the booth provides some relief, which he’s certain was part of the plan. 

He could kill Hannibal. He could kiss him. 

“Nothing at all,” Will lies, pressing his tongue between his teeth the second he’s done speaking.

Hannibal stares at him with open fascination. He pulls his hand from his pocket and sets it over Will’s, thumbing at the simple gold band. Pressing down, so the little thorn digs into the skin beneath.

Will doesn’t flinch, but it’s a close call.

“Hannibal, are you–”

He’s interrupted by the waiter’s return, carrying a small basket of steaming bread wrapped in heavy cloth. Rosettes of herbed butter sit prettily on a tray at its side. The boy unwraps the bread and stands back, presenting it with more quick Italian directed solely at Hannibal. 

Despite his low-lying panic and stimulation, Will’s stomach growls audibly. It makes a good excuse for the flush creeping down his neck. 

He expects – hopes – that the boy will leave as soon as the bread is delivered, but he just keeps chatting. Will can’t blame him entirely; Hannibal is doing the absolute most to keep him enthralled. He watches the boy tuck an errant lock behind his ear, pink from the attention.

Just as Will is about to intrude with a snide comment, the vibration jumps to its next level.

He swallows loudly, managing to stifle the instinct to lurch forward and grab the table’s edge for balance. He shoots a look at Hannibal, who is still charming the daylights out of the fair-haired twink as if nothing else were happening at all.

The increase in intensity takes it from tolerable to a problem. Will can feel himself starting to sweat, muscles clenching around the intrusion which only drives it into contact with all those sensitive nerve endings he’s been carefully avoiding. The boy’s gaze flicks to him curiously as Will inhales, ragged, hiding his face in his wine.

“Tuo marito sta bene?” the boy whispers, as if Will weren’t even there.

He has no time to assert himself before Hannibal waves off the question. “Sì, Amadeo. Grazie mille.”

After several confused blinks, Amadeo straightens and nods. His gaze lingers on Will, whose face has adopted the faint sheen of someone battling the onset of food poisoning. He seems to decide it’s none of his business, and leaves them to it.

The second he’s gone, Will exhales. His eyes fall closed. He’s twisting his napkin between his fingers again.

“You’re evil,” he scoffs, though it curls into a disbelieving laugh.

He opens his eyes to find Hannibal gleaming back at him. 

“Oh, Will,” the man teases, memorizing every line of Will’s struggling face. “This is only the appetizer.”

He punctuates the sentence by retrieving a slice of bread and buttering it. Will turns away, unable to watch the devil himself grinning into his food, but then the crust appears in front of his mouth. The scent of rosemary wafts up with the steam, and Will realizes Hannibal is holding the bread out for him to bite.

“You’re not feeding me in public, Hann– fuCK,” he chokes.

The vibration peaks. It’s a steady onslaught now, and while he’s pretty sure it isn’t audible through the booth and the general din of the restaurant, he can feel it rattling in his bones. He’s managed to ignore the twitches in his cock until now, but the large, round tip of the plug is hounding his prostate no matter how he shifts in his seat.

Hannibal knows all this, and he grins. 

“I don’t think that’s up to you to decide,” he purrs.

Will glares back with a fresh wave of fury. His tongue is heavy in his mouth.

“Open up,” Hannibal preens, moving the slice of bread closer to his lips.

He bares his teeth as he obeys. He’s flushed all over already, he knows it. The swollen head of his cock slips past the elastic of the panties as he adjusts his hips, pressing against the cool lining of his suit pants. He winces at it, at how undone he is already. 

He steels himself as he takes a bite, chews, and wonders how all this will end. Could he use his word now? Slip it into conversation and end all this before it escalates? His mind keeps darting back to earlier in the morning.

Do you really think it would stop me?

A shudder rips through him as he swallows. He feels himself start to leak, the wetness against the fabric a cruel tease. Hannibal watches with parted lips as the apple of his throat bobs, catching the firelight. 

Just as he’s about to ask for some semblance of mercy, the plug shuts off. He gasps, releasing a wave of tension as he slumps forward a little.

“T-thank you,” he pants, wiping his upper lip with his napkin.

“Whatever for?” Hannibal inquires, biting into the other half of the bread with feline amusement.

Will considers several dozen different ways to kill him. Hannibal refills their wine and steers the conversation to safer topics. By the time Amadeo arrives with their entrees, Will’s breathing has evened and his cock is more or less behaving.

“Will that be all, signori?”

“Sì. Thank you, Amadeo.”

Will balks. The damn kid speaks English. Worse than that, he turns to Will with a smug little grin before he makes to leave. Will feels the words rising up to the back of his throat before he can stop them.

“Are y–”

He gets less than halfway into his attempt before his eyes widen and he has to bite his lip to keep from groaning. The plug jerks back to life, but this time, it’s following a pattern. A dozen short bursts followed by three long pulses, the morse code of his undoing. 

Hannibal and the boy stare at him, waiting. His mouth goes dry, bravado leeched by the sensation thrumming inside him. His cock twitches back to life instantly. 

“Something you need, Daniel?” Hannibal asks genially, reaching to comb his fingers through the curls at Will’s neck.

He tries not to flinch, but every touch is scalding. He shakes his head tightly, seeking answers in the tablecloth.

“No. N-nope. I’m good,” is all he can manage.

Hannibal provides an explanation in more flawless Italian that makes Amadeo giggle. He can’t make it out, but he can’t really think. He doesn’t raise his eyes until the boy is gone.

“Did you tell him?”

“Of course not,” Hannibal replies, with mock offense. “Your suffering is mine alone to enjoy.”

Will’s jaw works back and forth. He rubs a hand over it. Both surfaces come away sweaty. The vibration never lets up – dot dot dot, dash, dash, dash. The pulses are as strong as the highest setting, and it’s driving him to madness. He’s hard again, squirming even though every movement makes it worse.

“I don’t – I’m not sure I can d-do this,” Will stutters. 

There’s a tightness coiling below his gut that he can’t control. The plug hits him exactly where he wishes it wouldn’t. Every jolt is devastating.

“You can, my love. Eat up, before it cools.”

He gestures with his fork to Will’s steaming plate. It’s some form of steak with risotto. The vegetables are jewel-toned, perfectly crisp. It smells of butter and spices and he’s starving, but he’s also absolutely terrified to move.

“I’m… You want me to eat l-like this?”

Hannibal tilts his head slightly, as if it’s a ridiculous question. 

“Of course I do. Your body is mine, Will, to use as I see fit.” He doesn’t lower his voice nearly enough for Will’s liking as he continues. “Must I keep reminding you? Those were the terms. If you’re unhappy with the results, you have no one to blame but yourself.”

Will stares at him like he’s grown a second head, interrupted only by the endless tension and release that the vibrator demands. He hates how hard it’s gotten to speak.

“A-and if I mean it? That I can’t? Would you s-stop?”

Hannibal sounds almost disappointed. “I’m not interested in renegotiation, Will.”

He feels that in his cock, a fresh bead of precome smearing between himself and his suit pants. He’s already a mess and they’ve barely begun. Dark arousal pours off him in waves, and he can’t help pulling at the thread.

Dot dot dot, dash, dash, dash.

He has to know.

“If I said it? If I used the word? You’d stop, right?”

The warmth in Hannibal’s eyes flickers bright for a moment before it goes perfectly, placidly cold. He takes a sip of his wine, keeping the tether between them pulled tight.

“No.”

The sound that stumbles from Will’s mouth is obscene. It’s a grunt, and a gasp, and a choked-off gurgle of fear. He barely manages to wrangle it under control. The motion sets off a chain reaction inside him; he finds himself fighting off another rising tide of pressure. He stares at Hannibal with wide, watery eyes, pleading wordlessly.

All he gets in response is a delighted, even smirk. 

“Your mouth is a hole, is it not? That means it falls under my jurisdiction,” Hannibal informs him. “I’d appreciate it if you made good on your word. Now, eat.”

Will’s jaw drops. It’s not easy to shock him, not after everything, but Hannibal manages it tonight with a few choice words. The crude, pointed lack of metaphor slices to his core with scalpel precision. He clenches again, shuddering at the consequence.

Before he can stop himself, Will whispers, “please.”

“Please, what?” Hannibal pops a forkful of tender meat between his too-sharp teeth.

Will’s eyes fall closed, the lines of his face deepening in concentration. He wants to compose himself, but he’s drifted out far from any sign of land. 

Dot, dot, dot, dot, dot, dot.

“Hannibal, I can’t,” he chokes, knuckles whitening on the napkin. The pressure is building too fast to fight. He’s drenched in his own want, hips jerking in small, sharp circles. “I’m going to, I’m… please.”

He doesn’t need to look to know he’s being stared at, flailing on the end of Hannibal’s hook. The humiliation makes it worse. He is the very picture of suffering, fighting tooth and nail against the climax rapidly building in his gut. He tries to think of anything to stave it off; bodies, motors, casework, clogged drains. It’s useless. Cogent thought is a pipe dream. He’s going to come like this, in his suit, in public, untouched.

The buzzing stops.

“Ah–!” 

He has less than a second to process the whiplash before Hannibal is tutting in his direction.

“Will, please. At least try some of your dinner. I assure you, it’s quite satisfactory.”

It takes everything Will has to keep from grabbing his steak knife and plunging it into Hannibal’s thigh. No – his neck. It must show in his face, because the second he meets his husband’s gaze, he receives a look of mild, bemused intrigue.

“Darling, what’s the matter? You look flushed.”

Will grits his teeth so hard his ears rumble with static. A drop of sweat trickles down the side of his brow. He feels feral. His body has adjusted to the lack of vibration just enough to recognize the unrelenting pressure.

“This isn’t… exactly… what I had… in m-mind,” he forces out between quick, shallow breaths.

Something liquid and dangerous pools in Hannibal’s dark pupils. He takes a sip of wine, complemented so well by Will’s distress.

“Precisely,” Hannibal responds, slow and steady.

Will’s face contorts with one question: Why?

His partner leans closer, offering him a rare moment of privacy in this lecherous game.

“My lamb,” he smiles, taking Will’s sweat-damp chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Try to remember. You asked me to take control. To use you as I saw fit, any place, any time. Did you not?”

A dark shiver passes over Will. He nods with great reluctance, a pained expression tightening the skin of his forehead.

“Y-yes, but…”

“What, then, would be the point in simply meeting your expectations? Engaging in familiar play? No. Be honest with yourself, for once. This is what you want. To give up control entirely, pushed past your limits.”

With a grimace, Will feels a fresh gush of precome join the mess ruining his clothes from the inside. Another squeeze, another burst of heat against his prostate. He’s never felt so pathetic. His face is crimson, a living fire stoked by Hannibal’s cruelty.

“I know you, Will,” the beast continues. “Not just the sides you show me willingly, but the messy, pink viscera beneath. The need not just to submit, but to be forced into it.”

Will swallows, begging his teeth not to chatter. If there’s a restaurant outside this room, outside Hannibal’s fixed gaze, he’s forgotten it. He can’t say anything, but his expression speaks volumes. A fox, caught in a trap of its own making.

“You don’t want games. Scenes. You want to be taken, your resistance ignored.”

On this, the vibration returns. Will didn’t see Hannibal slip his hand into his pocket, but he certainly feels the outcome. It’s lower now, torturously so, gentle pulses that give too much and not enough at the same time. 

He whines. 

Hannibal strokes his chin. “You want to believe it. That I wouldn’t stop. You want to look into my eyes, flex all those lovely mirror neurons, and see no mercy at all.”

Will’s lip trembles so hard he seizes it between his teeth. He feels flayed open again, his most shameful desires exposed as if he were pinned under glass. His cock throbs in time with his heartbeat.

“Tell me, pet,” Hannibal hums, leaning in close enough to share breath. “Do you believe it yet?”

Will nearly doubles over when a strong, fearless hand reaches out under the table and grips his wet, desperate cock through his pants. It makes the mess so apparent, slick and filthy against his skin. He can’t keep the punched-out grunt from escaping. He brings a napkin to his lip and coughs into it in a feeble attempt to hide his body’s reaction.

“I…” Will starts, scrambling for anything that’ll keep him from coming. It’s too much. The touch, the tension, the knowing. “Yes. Yes, I believe you. Please.”

He turns to look at Hannibal, eyes wet and clear-sky blue. His lashes stick together. Hannibal’s hand remains, teasing his aching length through the fabric with one idle thumb. 

“I gave you one rule about your release, Will. Do you remember it?”

Another pained, strangled moan. “I ca-can’t… not unless–”

“Unless I’m inside you. That’s right. And am I inside you, currently?”

Will’s head shakes violently. He barely notices Hannibal’s pleased grin. That evil hand is stroking him so gently. He’s going to fail, he’s going to lose, and then maybe Hannibal will take it all away. Deny him his wish, leave him cold and wanting.

“No,” Hannibal agrees. He squeezes. Will mewls. “What’s to be done about that?”

Wide, needy eyes lock onto him as the vibrations cease once more. Will sucks in air, seeing a way out of this perfect, blistering hell. Hannibal raises an encouraging brow, leading Will stumbling down a path to inevitability.

When his words come out, they’re scraped raw. He looks around wildly, remembering with a fresh burn of red down his neck where they are. He hears patrons in the next room; he can see them milling about through the archway. 

“Can – how?” he hisses, begging. “I need it. Please. Whatever you – I don’t care.”

“Need what, Will?”

He bares his teeth, hunched over. “I need you inside me. Please, p-please. I’ll do anything. You want to fuck me under the table? You want my m-mouth? Just take it. God, please. I’m going to, I’m so close–”

Hannibal rewards him with a firm grip that nearly undoes him. He stares into Will’s glassy, darting eyes, playing at consideration for a long, arduous moment. He traces his index finger up Will’s length, tilting his head just slightly before he leans in to give him a soft, slow, feather-light kiss.

He backs up less than an inch, letting Will feel all the malice in his smile before he finally responds.

“No.”

“Oh, god–”

The second Will’s eyes find Hannibal’s again, the plug ramps up to its highest setting. Time screams to a halt as the wretched certainty of what can no longer be delayed crashes over him. There is nothing, only silence and terror, before the world roars back to life at top speed.

Will’s mouth forms a perfect, horrified circle as he comes.

“Oh, no, no, n-n- no,” he gasps, drowning in humiliated lust as he lurches forward in his seat. 

His hips buck violently in place. He buries his head in his hands, clattering the fine silverware with his elbows as his cock pulses through wave after wave of helpless release. It smears over his hip and down his thighs, compressed by the lining of his suit pants. It’s everywhere, it’s endless, there’s not a chance in hell he’s getting out of this restaurant without everyone seeing what he’s done.

Tears spill over the corners of his eyes – not many, just a few, forced out by the sheer overwhelm of it all. He hiccups over a sob, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes as the vibrations milk out every last drop. 

The only friction his cock has to rock against is the tight strain of fabric. 

When he finally looks up, Hannibal is gone.

Humiliation turns to panic like a gas range clicking to life. He glances around wildly, wiping at his cheeks with his wrists. Where is he? Fear grips him from the inside out, an icy set of claws deep in his marrow. The mess across his lap won’t allow for him to stand, to follow. He’s stuck like this. He doesn’t have a bag, or a coat to drape over his arm. 

There’s nothing for it. He looks down, summoning all his courage to assess the situation.

It takes several seconds for his brain to catch up to what he’s seeing because, impossibly, he can’t see anything.

“The fuck?”

He can feel it, that’s for sure. Checking around once more, he presses tentative fingertips to the softening lump of his cock through the fabric. The wetness beneath makes his skin crawl and his cheeks redden, spreading over tender skin, but the dark blue shine of the suit reveals nothing.

“Will? Are you alright, darling?”

His head snaps up, pupils blown, to catch Hannibal standing next to, of all fucking people, Amadeo the Waiter. He nearly swallows his tongue.

“I’m–”

“Do not worry at all, signor,” Amadeo coos, his voice lilting and sympathetic. Will gawps between them, trying to hide his frantic confusion as the boy places a few fancy cardboard boxes on their table with a flourish. “I, too, get sickness when I travel. I hope you feel well to join us again soon.”

“Grazie, Amadeo,” Hannibal grins. The doting husband. “The food was excellent, as always. Cordiali saluti a Rinaldo, per favore.”

He slips a few bills into the boy’s grateful palm with a sly wink, which sends him off with pink cheeks and a spring in his step.

Will stares. Every thought is a flickering star in an endless abyss of night, winking in and out of focus. They’re alone again, and he moves to regard Hannibal with a distant, muddied awe.

The man seems to be enjoying this immensely. “Shall we get you home, darling? You’re looking rather peaky.”

The apple of Will’s throat sinks and rises slowly, shining in the low light. Hannibal’s gaze flicks to it wolfishly. Will stares down at his lap, where an atrocious stain should be.

“You knew,” he mutters, shaking with understanding.

Hannibal appears at his side, carefully re-plating their dinners into the boxes to go. 

“Knew what, Will?”

“That… that I would…”

He doesn’t know where to start. His mouth gapes as he searches for the words. It’s impossible to know whether it’s mercy or malice that drives Hannibal to articulate the situation out loud as he arranges their meals for optimal travel conditions.

“That you would make a mess of yourself in public?” he grins, devilish. Will can hear the glee in the melodic peaks of his accent. “That you would be unable to handle my one simple rule, and that you would come all over yourself, untouched?”

“Jesus Christ,” Will snaps, wishing fervently for a hole in the ground to swallow him up.

Hannibal tilts his chin up with one finger, inspecting his beloved’s sweaty, disheveled face. 

“I told you, Will. I know you.”

Will flinches away. He can’t bear it.

“It pays to be prepared,” Hannibal muses, dropping a white cloth napkin rudely into Will’s lap, “when one’s toy is prone to disobedience.”

The look on Will’s face is nothing short of dumbstruck. He stares at the napkin with equal parts loathing and gratitude. The sensory discomfort of the drying spend, sticky across his groin and thighs, is growing by the minute. It doesn’t matter that something in the suit’s construction (the lining? He doesn’t know enough about fashion – Hannibal counted on that, he realizes) keeps it from being visible; it’s all over him. The plug in his ass has gone still, but its weight and stretch remains.

“I can’t move,” Will admits, his voice weak and low.

“Of course you can,” Hannibal chuckles. His smile is warm, a brutal contrast to his words. He dips closer. “We must get you home. You’ll need a shower before you’re ready to take me again – you reek of sex.”

Will’s stomach drops as his face blooms from ghost-white to blotchy pink. He’s lost track of reality. There’s nothing but Hannibal and his control, extending for miles in every direction, backwards and forwards in time. The older man watches and waits for Will to use the napkin, so very patient.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he mutters, without meaning to. 

Why is he sorry? This is all Hannibal’s fault.

Isn't it?

“You aren’t, truly, or you would have obeyed,” Hannibal shrugs. He nods his head and raises his brow, impatient for Will to debase himself further. “I promise, though. You will be.”

Will shudders bodily, head to toe. His spent cock twitches, causing his nose to wrinkle with mild disgust. He offers Hannibal one weak glare, but his heart isn’t in it. He’s hot all over.

“No one is watching but me, Will. Wipe yourself as clean as you can.”

Another cringe, another tensing of shoulders. Will swallows around a frown as he carefully unbuttons and unzips his pants. Hannibal stands between him and the archway, but being seen is still a possibility. 

The cooler air of the restaurant makes him flinch as it hits his wet, hot skin. He can barely look at himself as he quickly, roughly wipes up as much of his mess as he can.

Hannibal observes closely, voice barely audible. “That’s it. Quickly, now, or I’ll remember the remote in my pocket.”

Will presses his lips closed around a moan. He scrubs himself as well as he can, then glances around with fresh horror as he realizes he has no idea what to do with the napkin. He can’t leave it; Hannibal would never be that careless.

Would he?

“I’ll take that,” he answers, plucking the sticky cloth from Will’s vice-like grip. 

As if it were nothing, he folds it up gently and tucks it into one of the unused boxes. Will stares in abject terror, interrupted only by Hannibal leaning over him to reach down and tuck his soft cock back into his damp, silky underwear.

He dissociates entirely as Hannibal brings his hand to his own mouth and, with a smirk, licks his fingers clean.

“Up you get,” the man prods, gathering their boxes into a neat stack under his arm. “I’ve asked them to call a car for us. I’d rather not keep them waiting.”

A thousand retorts pop like fireworks behind Will’s closed eyelids as he tries to put himself together enough to stand. They range from ‘mildly rude’ to ‘frankly, a death wish.’ None of them make it past his lips.

All he says is, “sure.”

All he does is slide out of the booth, wincing, to take Hannibal’s arm.

All he knows, on the quiet drive home, is that the night is far from over.

His stomach grumbles as they pull up to the quaint little street they currently call home. Hannibal smiles lovingly at him, tucking a curl back from his still-fevered brow. He traces the scar across his forehead with too much affection for how it got there.

“Exquisite,” Hannibal murmurs, granting him a gentle kiss on the cheek.

He slips from the car with effortless grace, chivalrous to a fault as he circles the vehicle to hold open Will’s door. It takes a second for the younger man’s mind to catch up, awkwardly fumbling his way out onto the street. Hannibal catches him, holding him upright.

The car wastes no time puttering off, leaving them side by side as they stroll up the walk. Hannibal retrieves his keys, pausing as he unlocks the door to grab Will by the arm and whisper into the hollow between his ear and jaw.

“Upstairs,” he instructs, breathing hot against all that sensitive skin. “Clean yourself up and kneel by the bed. Remove the device – you clearly can’t handle it. You may eat when I’m done with you.”

“Fuck,” Will groans, bracing himself on the doorframe with one hand. “Han, I don’t know–”

His beloved monster hums happily, pushing the door open to guide Will in off the street.

“I’m not asking you to know, Will,” he says, pressing another kiss to his temple as he makes for the kitchen. He stops, a thought occurring to him mid-stride. “In fact, I’m not asking at all.”

Far from the audience of the restaurant, without the exhilarating terror of being caught, a loud groan slips from Will’s throat. It fills every inch of the foyer, fogging the windows. A breath held too long, released heavily. He’s grateful to be alone, even if he knows Hannibal can hear him.

He stands there for several minutes as the last few hours wash over him. The risk, the fear, the excitement. The mess. The way Hannibal knew, how he had a suit custom-made just to humiliate him. The wasted dinner he’s now quite hungry for, and the promise of being made useful again before he can have it–

“AH–!”

Will crumbles against the wall as the plug inside him pulses harshly, just once, shaking loose every tangled thread of memory. He rolls sideways so that his forehead is pressed against the cool wood, palms spread beside him as he catches his breath.

“I’m GOING,” he yells, not waiting for the smug response as he turns on his heel and races up the stairs.

*

Chapter Text

Before Will steps into the shower, he locks the bathroom door.

He removes the plug once the persistent hush and warmth of the water begins to calm his fluttering pulse. His rim is still sore from last night and this morning, so the process is less than pleasant. Still, he manages, letting out a heavy sigh when it finally pops free. The relief is immediate; his shoulders slump, eyes falling closed in silent gratitude.

He rinses it off without looking, cheeks hot with both arousal and shame, and sets it on the side of the tub. Out of sight, but never out of mind again. The entire night is etched in his psyche, new pathways formed and tangled irreparably.

“Be honest with yourself, for once. This is what you want.”

A shudder passes through him. He braces against the cool tile of the shower wall with one forearm, running his hand over his scruff. The water feels too good, so cleansing after being made into such an awful mess.

In public. Hannibal made him come in public, at a restaurant, when he wasn’t supposed to. It wasn’t fair; he’d been pushed too far. Hannibal knew that. He set an impossible trap for Will just to watch him squirm.

And God, he’d loved it. The total lack of mercy. The helpless feeling of losing out to his body’s reactions. Reduced to raw nerves and need, forced to disobey. He had asked to be used, but Hannibal understood the craving beneath the task.

Strip away my agency. Let me go quiet. Make me useful.

He feels his cock twitch heavy between his legs and can’t help smirking. None of that, he thinks, well aware he’s in deep enough shit that there’s no point making it worse. 

So he cleans himself thoroughly, taking his time. He uses the scents he knows Hannibal likes, pine and woodsmoke and citrus, anticipating the approving hum against his neck. Images float through his mind of virgin sacrifices anointed with oils, cleansed and dressed with utmost care to appease their angry gods. Visions of beauty even in death.

He can relate.

There are bruises peppered across his hips and torso, and his hole is sensitive to the touch. He tries to be efficient without lingering. Whatever Hannibal has planned for his retribution isn’t likely to go down easy, so he savors these last few moments of peace.

That is, until a strong hand knocks three times at the bathroom door.

“Will?”

“Yeah,” he calls back, flinching at the casual nature of his reply before course-correcting. “Uh, yes, sorry. I’ll be out soon.”

“You’ve been in there thirty minutes,” Hannibal’s voice alerts him. 

He can hear the blade tucked beneath the statement, but rules are rules. He gave Will exactly one; “ barring illness, or when the bathroom door is locked.”

It lends him a sliver of confidence. Here, at least, he can recover in peace. He’s not going to cancel his punishment – honestly, he’s as eager as he is terrified to discover what it is – but that doesn’t mean he can’t delay it.

“Have I?” he calls back playfully, the warm embrace of the water lending him a false sense of safety.

There’s a pause. He wonders if Hannibal has wandered off to account for this latest impertinence, adding some new flavor of torment to his plans. Will begins rinsing the conditioner from his curls, shrugging when no other demands come his way. 

Then, the door opens.

Will jumps in place, covering himself with his hands as the shower curtain is yanked backwards.

“Fucking Christ, Hannibal! What are you–”

He stops, words failing as he takes in the sight of his husband, suit jacket removed, sleeves rolled up in preparation. His face is set in stone, body taut and ready to pounce. Those wide, dark pupils roil with hellfire. 

“Will,” he spits, as if the word is sour on his tongue.

Will swallows, frozen in place, hands instinctively protecting his groin. The spike of adrenaline leaves him on the verge of shaking; this wasn’t the plan.

“Hannibal, the fuck are you doing?” he gasps, willing his voice not to quiver. “The door was locked. We agreed–”

“We,” Hannibal seethes, the very concept repulsive, “agreed on nothing. I offered you a kindness, and you abused it.”

Will stands there, blinking, searching for words. Hannibal’s arm, corded with thick veins, reaches in to shut off the water without looking. The door is still open behind him, and the sudden rush of cool air raises a bountiful crop of goosebumps over Will’s skin. His teeth begin to chatter.

“Y-you can’t keep c-changing the r-rules,” he stutters, knowing full well the argument is fruitless. 

Hannibal stands stock-still, watching. A small, cruel smile tugs at one corner of his plush mouth. It sends ice down Will’s spine that melts traitorously into heat below his gut. 

“In fact, I can,” he replies with a hawkish gleam. “If you insist on ignoring instructions, why shouldn’t I?”

“I d-didn’t, didn’t w-want to,” Will protests, brow furrowing at how weak he knows he sounds. Heat flares in his chest; Hannibal made this rule just so he could break it, too. “You ch-cheated.”

Those bottomless amber eyes flash with something like pride, impressed by Will’s defiance. Hannibal leans in closer, still scenting without shame.

“You think so, mm?” he asks, enjoying this far, far too much. He reaches in to take Will’s wet, warm jaw in his hand, turning it this way and that as if passing judgment. “Are you angry with me for not playing fair?”

Will can feel his limbs threatening to crumble on him even as his cock begins to fill out behind the feeble shield of his hands. Hannibal must smell the shift, because his grip tightens. His gaze falls instantly to Will’s groin, and what he sees pleases him. He allows himself an indulgent inhale, deep into his lungs.

“No,” he hums, answering his own question as the scent dances across his palate. “You’re rather far from anger. This excites you.”

Will tries to squash a curse on its way from his lips, with middling success. He’s getting harder by the second, especially when Hannibal yanks him forward by the chin until he nearly trips over the side of the bath.

The action forces his hands away from his crotch, falling instead against Hannibal’s firm chest. Dampness feathers out from the points of impact across the crisp, white cotton. 

Will’s breath catches as he blinks up, caught between seconds. The pressure on his jaw aches wonderfully, distracting from his many other pains. His cock bobs crudely against his stomach, still wet from the shower, so Hannibal reaches down and grabs it.

Will cries out. Hannibal’s fist holds him by the base, not stroking. Simply holding, as a show of control. This is mine. Heat flares over Will’s skin, warring with the chill of the air. 

When Hannibal speaks again, it’s low and purposeful in the boy’s ear. “This isn’t pretend, Will. You belong to me. Any mercy I grant you is temporary. Do you understand?”

A fractured, yearning moan pours from him. He winces at it even as he tries to thrust up into Hannibal’s grip. Why can’t he speak?

“Wanton creature,” Hannibal chuckles, spreading the flush of Will’s cheeks down his neck. “So prideful, as if I can’t see to the very core of you.”

“I–”

Will gasps again as Hannibal lifts him, seemingly without effort, from the bath. He doesn’t even have time to find his balance before he’s whirled around and bent forward, grasping the edge of the tub. A hand presses on his spine, encouraging it to bow so that his ass juts higher in the air. The sudden exposure knocks the wind from him.

“Hush, pet,” Hannibal hums, settling onto one knee so that he’s eye level with Will’s most vulnerable parts. He grips each warm, damp cheek with his calloused hands, prying them apart to give himself unfettered access.

A noise of mild panic hiccups from Will as humiliation paints him a deeper crimson. He fights the instinctive urge to push his legs together as hot breath hits his sensitive rim. 

“My, look at that,” Hannibal muses, casually pleased. Will grimaces, though his petulant cock has begun to leak. “Your hole must be so tender. It’s pink, nearly inflamed.”

“Y-yeah,” Will manages, no longer stuttering from the cold but from anticipation. “Hurts.”

There is no pity in the satisfied purr that answers him. Delight, yes. Arousal, most certainly.

“I suspect it does,” Hannibal agrees, spreading Will wider with his thumbs. Will can feel the tight ring of muscle winking and hates that Hannibal can see it, plain as day. “You know, if I had filled you with my seed before inserting that plug, you would’ve had a reasonable argument for my being ‘inside you’ during your infraction.”

A full-body tremor seizes Will, who swears into his bicep. His muscles are starting to ache, but it’s nothing compared to the scorching heat of shame that has his cock dripping onto the tile.

“Next time, perhaps.”

Will feels a whine coming on, but it’s interrupted by Hannibal spitting directly onto his hole. The shocking filth of the action unlocks something deep in Will’s mind. His eyelids flutter as he feels it start to run down his cleft towards his perineum.

“Fuck, Han–”

But then that inhuman tongue is lapping at him with abandon. He flinches, trying to jerk away from the sudden onslaught to such tender skin, but Hannibal holds him firm. Will cries out, panting, legs beginning to shake.

Then Hannibal pulls away with a wet smack, and a second later, one long finger slips easily inside.

“F-ffuuuck, oh God–”

“I think you’d like that,” comes the unbroken reply, perhaps a bit more spirited than before but just as self-assured. “Walking around, praying it doesn’t leak out of you. You’d have free reign to pleasure yourself.”

"Christ, Han-"

Will blinks unevenly, shifting foot to foot as Hannibal twists and thrusts a second finger inside. It’s not quite slick enough to be comfortable, even if he weren’t already stretched, but that’s the point. 

“That isn’t what you want, though, is it?” he continues, crooking his fingers down to find Will’s prostate without any build-up at all. Will bucks against it, yelping. “Free reign, I mean. No, you much prefer this. Being told what to do.”

Will’s hands, bracing on the edge of the tub, twist and clench and ball into fists as he tries to adjust to the treatment. He can feel the pressure building again, his frayed nerves forced back to life too soon. He’s dizzy from the position, lightheaded and dripping.

“Perhaps I should cage you,” Hannibal considers, pressing firmly to force Will to writhe and choke on a gasp. “Something secure, to help encourage your compliance. Would you like that, darling? To take the burden of your pleasure out of the equation entirely?”

“Jesus Christ,” Will blubbers, begging his body to hold the position as it screams out for relief.

At that, Hannibal reaches forward and wraps his fingers over Will’s cock once more. It takes everything he has not to shout, to bolt for the door, but how could he possibly leave this?

By way of example, Hannibal’s fingers wind around the shaft, an inch or two apart. They squeeze.

“You could still reach orgasm, after a fashion,” he promises, placing kisses against Will’s ass as a third finger breaches him roughly. “Through prostate stimulation, of course.” At this, he pointedly curls and strokes over the bundle of nerves. “I would enjoy teaching your body how to climax without bothering your cock at all. To see you leak through the cage, pitiful and thin, desperate to fill out.”

“H-Hannibal,” Will tries, because he’s losing his mind at the thought. The pressure on his length is the missing link, and suddenly he’s too close. He’s never wanted to be caged, never really considered it, but when Hannibal puts it like that…

He’s ripped from the haze by both hands vanishing at once, thick digits withdrawing wetly before a palm comes down, flat and ruthless, to strike his ass.

“Ah–!” he yelps, nearly losing his balance as another blow strikes the opposite side.

Then the first, again. The second. Back and forth, to a count of ten, where tears bloom hot at the corners of Will’s eyes.

“Hannibal, please,” he groans, though he isn’t sure what he’s asking for.

What he gets in response is the broad tip of Hannibal’s cock prodding at his entrance.

“Oh, fuck.”

Hands clamp firmly around his hips as the wide, hot shaft begins to force its way inside. No warning, no hesitation. He’s grateful, as always, that Hannibal leaks so fucking much; when the swollen head slips in, they both groan with relief.

“Darling boy,” Hannibal sighs, that incurable ache of affection creeping in between the cracks in his wrath. “I would live here if I could.”

Will can only moan, trying to adjust to the brutal, perfect stretch.

“I think I need you like this always. Bound and – ah – gagged, perhaps. Split open. Wet and ready at a moment’s notice. It suits you.”

“Fuck, you’re filthy,” Will half-mumbles, worrying he’s going to shake apart.

A warm hand pets over his ass, setting tingles across the latent sting of impact.

“Perhaps,” Hannibal purrs, reveling in the tight grip that seems to suck him in. “However, I might point out that I’m not the one who begged to be used like a whore.”

Will doesn’t even have time to balk at the language. Hannibal’s hips snap forward to meet his ass, buried as deep as he can get from this angle. He growls low in his gut as Will moans, harmonizing in their fevered bliss. He feels ruined already. The world is getting hazy like it always does when Hannibal takes control. 

Then his monster begins to move, slow thrusts that ignite every nerve. Will wishes desperately he could touch himself, to ease the pain or at least distract from it, but the way Hannibal ignores him now is almost more arousing. His cock bounces free, tender and wet and red, evidence of exactly what role he’s meant to play.

“Y-yes,” Will croaks out, his mouth lax. “I did. I want it. Fuck, please.”

“You’ve always been greedy for my cock,” Hannibal laughs softly, somehow still able to make Will blush every time he swears, “but I enjoyed hearing it confessed so plainly.”

Will’s tongue lolls heavily, his eyes glassy with lust. Hannibal is so much bigger than the plug, and it hurts, but the heat of him is a balm. His slippery precome is everywhere, spilling out, easing the way. It’s both worse and better. He wonders if Hannibal’s right, if he could come like this.

The thought of his release being controlled so intensely twists hot in his stomach. It’s certainly starting to feel possible.

“I’ll admit I was impressed by your willingness to be debased at the restaurant,” Hannibal huffs, just to prove how articulate he can be while torturing Will’s ass. “Amadeo hardly suspected a thing.”

The name curls Will’s lip into a snarl. He doesn’t want it to; he didn’t care, not about Hannibal’s shameless flirting with the waiter. Not then. Now, though, logic is a distant shore. He feels possessive and raw, imagining his lover entertaining that waifish twink. He fucks back onto Hannibal’s cock with a combative thrust of his hips.

“You’re a bastard,” he snaps, muscles tensing.

Hannibal responds by slowing, denying Will the angry friction he seeks with a firm hold on his hips.

“Did it bother you?” he teases, pulling back until only the tip remains buried. “The way he looked at me?”

No, Will thinks. He was just a kid. Hannibal flirts, it’s what he does. All the same, Will squirms, eager for more. Panting. Clenching, trying to draw him back in. His resolve is being tested.

So what he ends up saying is, “he would’ve sucked you off in front of me if you’d asked.”

The venom in his words draws a pleased groan from behind. Hannibal rewards him with a few more inches, nails digging furrows into his sides before pulling back again. Will mewls.

“Do you think so?” Hannibal preens, needling Will further as his cockhead drags at that puffy pink rim. “Perhaps I should have indulged. I wonder if you would have come sooner, watching his pretty lips stretched around me?”

The sound Will makes is feral. A grunt, angry, like a wolf defending its pack. He'd flash his fangs if he could.

“No,” he growls, canting his hips in a desperate bid for more. He doesn’t know how Hannibal’s doing it, holding himself back, but he needs it to stop.

“No? What, then, would you have done?”

Will turns over the sweat-sheen of his shoulder to fix Hannibal with a violent stare. His anger is a palpable thing, clawing its way out from beneath his fevered skin. He can taste it.

“I would’ve snapped his fucking neck," he spits, more creature than man. "Slit his throat with a steak knife. And yeah, if that fucking plug had still been going and he was bleeding out on the floor under my hands, I might’ve come right then. Happy?”

Hannibal’s eyes go half-lidded with pleasure. He bites his lip, savoring the taste of Will’s wrath.

“Good boy."

Will moans like it’s the first time. Hannibal’s palms slide up his flanks, pulling him closer, feeding his cock back into the boy’s needy hole. He earns a debauched whine of satisfaction, Will’s tension melting as the merciful stretch works it out of him. When Hannibal’s clever hands find his nipples, already peaked and tender, he nearly collapses.

“I would have enjoyed that,” he murmurs, slipping closer as his cock begins to work in and out, at last approaching the pace Will needs. His fingers twist and tease at the small pink buds, luring out beautiful whimpers. “It seems regardless of my actions, you would have broken the rules.”

Will sags in protest, whining angrily. He’s so full now, Hannibal bottoming out with each thrust. The nipple torture is doing nothing to help his ignored, leaking cock, and his hole still aches from overuse. Isn’t that enough?

Apparently, no.

“This isn't your punishment, Will. I hope you know that. I haven’t a cage for you, but after today, I’m inclined to think that would be too generous.”

Curses, half-intelligible, spill from Will’s chapped lips. He feels like a rag doll, jerking and writhing in place. Hannibal rolls his nipples between his forefingers, pulling and pinching without relief. Will can feel himself slipping back into that space, where nothing but Hannibal’s words and hands matter.

“Instead, you’ll go without relief until tomorrow, at a time of my choosing. A reasonable penance, wouldn’t you agree?”

Will keens, the whine high and tight in his throat. He needs to come again, he’s so close just from the teasing of his chest and the battering of his prostate.

“P-please,” he begs, “I can c-come like this. Like you said. W-without touching it.”

He hears the grin at his jaw. “Oh, I know. But what kind of master would I be if I went back on my word? You’ve already come once today without my permission. Actions have consequences, love.”

His stomach sinks. He doesn’t know when Hannibal pulled him up so that his back was flush to the thick hair of the older man’s chest, but it’s awful to be so close. Held, from the inside out. His own length simply nods with each jerk of Hannibal’s hips, like a joke. Even the air seems to mock him.

“I can’t. I can’t,” Will protests, shaking his head with open-mouthed gasps as his nipples are pinched tight in unpredictable rhythms. “You’ll make me, like this.”

“Oh, darling,” Hannibal coos, nipping at his earlobe as his thumbs roll over the tender buds. He’s so deep like this. “It’s as if you forget what you asked of me.”

Will’s words come back to haunt him, blooming across his addled mind. I want to feel like I don’t matter. God, why had he been so specific?

“You gave me your body. I’ll have it as I see fit. Tonight, you exist to be filled. To take. I’ll fill you here, and again while you sleep. Any more protests, and I’ll bind and whip your cock until it can behave.”

The potent filth seizes Will in a jagged, iron grip. He stutters, the whites of his eyes flickering like static through dark lashes. It’s not fair; he can see the peak rushing towards him with each slap of skin and promise of pain. He’s gone languid, pliable. It is horrendous and perfect.

“Please, please, pleasespleaseplease,” he mumbles, tongue thick in his mouth. “Don’t wanna. But y-you’re… make me. Please, please, baby.”

Hannibal chuckles at his nape, grazing his teeth over Will’s pulse. He’s close, too, but he’s keeping that to himself. He continues his torment of the boy’s nipples, now painfully oversensitive, just for the way it makes him clench and cry out. Another impossible trap.

“None of that, Will. This isn’t about what you want,” he warns, snapping his hips harder. One hand makes its way from Will’s chest to his throat, holding firm. Using it as leverage. “In fact, I’m going to tell you a secret. Are you ready?”

Language is beyond the babbling creature in his arms. All Will can do is bite his lip, hopeful that his questioning grunt of need gets the point across. Hannibal looks over his shoulder to watch the boy’s cock slap against his stomach, leaving sticky trails that run down to his thighs. Divine.

“I like you better like this,” he whispers, letting his canines show. He’s almost there, lost to the sensation of Will going slack and malleable in his arms. He tightens his hold, flicking one nipple with the edge of a nail. “When you’re too weak to fight back. When you’re so drunk on my control you’re reduced to a dripping, drooling mess.”

“G-ggonna, gonna–” Will gurgles.

In response, Hannibal releases his nipple to grip the base of Will’s cock punishingly tight, denying him any chance of orgasm. The boy cries out, trying to writhe free, but it’s pointless. Instinctual, not logical. He knows there is no denying Hannibal now. 

“No,” the man hisses, voice a searing blade. “You won’t."

Will near-sobs, but the want that echoes through him is enough to drown them both. Hannibal grins, welcoming the crest of heat. Speaking to the parts of Will he can no longer hide.

“Now tighten up, boy, and get ready to thank me.”

Will’s eyes fly open as the words register. He nearly chokes as Hannibal’s cock shoves as deep as it can go, pulsing twice before it begins flooding his insides with warmth. It’s so much, and he wants to come, he can feel it underneath the pain of the fist around him like an animal slamming against the bars of its cage, but there is no release. Just an ache, exquisite and terrible, as he feels Hannibal start to leak out of him.

“N-no–” he protests weakly, trying to thrust into the grip but finding no purchase. 

Hannibal fucks him until he starts to go soft. Eventually, he lets out a long, punched-out sigh and slumps momentarily against Will’s back. He presses a kiss to the flushed skin, humming faintly as he slips free. Will’s knees nearly buckle; the soreness is devastating, but the emptiness is worse. 

He says thank you, or he thinks he does. He can’t be sure. 

When Hannibal lets go of his cock, still painfully hard, he wonders if he might just faint.

Then Hannibal slaps his ass hard, twice, and straightens. Will yelps, then allows himself to fall forward to his knees on the bathroom rug. He can’t look, not at himself or his husband. Everything hurts, his thighs are tacky with come, his lower gut twisted with almost-relief. Facing the bath, his head falls to his hands.

He can hear Hannibal rustling about, running the tap for a moment. Tidying himself, no doubt.

His voice almost causes Will to jump. “Clean yourself up, darling. Take a bath and a painkiller, if you wish, but come to bed prepared. I quite enjoyed using you last night.”

Will whimpers into palms. He can feel tears gathering at the corners of his eyes even as arousal thrums between his legs. He’s so turned on and embarrassed he might die, which is exactly the point.

“It should go without saying, but if you pleasure yourself, I will know, and you will regret it.”

“Fuck,” Will groans, grimacing at the fresh bead of precome that teases from him.

“Enjoy your alone time while it lasts,” Hannibal grins, placing another kiss to the top of Will’s head.

Will, who is a crumpled, wet puddle on the floor. A raw nerve.

“S-sure,” he mutters back, not looking up. He stares into the bottom of the bath, watching the shadow behind him retreat.

He reaches to find the drain stopper, flushing pink as his hands graze the plug still sitting pretty on the lip of the tub. He’s floating, half-wrecked in that hazy space, alone with his need. 

As he turns on the tap with a shaking hand, he hears the door close behind him. He flinches bodily at the sound of Hannibal turning the lock.

God. He really did set Will up to fail. Why would he ever think that after promising to ignore their word, Hannibal would allow his plaything any privacy at all? 

It’s so far beyond what they’ve done before. Will was so terrified to ask, and even then, he softened the edges of what he really wanted. Of course Hannibal saw through it. Of course he knew exactly how far over the line to walk.

He’d expected to pretend it was enough. Instead, it’s more than he could’ve hoped for.

His eyes fall closed. He feels wrung-out, sore, desperate and exhausted. His ass hurts. He’s covered in bruises, his nipples too tender to even consider touching. He’s been punished, denied, humiliated for over 24 hours.

Resting his head on his trembling arm, hidden from the world and its judgments, Will Graham grins like an idiot.

Every inch of him bears proof of his ruination, and there’s more to come. Rode hard and put away wet, just like he wanted.

Still, he wonders idly if his husband might deign to use his mouth tonight. He thinks he can make a reasonable argument for his body needing to recover before their final day.

With another small, wicked grin, he hopes Hannibal laughs in his face.

*

Chapter Text

Despite using Will utterly in the bathroom, Hannibal is hard again by the time his pet limps his way to bed. If Will didn’t know better, he’d think his husband was sneaking a little pharmaceutical assistance between sessions.

If he is, Will doesn’t want to know. It’s better this way.

He did take a painkiller. He did prepare himself, as requested, flinching through the tenderness as he fingered himself open with one leg up on the edge of the bathtub. He used more lube that was technically necessary, knowing it would leak out over the tops of his thighs overnight whether Hannibal fucked him or not.

He would, though. He’d promised.

Will doesn’t bother searching for his pajamas. Hannibal's made his preference clear, for his boy to be naked and ready. He’s rewarded for his thoughtfulness when he strides into the bedroom, pink from the bath and entirely bare. Hannibal looks at him over his reading glasses — God, Will loves when he wears them — the faintest hint of a smirk betraying his approval. Will’s soft cock, still neglected, shows a pulse of interest.

“Lovely,” Hannibal preens, beckoning with a finger until the naked man stands at his bedside. “Let me see.”

Will blinks, blush deepening, as understanding sets in. He bites the corner of his lip as he turns, moving his hands from where they lie clasped behind his back to intertwine at his front. 

“I did what you said,” he huffs, though his voice trembles with anticipation. 

He flinches at the short, sharp hum of amusement. 

“I would hope so.”

Facing away is easier. He can pretend Hannibal’s gaze doesn’t rake over him like a burn. 

It’s not quite so easy to ignore the fingers that trail up the shadow of his right leg, curving under the swell of his backside to follow the slick trail of lubricant all the way to his entrance.

“Hnngh—!“ he hiccups, rising sharply to the balls of his feet before remembering himself, his place, and sinking his heels back to the carpet. His hands grasp at nothing, wrestling with the urge to touch.

“Very good, Will. Perhaps you can be trusted to be alone, if only briefly.”

“I can. You know I can.”

A low chuckle. “I don’t know anything of the sort. Open up, darling.”

Will swallows, blinking rapidly beneath the curtain of his dampened fringe. He flexes one foot at an odd angle. 

Without so much as a friendly warning, two fingers slip past his tender rim. Will grinds his teeth together, rolling his arches in place to keep from shivering as they make themselves at home.

“There we are. Stay still.”

Hannibal is not shy, never has been. He tests Will’s limits without a hint of apprehension. His fingers curl and spread, thoroughly inspecting his prize.

“Wonderful. Such progress in so little time,” he praises, driving in further with almost clinical detachment, seeking Will’s prostate. “You’re far more open than you were on Friday evening. You should be proud.”

Air whistles between Will’s teeth as he inhales, balling his hands into fists at his sides. There’s nothing to say to that, is there? Hannibal found it, alright, teasing the nerve endings with maddening fondness.

“God, Han—“

“Does it feel good, Will? To be reshaped? Custom-fitted for my use?”

He twists his fingers, petting upward and back, tugging on Will’s rim. 

“Fuck—!” Will gasps, digging his heels further into the floor to keep his balance. “You know it does.”

His cock lurches, half-hard by now, dripping no matter how much the rest of him aches or how many times Will reminds it that such hopes are futile until morning.

Not that Hannibal had said morning, he realizes. His heart sinks a few inches. Just tomorrow.

“So impetuous,” the killer smiles, enjoying Will’s frustration from just out of sight. “Once again you act as if I forced this upon you, rather than quite generously indulging your fantasy.”

Will feels a comeback bubbling in his throat. Naturally, Hannibal shatters it by pulling his fingers out and patting Will affectionately on the rear.

“Han—“

“That’s enough for now. You’re ready for me. Come to bed, darling. I’m cold.”

He’s a consummate liar, yet Will knows he’ll stay true to his promise to deny his pet any relief. After tucking Will onto his side and guiding his cock back into the well-prepared opening, Hannibal fucks him languidly for a long while. There’s no goal, no rush. Never fast enough, never to the right places with enough pressure. Just gliding, enjoying, using Will’s pliant body as a way to gentle himself toward rest.

It makes Will so hard he can’t see straight. The humiliation of the restaurant was exquisite, the disregard in the bathroom an unbearably hot fulfilment of one of his darker wants. But this? Simply being a hole, ready and wet, as Hannibal calmly whispers observations about the way Will’s body seems to welcome him? 

It’s perfect. 

He doesn’t bother asking if his mouth might do the trick instead. The constant stretch hurts, then it thrums, then it just is. It takes a long while for him to soften, his punished cock in no hurry to accept it isn’t going to get any attention. Eventually, it succumbs. He wonders if this is enlightenment.

The threat of the cage emerges from the back of his mind, seizing the opportunity provided by Will's foolish sense of calm. A quiet jolt of arousal prickles at him. He really, really wishes he could stop thinking about it. It’s an extension of this experiment, yet too permanent and real. A flush gathers across his neck as he imagines being slicked up and guided into the device, barred so tangibly from his own selfish pleasure. 

To exist as a tool, removed entirely from the worry of climax unless Hannibal decides to force a ruined half-release through steel or silicone, is a terrifying thought. An instrument to be picked up and played at its maestro’s discretion. 

Not so different from what's happening right now, he thinks with a shudder. But… wrapped so tightly, contained, he wouldn’t have to worry about accidentally disobeying. Maybe it would allow him to be more open and susceptible than ever. Not all the time, of course not, but for a weekend like this… Well.

There are worse punishments.

That line of thought has him sinking again, drifting back into hazy submission more easily than he ever has. His thoughts settle. There's no spiderwebbing headache of noise. Just Hannibal, perfect Hannibal, deadly and thick and warm and so very wet, sliding in and out of him with soft, satisfied hums.

Despite the intrusion, Will finds sleep like bumping into an old friend.

*

It’s surprisingly restful, for the circumstances.

Still, he wakes up hard, a near-painful ache singing at the root of his gut. There’s an arm wrapped lazily across his side, a cruel facsimile of comfort. 

He grins into the pillow.

Just as it was the morning before, Hannibal’s cock is sheathed snugly inside him. He wonders if the words whispered to get a rise out of him hold some truth; that he really is getting used to the sting of being stretched. Will he ever go back to the way he was before, or will his body simply adapt to fit the constant invasion?

The thought, idle and sleep-lax as it is, causes a twitch between his legs. He shifts in place, wringing the inky delight from his muscles with a flick of his toes.

“Good morning.”

He can’t help but smile. Absurd of him, to think he could get away with a single movement under Hannibal’s watchful eye. 

“Morning,” Will sighs, hiding his face in the pillow. They’re lying on their sides, Will playing the ravaged little spoon.

“You slept well,” Hannibal says. It isn’t a question.

“Like the dead.”

Inside him, Hannibal swells. The grotesque beauty of this brand of dominance is why he knew one night, one negotiated scene , wouldn't cut it. They’ve done similar things, both of them in the role Hannibal’s taken, but not for this long. This is a test of endurance, and he’s quite keen on passing.

They both are.

“On your stomach,” Hannibal coos, kissing along Will’s neck affectionately. The gentleness is almost too much, close to popping the bubble of this agreement, if not for the content of the words themselves.

Will chirps, a small sound of questioning, shifting as if to test whether his body plans to comply.

“Don’t worry. I won’t leave you.”

He almost makes a comment about not being worried about that at all when he’s manhandled onto his front. Hannibal moves with a dancer’s grace onto his knees between Will’s newly parted legs. It’s astonishing—his cock pulls out less than halfway before it’s driving in again, shoving Will face-first into the bed. Whatever it is he manages to say is lost to the dampening of fabric between his teeth.

“There we are,” Hannibal grunts, bottoming out with so little effort it causes Will to whine mournfully. “A perfect fit.”

The whine becomes a groan as Will tries to shake off the awful-hot blow of that sentiment. Such a corny, filthy old man.

He stills when something small and heavy lands on the pillow beside him. Hannibal doesn’t stop fucking him, though he does slow enough for Will to glance up, confused at the appearance of his phone.

He doesn’t ask. His brows do it for him, knitting in their search for answers.

Hannibal angles his hips down and back up before he explains, forcing Will’s body to remember that his pleasure is a threat that can and will be used against him.

“Fu-uck—“

“Il Campanile,” Hannibal says, an unsubtle bid for further questions.

Will searches the limited Italian dictionary in his head, though the catalogue resets with every thrust. The bell… something?

“The restaurant,” Hannibal states. “Via del’Ossario.”

Something in Will’s stomach twists. “You… want me to call them?”

His husband’s chuckle is painfully charmed. “No, darling. I’d like you to leave a review. They were very accommodating for us, and it seems a fitting punishment, don’t you think?”

The sea-storm shade of Will’s irises retreats, giving way to bright blue, crystal-clear understanding.

“Oh.”

Hannibal drives in again, fondling the pert rise of Will’s ass. 

“You should already be logged in, Mr. Erickson. The hostess informed me they have a near-flawless rating. She encouraged me to add to it, if I felt so inclined.”

“F-fuck, Han, I’m not going to p-punish them for what you—“

“Can you feel it, Will?” Hannibal asks, basking in this moment. In his beloved’s overwhelm. “The mounting pressure. The need for release, far worse for being denied.”

Will grunts into the sheets, bucking his hips with what little movement he can manage from his current position. His fingers curl around the phone.

“Go on,” Hannibal encourages, snapping his hips as Will fumbles with the password to unlock it. “That’s a good boy.”

“Ghhh,” Will groans in answer, elbowing the pillows together under his chin to prop himself up so that he can type with his thumbs.

It’s not exactly a walk in the park to enter in the name of the restaurant. He misspells it twice, deleting the entire thing with a slip of his thumb before he manages to navigate his way to the ‘ Reviews’ tab of the listing. 

He does, though. He gets there.

“Wh—what do you want me to say?”

“Whatever seems fair. I’m sure our lovely young waiter will remember your name, if he happens to see it.”

Will catches himself snarling at the memory, but he’s also rutting against the mattress, his cock sliding with too little friction up and back down the silky sheets. He’s making a mess, but he doesn’t care. If Hannibal cared, he wouldn’t be fucking Will prone after leaving him like that in the bathroom last night.

Unless, of course, this is another impossible trap.

“Read it to me as you type. If you come, I will stop. That lovely little toy will go back where it belongs and you will stay here, tortured by it, until lunchtime.”

The fear that seizes Will’s heart at the thought is monstrous. He hates how deeply the thought affects him; not just the idea of being left with the plug up his ass, but that Hannibal would deny himself the pleasure of finishing inside.

“Yeah, okay,” he agrees, breathing noisily as he finds the little box and begins to type.

He realizes pretty much immediately that he has no idea what to say.

“Out loud,” Hannibal reminds him, scraping the edge of a nail down the side of Will’s hip.

Will hisses, already so fucked-out that it’s a hell of a struggle to string words together.

“Right. Um, okay. ‘M-my husband and I visited recently–”

A hand comes down across his left cheek, sharp and hot. Punishing, rather than playful. He jerks, crying out in shock.

“Be specific, Will. We were there last night.”

Hannibal’s hips snap again, nearly causing Will to drop the phone. The jarring, intense sensations of pain and fullness are putting him at a distinct disadvantage.

He tries again.

“My h— ah —husband and I had d-dinner last night and—”

Another smack lands on the same, tender spot. Will feels himself clench.

“What time?”

He chokes on his response, accepting that the spanking is now part of the game. One more variable to track; combined with Hannibal’s focus on the abused nerves inside him, his mind peels back like old wallpaper.

“L-last night at seven,” Will manages, waiting to see if he’ll be punished for not using the European 24-hour clock. Apparently that’s a forgivable sin, so he continues, “the food was e-excellent.”

He yelps when he’s struck harshly on the other cheek.

“What? It was!”

“Absolutely.”

“Then what—”

Hannibal does it again, grunting pleasantly at the way Will’s hips jerk in place.

“Can’t a man simply enjoy the way his boy tightens up when he’s struck?”

Will’s top teeth sink into his lower lip, grinding into the effect those words have on him. They make him feel objectified, belittled, and so wonderfully warm. When another sharp smack has him hissing and arching toward Hannibal’s hips, he squeezes his tortured inner muscles with all the strength he can summon.

“Yeah,” he answers, low and hungry over his shoulder. “Yeah, I reckon he— ah —can.”

Hannibal’s tiny, knowing snarl is delicious. “Forgetful of me, to phrase it as a question.”

Will snarls right back.

“I will never tire of how you respond to pain and control,” Hannibal grins wickedly. Eyes dark, teeth sharp. He’s getting close again. “Your body reacts as intensely to suffering as it does to pleasure. It’s breathtaking to witness. Pure, honest masochism.”

Their task is temporarily forgotten as Will’s ass is slapped once, then again, forcing harsh cries from between his teeth. Each loud crack against pink, raw, sweat-marked skin scrapes back another layer of hesitation, pushing Will further into that space he craves so much. His cock hits his stomach with each blow, and it aches, it aches so deep.

“Finish your assignment,” Hannibal reminds him, another stinging palm-print branding him for the trouble.

A small, feral part of Will is delighted. He knows he’s being hurried because his husband is going to come if he takes much longer, so he snatches his phone back up from where it’s fallen onto the sheets, unlocks it in three tries, and picks up where he left off. Between the erratic thrusts and the way Hannibal keeps roughly palming his ass after tenderizing it so well, it’s a miracle he can type anything at all.

“The service,” he grunts, “left something to be desired.”

He says it with a put-on bitterness for Hannibal's benefit, rolling his shoulders as if the very thought of their waiter sparks an itch. Instead of another spanking, Hannibal curves down and tongues at Will’s bitten, salt-stained shoulder. He sucks a bruise into the muscle there, leaving his mark. Possessive. Encouraging.

“Somewhat unfair to the boy,” he purrs, driving deep. “Dear Amadeo was so accommodating to your condition and our… sudden departure”

An uncomfortable chill trickles down Will's spine. He’s supposed to be lax, fuckable, used, but Hannibal’s prodding him where it’s still tender. It’s meant to get a rise, and it does, but why? 

For a split second, he wonders if he’s missing something. It isn’t like Hannibal to flaunt his flirtations in this way; they both know they’re so sick for each other that nothing short of divine intervention could separate them. For God's sake, the Atlantic ocean spat them back out because even Poseidon didn’t want to deal with their star-crossed bullshit.

Then it clicks — this is what Hannibal wants. It’s what he’s wanted since he made the reservation. Orchestrating the encounter, teasing Will, bringing it up when they got home and again this morning; all of it a catalyst for luring out his lover’s long-dormant, territorial instincts. He’s indulging himself, too, in something he’s unsure how to ask for. Something he’s trained himself to live without.

Was it the rush of being trusted with one of Will’s more shameful fantasies that tipped the scales? He pictures Hannibal hovering over the counter the night Will asked to be used, glass of wine in hand. Laying out all the pieces, setting a course through uncharted depths. Seeing, then, an opportunity for a few detours.

Because Will doesn’t worry. His irritation with this Amadeo business has been entirely aimed at Hannibal, frustrated with how he keeps picking at it. He’s so used to ignoring the effects of his husband’s charm, but maybe he shouldn’t. Maybe this, and so many instances like it, have been silent bids for his teeth. 

He’d laugh at the strange, needy sweetness of it if not for the way he’s being fucked senseless. The understanding melts him. Tension spills from his shoulders, a sloughing off of dead skin. Confusion parts like storm clouds to make way for the razor-sharp clarity of purpose. 

Okay, he thinks. You want your attack dog? I’ll bite.

He licks across his eyeteeth, stepping into the character. Recontextualizing. It’s not so different from interpreting a crime scene; in fact, technically, he’s still wading into the mind of a killer to unravel his motivations. If it’s about giving Hannibal what he wants, it suits the exercise just fine. There’s more than one way to be useful.

He clenches. Hannibal gasps.

“Keep his name out of your mouth when you’re fucking me,” Will snaps, shooting a feral glare over his shoulder.

This, too, is submission.

Hannibal glows hotter, delighted at the bite on his lure. His arms circle Will’s ribs, pulling him up, flattening them together. Crushing him with appreciation for even this small show of his righteous fury.

“My darling,” he sighs, all smoke and promise and hope, “as if anyone could satisfy me like you do.”

He reaches down to tease at Will’s dripping cock with his fingertips. Giving him an out, if he wants.

He doesn’t. He’s in it, now.

More, Will thinks. Give him more than he asks for. It’s what he’s done for you.

He shakes his head, raising and crashing down in the few inches he’s allowed. Desperate, panting. Searching with his tongue for the anchor of Hannibal’s kiss.

“Is that what you want, darlin'? Some trembling, pretty-eyed boy you’ll wear out in a night?”

The low growl at his neck is all the confirmation Will needs that he’s picked up the right thread. His empathy flares, unlocked and flooded with Hannibal’s desire.

“Will—“

More. Cross the line. Unlock the bathroom door.

“He can’t have you,” Will snaps, craning to etch his vows into Hannibal’s neck, his lips. “You hear me? You’re mine. This cock, this mouth—“ he grabs Hannibal by the jaw, reduced to a frantic clash of tongues and teeth. He pulls away with an angry, primal snarl. “They’re for me. You’re mine.” 

Taut thighs quiver beneath him. The fingers teasing him stroke harder, but he refuses to let them best his resolve. Will’s rage beckons Hannibal to the edge, as it always has.

More. Almost.

“He can’t give you this. Can’t take your cock like he was born for it. Wouldn’t let you— ah —fuck him unconscious, would he? He’d want you to stop. Anyone with any common sense would.”

The phone has rolled off the bed onto the floor. They both hear the rubbery edge of the case clunk on the hardwood. Neither of them care.

“Yes,” is all Hannibal can say. He must be holding on to his orgasm by the skin of his teeth, praying to hear just a little more of this raw, radiant anger. “Yes, Will.”

For need of something, anything to do, Hannibal licks and mouths across Will’s throat. Open, wet, devouring.

“I don’t want you to stop. Fuck me asleep. Fill my mouth all day while you work. I don’t— fuck —I don’t care. Use me. Cage me. You hear me, baby?”

Hannibal doesn't speak. He nods into Will’s shoulder, canines digging furrows from his ear to his collarbone that fill with hot, hungry breath. He thrusts in without rhythm, coiling inward before the fall.

“I meant it when I said I’d kill him,” Will pants. Hannibal chokes down a reverent sob. “I would. I’d tear him apart. Bring him to you in my teeth like a dog. Let you feed him to me while you f—“

Something snaps. Hannibal's grazing fingers, slick from precome and sweat, begin to stroke Will's cock with intent. The sudden, vicious pleasure shocks a yelp from him after so much denial. It’s purposeful and impossible to ignore. Panic crackles up his veins as the rules blare in his mind.

“Ha-Han, don’t, you’ll make me—!“

“Do it,” Hannibal answers, the devil himself echoing in his command. He reaches his free hand up and shoves three fingers in Will’s waiting mouth, hooking over his bottom teeth to hold it open. “Come for me. Now.”

The fingers in his mouth probe deeper as if they, too, could fill him with their seed. Will chases them with his tongue and sucks hard, the circuit finally complete. When they’re nearly lodged in his throat, he bites down.

The sound is deafening. They both cry out, bodies slapping together as Hannibal spills and Will follows him down. The sudden rush of heat inside is a shotgun trigger, practically forcing the copious release from Will’s cock, over the sheets, his stomach, his thighs. Hannibal strokes him through it and drives in, tipping them forward until he’s blanketed over Will’s back and they’re both shivering from overstimulation.

The bed is ruined. They’re both soaked head to toe. Will’s curls are wild, his eyes glassy.

When Hannibal slips out of him, he lets out a miserable huff.

They shuffle onto their sides after a moment, facing each other. Will hurts everywhere, even before the adrenaline begins to fade. Hannibal pulls him close, afraid to give him even a moment to retreat into his head. Their legs weave together at the knees.

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to,” Will laughs, tucking his face and fingers into the thick fur of Hannibal’s chest.

A contemplative hum. “Your role, as I remember it, is to do as I please. It pleased me to make you come.”

“Softie,” Will teases. He inches closer.

Hannibal smiles, sweet and strangely vulnerable. “Only for you,” he mutters, eyes sparkling below heavy lids.

A hand pets over Will’s side then, tentative; part of the agreement had been to forego any sort of aftercare. Neither of them say it, but right now, after that, they both need to stay connected a little longer. 

They are nothing if not adaptable. As an answer, Will snakes a hand between them to rest on Hannibal’s hip. He squeezes, rubbing his thumb in slow arcs. His husband’s shoulders unclench a little.

“You can just ask, you know,” Will smirks against Hannibal’s pulse. “If you want me jealous.”

The older man doesn’t stiffen, but he does shift in place. “It seems we are both indulging our darker natures this weekend.”

Will chuckles between small kisses. “We sure are. You’re a dirty old man, you know that?”

Hannibal huffs, but not unkindly. “I’ve been accused of worse.”

Will rolls his eyes, pink cheeks split with a warm, affectionate smile. A hand finds his collarbone, threading through to the damp curls at the base of his skull. Will sighs into it.

“Forgive me, Will. I know I’m meant to leave you like this—“

He blinks widely, furrowing his brow. “Don’t. Not yet. I… yeah. Not yet.”

“You won’t be disappointed?”

Hannibal melts into the kiss Will offers him, soft and slow. If he didn’t know better, he’d think the untouchable monster was on the verge of dropping. As much as Will has savored being left to his own devices after being wrecked these past few days, it feels useful to coax his beloved back from the edge. He turns the action over in his mind, filing this under another category of service.

“I’d be cold without you,” he whispers.

A hitch of breath, a swallowed admission of relief. Hannibal pulls a blanket up over them, ignoring the mess. 

Will remembers himself and one of his first instructions, tucking his chin against the thicket of hair that covers Hannibal’s plump, welcoming chest. His favorite pillow.

“Thank you,” he says.

Their fingers find each other, twining between their ribs.

“Always,” Hannibal mutters into his temple. 

Sweaty, ruined and pathetically in love, they wander back into dreams.

*

Will wakes to the afternoon sun streaming lazily across the room. He’s still sore, but mercifully empty. It’s strange not to feel himself taken. Hannibal is gone, likely downstairs cooking a meal they should’ve had hours ago. His stomach rumbles at the thought.

Too much sex, not enough protein.

He sits up and grins; there’s a note folded on the bedside table next to his fully-charged phone. Needing to know, he unlocks the screen and opens his browser. To his relief, he sees that Hannibal has decided to spare Il Campanile from their game… for now.

Not that he’ll ever be able to show his face there again, but there are always casualties in war.

He rubs a hand over the scar across his cheek and reaches for the note.

Will,

Good afternoon. I hope you’re feeling rested.

We have strayed a little from your initial request, and I would like to honor it. For the last act of this arrangement, the rules are simple; your body, particularly your mouth, will remain available to me until sundown. I will not ask. You are to act as if everything that occurs is the most natural thing in the world.

I make no promises of release. 

An outfit has been left out for you. Its purpose is less feminization than ease of access, though if you wish to indulge that element of it, I am happy to oblige. 

Shower, then join me for a late lunch.

Yours,

H

Will stifles a bright, giddy laugh that tugs at his scars. It’s adorable, both the wordiness and consideration tucked into what is essentially a promise to use and ignore him sexually for the next several hours. ‘ Particularly your mouth’ delights him most – they both know Will’s ass is going to take days to recover.

Even thinking about it causes him to flinch, but the excitement drowns it out. Hannibal has managed to pinpoint one of the most arousing aspects of what he asked for. He doesn’t want to say ‘finally,’ because it’s not as though the last two and a half days have been in any way disappointing, but his skin does tingle thinking about how this might play out.

He’d be lying if he wasn’t immediately curious about the outfit. They’ve played with pretty things as much as depraved ones, finding enjoyment in both. Will is a big fan of Hannibal’s thick chest in strappy, sheer numbers, and has come to very much enjoy the sensation of being constricted. 

He strolls over to it on the way to the shower and blinks. Well then. He’s certainly going to feel… accessible.

Turning the tap up as hot as he can bear it, he wonders how long Hannibal’s had that little number tucked away. Before getting in, he digs through their bathroom cabinet, pulling out everything he’ll need. 

If he’s going to do this, there’s no point in doing it halfway.

*

Hannibal’s nearly finished plating their lunch when he hears Will padding down the stairs. He steels himself, knowing that he’s about to see his lover in the outfit he had rush-delivered yesterday while they were out at dinner. He hopes he hasn’t misstepped. He doesn’t think he has.

Act as if everything that occurs is the most natural thing in the world.

He wonders if he’ll be able to follow his own rule. As Will slinks into the kitchen, he strongly doubts it.

“Smells delicious,” the boy grins, strolling barefoot towards the island with a slight sway in his step. “What are we having?”

Hannibal’s teeth grit together so hard he worries for a moment that his molars might crack. Not only is his beloved wearing every stitch of the ensemble he picked out right down to the white leather collar, he’s shaved his face, now smooth as velvet and looking a decade younger even with its patchwork of scars. His hair is styled, its length accentuated. Hannibal peers over the countertop and nearly moans when he sees that his legs are bare and shining with lotion that smells of jasmine and honeysuckle.

The scent is divine. The visual is even better. He’s not made up like a woman; it’s more that all the divine femininity already present in Will Graham is framed and accentuated just for him. An offering, glittering in the filtered midday sun.

The top of the dress is sheer, a gauzy white cotton with a low neckline that highlights Will's sparsely-haired chest. His nipples, pebbled already, show clearly through the thin fabric. The loose, flowy skirt is tantalizingly short and nearly as transparent. Beneath, he can see his favorite purchase; a pair of lacy underwear cut specifically for those with external genitalia and an open mind. 

The elastic peephole at the front, designed for the wearer to pull themselves through while remaining otherwise covered, is a perfect fit. He knows Will is going to be teased terribly by the delicate movement of the skirt’s pleated layers over his exposed sex organs, struggling to keep himself covered. Really, it’s perfect for both of their plans. In his carefully-considered getup, all sacrificial white, Will is more naked than if he were fully bare.

“Baby?”

Will’s knowing, self-satisfied smirk pulls the doctor from his reverie. He discovers that he’s been holding the paring knife with enough grit that it might snap. He sets it down gingerly, smoothing the front of his vest.

He dressed up, too; the formality of his outfit, tie and all, will only serve to accentuate the openness of his beloved’s. Hannibal is, above all, a considerate spouse.

“There you are,” he replies at last, hoping his knuckles aren’t as white as they feel. “Please, have a seat. Lunch is ready.”

Will watches him for a moment, then cocks an eyebrow. 

“‘Kay,” he shrugs, mischief dancing in his pupils. He strolls to the table, taking his usual seat at Hannibal’s right. He makes a show of positioning himself in the chair, straightening his skirt nice and proper.

Hannibal’s mouth waters. He doesn’t comment on the outfit, though its impact sends shockwaves through the sharpened air between them. Meticulous as he is about his manners, Will’s appearance has him rather unsteady. 

It’s breathtaking. Hannibal knew he would be, but the reality in front of him is far more potent than he could’ve hoped. There’s a subtle shyness to Will’s posture, undercut with a brazen sort of challenge – he knows he looks good, and he knows what it’s doing to Hannibal. The light gilts the edges of his curls, the ridges of his scars, the gold of his ring, the simple matching hardware of the collar. He thinks of church ceilings and stained glass; the hubris of man to think he could capture the divine.

He clears his throat, setting their plates down with nearly all of his usual grace.

“Torte salate con asparagi,” he announces, then reaches for a bottle of something old and expensive. They don't always have wine with lunch, but it's a special day.

Normally he’d say more about the dish, but he finds himself coming up a little short on eloquence just now. He pours the wine carefully, first for Will, and then himself. White, because while he absolutely plans on ruining his beloved’s outfit, he’s saving that for after lunch. He doesn’t want some undeserving merlot getting there ahead of him.

“Looks wonderful,” Will answers, genuinely pleased. “May I?”

His knife and fork hover over his plate, awaiting permission. Hannibal aches.

“You may,” he replies, proud of how evenly he manages to speak.

“Thank you.”

Will eats with more intention than Hannibal’s seen in some time. He goes slowly, making eye contact from under his lashes as he samples the dish. His throat bobs with each swallow of wine. The sensuality with which he steals the meat from his fork with his lips has the older man’s suit pants tightening.

It occurs to him all at once that he doesn’t actually have to control himself. That’s the entire point of this agreement. Will is dressed up for him, to be prodded and played with. So, as they come to the end of the main course and have mostly moved into wine and easy conversation, Hannibal reaches under the table and slips his hand up Will’s thigh. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t tease it out; he simply keeps going, until his large, hot hand is cupping Will’s entire sex.

Will gasps at the lack of preamble. One moment they’re discussing the new roof of the church down the hill and the next, Hannibal is playing lazily with his balls. He doesn’t stop speaking, no longer struggling with that at all, even as Will begins to harden. He simply gropes, massages, and kneads as if he were idly fidgeting with some desktop curio.

It sets Will’s blood on fire.

“...But I think tomorrow we should take a walk down to the market, if the weather holds. We could use a few things for dinner.”

Hannibal doesn’t stroke him. It isn’t about that. He touches because he can, because Will is his property. He makes sure to lightly caress the lace, to remind them both of the contrast.

“Y-yeah,” Will replies, remembering the note. The most natural thing in the world. “Sounds good.”

A thumb passes through his slit, catching a bead of wetness that Hannibal slips out from under the table and up to his own lips. 

“I’d like to get some truffles from the shop down by the park, if we can.”

Will’s eyes widen, caught in the current as he watches the man suck the flavor from the digit, then go back for more. It reminds him of sampling ice cream flavors before choosing which one to order a scoop of. His face reddens, cock twitching at the crudess of the thought. Conveniently, it provides more for Hannibal to taste.

“Yeah, um, great,” he blusters, feeling extra-vulnerable in his little outfit. “We can walk back past th-the lake.”

Hannibal nods as if considering that, squeezing more from his boy until it pools on his fingertips. He licks them clean as he considers his answer. It’s unbearably obscene. 

“That sounds lovely, darling.”

Will feels the flush spill down his neck, worsened by the way the sheer top brushes his nipples with each movement. Hannibal returns to teasing him, but avoids his cock now, simply rolling his exposed sack across his palm. Tugging, just a little, before letting go to sip his wine.

“Wonderful. You’re so amenable.”

“Lunch was, um, great,” Will says flatly, overcompensating for the rapid hammering of his pulse. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was.”

A flash of a grin. “No? You’ve been expending quite a bit of energy.”

“I, um. Yeah. Suppose that’s true.”

With every breath, the unbearably soft cotton makes itself known over his heated length. The way the panties hug the rest of him so tightly only serves to highlight how very naked his useful parts are. The sensation is maddening, the ghost of a touch, shifting like a cloud. His erection causes the frilled garment to roll back, exposing him further. The hem catches on his leaking tip, sticking for a moment before it gives way. He could stay covered if he could stay soft, but Hannibal won’t let him.

Eventually, his husband relents. He straightens his vest and tie, reaching for their plates.

“C-can I help?” Will asks, unsure if he can even stand.

“Of course,” Hannibal responds, face going soft and kind. “Hold still.”

Will blinks, anticipatory. Without wasting a moment, Hannibal moves to his side, unzips his suit pants, and pulls his cock free. From there he seizes the O-ring at the heart of Will’s collar, guiding him firmly down so that he has to twist in his seat to take Hannibal in his mouth.

He isn’t gentle. He presses in like he means to make a point, forcing Will to adjust in a hurry. He tries to relax his throat, gripping the side of the table at the sudden onslaught. 

Hannibal speaks as if he isn’t fucking anyone’s mouth at all, a finger still hooked around the collar’s ring. “I thought that, for the rest of the afternoon, we might read on the back deck.”

All Will can do is grunt, low in his chest. He’s almost caught up to the rhythm when Hannibal pulls out, crudely slapping his cheek with his wet length as Will gasps for air.

“I have a journal I’d like to catch up on,” he continues, stroking himself roughly before shoving back into Will’s slack mouth. “I’ll put your holes to use until I’m finished. Would you like that?”

Will nods hungrily, doing his best not to gag. He would like that, very much. He’s leaking again, the delicate fringe of his skirt catching and dragging it down his length, to his hips. His hands are braced on the table and the back of his chair, the little thorn on the underside of his ring digging into his skin. He feels deranged.

Hannibal withdraws again, ignoring the sputtering coughs that follow in his wake. He lets the ring go, enjoying the soft tink of the metal. His fingertip traces the stitching of the collar before joining the rest of his hand in gripping himself firmly. He rubs the leaking head across Will’s bruised bottom lip and chin, talking mostly to himself as he enjoys the sensation of the freshly-shaved skin. It’s already going pink from the friction, shining with precome and spit.

“You look so lovely today,” Hannibal smiles, adoring. “It’s a shame we can’t go into town. What a treat it would be to show you off like this.”

A noise of worried, mild panic rises from Will’s gut. He wouldn’t, but the threat is distressing, and that distress is arousing. Like all of his dropped threads and hints, Hannibal snatches it up where it falls. He slides in again past lips that might think about protesting any other day, languid in his cruelty.

“I doubt we’d make it two blocks. All those eyes on you, seeing how hard and wet you are through your pretty skirt.”

Sea-blue eyes blink up pitifully, pink lips stretched around Hannibal’s girth. Will sees a shift in the man’s expression, as if he’s realized he needs to pull himself back from the edge. Having that kind of power, even for a second, is intoxicating.

“Another time, maybe,” Hannibal course-corrects, seizing chocolate curls to pull him off. Pearlescent strands of saliva connecting him to Will’s mouth go thin before they snap.

Will licks at his lower lip, dizzy from the shock of oxygen rushing back to his limbs. He watches, a tad mournfully, as Hannibal tucks himself away and zips back up. Without missing a beat, he gathers their plates and takes them to the sink.

“I’ll wash,” Hannibal smiles, beatific. “You dry.”

A snort catches Will by surprise as he wipes his chin with the back of his hand. He’s never been less dry in his life.

*

There’s an outdoor sofa on the back deck overlooking the garden, shaded by a large blue umbrella and a vibrant mango tree. The day is warm and the sun is high, but a faint breeze makes all the difference. Will closes his eyes, enjoying the pink light through his lids and the scent of their well-tended greenery. It blends well with the salt-musk of Hannibal’s skin.

The sofa sits diagonal from where they had dinner for Will’s birthday. He’s laid on his side facing out, head in Hannibal’s lap, blinking at the table. It feels purposeful, returning to the scene of the crime for their last afternoon of this particular experiment. 

Above him, a hand idly sifts through his curls. Every so often, it leaves to flip the page of the psychology journal Hannibal’s reading or toy with the ring of Will’s collar, but always, it returns.  Will sinks into the rhythm of it. He's helped along by the way the balmy breeze shifts the ruffles of his skirt over his hips and the heavy anchor of Hannibal’s cock against his tongue.

They’ve been like this for twenty minutes, or maybe two hours. Will doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. Thoughts drift along in the current of his mind, distant and dull. He listens to the wind through the palm trees, the clinking of ice in Hannibal’s glass. After so much rough treatment, it’s utter bliss to lie here and simply be.

Hannibal’s cock is almost entirely soft, silky where it rests against his tongue. He laps at it every once in a while without meaning to, earning a soft tut from above. Even after this weekend peels away, Will knows he’ll be back here soon.

They both like it too much.

At some point, the fingers tangled in his curls glide down his shoulder to his chest. They tease over the sheer fabric, lazily making their way to a nipple gone soft and flat. A hum flits away on the wind as Hannibal's thumb and forefinger begin to tweak gently through the barely-there top of his dress, luring the little peak back to hardness.

Will surfaces a bit, noting the tug on the end of his line. A faint pinch jolts pleasure down to his cock, causing his legs to tense, his knees to rub against each other. Unfair, he thinks. He isn’t meant to notice or react, but his nipples are sensitive.

Focus, he reminds himself. This is natural. Normal. It’s what you’re here for.

He tries to stay still. It’s not too difficult at first, but then Hannibal slips his hand under the low neckline of the top to play with the reddening bud. He’s still reading, or pretending to, so Will does his best to maintain position. He doesn’t suck, doesn’t lick. He swallows, though, and his throat clicks in the process.

He hears another soft hum, more affectionate this time. He can feel Hannibal stirring in his mouth. It excites him, to test Will’s endurance. It always has.

When his finger and thumb pinch and roll the nipple, Will can’t keep down the groan. His thighs press more tightly together even as he mentally barks at them not to. His cock begins to respond as a nail digs in, taunting him. Then it leaves, and the soft thwip of a page turning echoes over the lawn like a gunshot.

Stay still. Be good. 

The hand returns to his hair, toying with errand strands gone damp at the root. Will’s cheeks are hot, his untouched cock once again rising beneath the maddeningly soft ruffles of the skirt. He forces himself to settle back into his purpose. 

Hannibal really outdid himself picking this outfit; the sensory experience is impossible to tune out once he’s even remotely excited. The breeze hits the fabric hits his cock, so hideously available while the rest of him stays hidden behind snug, cheeky lace... save for the opening at the back he absolutely has not forgotten about.

He wants to see Hannibal in them, tucked under fine suit pants. Wants his husband to know how it feels to be so contained everywhere but his most sensitive parts, rubbing up against the fabric behind his zipper. Driving him wild, forcing him to worry about ruining the material. Knowing he could be taken at a moment's notice.

He wouldn’t let him wear whatever it was Hannibal had made for the restaurant. Will wants to see the wet patch, knowing his lover will have to fold his jacket over his arm to make a dignified exit. Aware, before they even leave the house, that the outfit is enjoying its last night of use.

For Hannibal's birthday, perhaps.

His awareness rises further as the hand leaves his hair again, following the dip of his spine to the swell of his backside. It rests there for a minute, idly skimming the fabric, tracing the hem until Hannibal’s fingertips begin to draw circles on the skin between Will’s cheeks and upper thighs.

Will shifts again, knees finding each other. He has one arm draped across Hannibal’s lap, the other tucked under him, and considers them both off limits. They clench, though, just a little. It almost tickles.

“As you were, Will,” Hannibal reminds him, voice soft and far away. Will adjusts himself obediently, using his lips to pull the length he’d let slip from his mouth back into place. 

His eyes fall closed, enjoying that soft pink light again until one of those dastardly fingers teases its way down. He makes a soft noise of discontent, tutted once more as his hips shift. He doesn’t move away, not one bit, but it’s hard to pretend he isn’t affected when a fingertip breaches the opening in the fabric and begins circling his entrance.

He did prepare himself, of course. Hannibal asked for his mouth, but it’s the third day and he’s learned by now that it’s better to be safe than sorry. When Hannibal discovers that Will’s hole is already slick, he thickens just a little between his very good boy’s lips.

His finger pushes in up to the first knuckle, slipping further and back again. The rest of his broad hand rests on the lace. It’s not so bad at first, somewhat easy to adapt to without losing sight of his duty, but then Hannibal adds a second and begins ghosting over his prostate. The faintest touch, little more than a reminder. 

Will swallows again, jaw beginning to ache. The collar tightens as he does, its hardware dancing like chimes. Between his legs, his own cock is irritatingly hard, leaking onto the skirt fabric. The breeze is cool and merciless over his exposed length, refusing him any peace. He really does feel more naked than naked, particularly with Hannibal’s palm spread over the lace. It doesn’t feel like he should be able to have all of these sensations at once.

Crotchless panties have always seemed crass and functionally pointless to him. Sexy, sure, in a cheap-motel-porno kind of way, but not something he’d go out of his way to ask for.

He gets it, now.

It’s a hell of a challenge not to squirm. He’s being teased from both ends, filled without acknowledgement of it. It hits that specific spot of being used and ignored that makes Will dizzy to even imagine, much less experience. 

Hannibal’s journal is still held with one hand, though if he’s actually retaining any information at this point, Will would be stunned. It doesn’t matter. His entire body buzzes with arousal, simmering from the predicament.

This, he’s fantasized about. Often. When he’s granted a slightly firmer press against the bundle of nerves inside him, his cock drips onto the couch. He moans around the gag of Hannibal’s shaft; he never tires of feeling as though he’s having that wetness forced out of him. There’s something so decadently humiliating about being reduced to a button that wants nothing more than to be pressed.

His hand on Hannibal’s thigh twists in the fabric, rumpling it. The one trapped beneath him flexes. A third finger makes its way inside him, and suddenly he’s no longer drifting in the stream but thrashing to stay afloat. He’s so full, the cock in his mouth well on its way to choking him.

Even though he’s tender and sensitive all over, he wants more. Needs it. The collar clinks against itself as he turns his head upward, pleading with wide, watery eyes. His thighs won’t stop pressing together, but only the gentle air and dampening fabric of the skirt deign to touch him where he needs it most.

“Something the matter, pet?”

A wordless whimper vibrates through Will. His tongue laves up the underside of the cock in his mouth as if he were pawing at Hannibal’s shirttails for attention. He blinks prettily. The situation, combined with the outfit, has stripped him of all that burdensome shame. He’s nothing but sex, dripping and drooling all over his master’s lap in his Sunday best. Madonna and whore, killer and sacrificial lamb alike. He exists in the space between absolutes where all things are permitted.

Hannibal looks at him like he’d topple empires to keep Will like this forever. It only lasts a second before his expression stills and darkens. No more ignoring. He wants to give his own personal deity what he truly needs; righteous, devoted cruelty. Like a lock sliding into place, his focus sharpens.

Will shivers.

“My sweet thing. It’s a lot to take, isn’t it?”

Will nods, humming his confirmation with his mouth full. His dark brows knit as the fingers in his ass twist and thrust with more purpose. He hopes his pitiful little noises and the ragged breaths through his nostrils are pleasing; he suspects they are.

“And yet you do it so well. You were so hesitant to ask me for this, and now look at you.”

His toes crunch and flare, calves tensing. It’s a bid to expel the energy coiled inside him, screaming for release. He whines, high-pitched and lovely, as his cock pulses against his thigh. The skirt is sticking to him. It’s awful and so, so perfect. If Hannibal keeps brushing his fingers like that—

“Writhing against me, stretched open and yearning for more. Ruining your lovely dress with all that need.”

Will’s eyelids flutter, the craving inside him growing like hunger pangs. He nods again, licking in agreement. Hannibal’s going easy on his throat for now, allowing his boy to keep half of him in his mouth, suckling meditatively even as his writhing picks up speed. 

Pretty as a picture.

“Do you want to come again, pet?”

Another nod. A low, starving grunt. Eyelashes batted in hope.

“Greedy thing. Was this morning not enough to satisfy you?”

The flush across Will’s cheeks heats up, but he doesn’t stop. Instead, he clenches around the fingers that pull him apart, wriggling with encouragement as he shakes his head a fraction.

Unn-hnng.

Hannibal’s smile broadens with affection. He pets through Will’s hair with his free hand.

“Perhaps I should adjust my tactics. Denial only seems to incense you.”

Will doesn’t know what to say to that. It’s too close to the truth.

“I had a patient once,” Hannibal shares out of nowhere, “who told me that when she was young, her father caught her smoking cigarettes. Do you know how he responded?”

Fear grips Will's heart in its icy claws. He knows where this is going. He blinks, waiting to see if he’s wrong.

“He forced her to smoke the entire pack. An American tradition, apparently.”

Will swallows, eyes squinting with worried recognition. Hannibal tracks his awareness, more catlike as he gets closer to the point. When he’s satisfied Will is keeping up with the narrative, he returns to circling his fingertips over the sensitive bundle of nerves inside him.

“She was sick for days from the nicotine, her throat charred. It left her with a great deal of trauma and several neuroses around indulgence, but do you know what else it accomplished?”

A meek whine, hesitant in pitch, accompanies Will’s squirming. The attention to his prostate is constant now, pointed. This little speech is making Hannibal harder, and he’s slowly forcing more of himself toward the barrier of Will’s throat. Tears bloom at the corners of his eyes.

“Correct, my darling. She never smoked again.”

Will shudders, so close to tipping over the edge. He grips at Hannibal’s thigh, trying to swallow more, to take everything. To be good. His eyes go wide and pleading, but not for mercy.

It takes a moment before Hannibal speaks again. He watches, head tilted at an angle, feeding more of himself to his struggling toy. His finger slips through the ring of the collar, tugging it just to hear the soft clank of metal when he lets it go.

“How many times do you need to come before you learn your lesson?”

Will’s stomach dips as it clenches, starving for this. He groans low and loud, pushing back against Hannibal’s fingers.

“Hmm,” Hannibal hums, one brow raising just so. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

A jolt crashes through Will’s stomach as Hannibal abandons all pretense, twisting and tugging in all the right ways. He gasps and gulps as much as he can, spinning from the lack of air as he’s fingered within an inch of his life. 

He’s not even sure a full minute passes before he’s jerking in place, spittle bubbling from his lips as he comes. Having the cock in his mouth gives him nowhere to run, and he loves it. He shoots across his thigh, the sofa cushion, the deck beneath. 

Above him, somewhere, he hears a soft chuckle.

“That’s one.”

Will whines as the fingers leave him even though it comes with physical relief. Hannibal doesn’t yet pull out of his mouth as he reaches down to examine the mess, trailing the frills of the skirt through the aftermath. Will grimaces at it. He’s hazy, still wading through aftershocks of the orgasm.

“Let’s try for another.”

Confusion echoes from Will’s freed lips as he’s dragged off, manhandled up from where he lies. Needles prickle his fingers as they fall to his sides; they were going numb, it seems. There’s no time to take further inventory, though, because Hannibal’s pulled him into a seated position over his lap and is pressing his cockhead at Will’s entrance.

“W-wait–” 

He doesn’t. With one good, solid thrust and the conquering of Will’s hips, Hannibal fills him near to bursting. He uses his grip to drive in and out a few more times until the shivering boy in his lap is flush against his hips.

“No,” he whispers against Will’s ear, enjoying the way his lover clenches as his predicament sets in.

It hurts. He’s still too sensitive from his climax and Hannibal knows it; counts on it. Little whines pepper his grunts of overwhelm as he grips the sofa on either side of them. 

“Do you feel useful, Will?”

The words brush his neck, lapping at what’s left of his sanity. Hannibal’s strength is absolute even after years of supposed rest. He bounces in the older man’s lap, guided easily up and back down as if he’s little more than a doll.

“Is it better like this? No thoughts, just a vessel for pleasure?”

Will’s head lolls. He thinks he nods or mumbles something in the affirmative. It must not be enough, because he’s adjusted, tilted forward. The new angle allows Hannibal to hit him right there every single time.

“Oh, fuck–” he hisses, tensing up. It's too much.

His reaction changes nothing.

“I’m going to take everything you have. When you think you've found your limit, I will show you how much further you can go.”

Will groans. His cock is only half-hard as if it’s confused, too. It bounces with him, the skirt stuck to his fevered skin, transparent and lewd as it bobs. 

“P-please,” he finally asks, recalling his voice. It’s raspy, but it’s all he has. “I can’t.”

“Oh, but you can. It’s astounding, what the body can endure.”

And then he reaches down, wrapping Will’s length in the tacky layers of his skirt before he strokes. It makes him want to peel out of his skin; it has him arching and bucking beneath the touch. The sounds of their bodies slapping together mixed with the clanging of his collar feel like a call to ruin.

“Fuck, Han, it’s too much,” he protests, sweat causing his palms to slip on the sofa’s edge. 

“It is,” Hannibal agrees. He noses up the curve of Will’s neck, scenting him, whispering in foreign tongues as he continues to fuck him open. “But if I didn’t know you could handle it, we wouldn’t be here.”

Will’s head falls back against Hannibal’s shoulder, riding the waves as best he can. His bare, smooth legs rub against the fabric of the suit pants beneath him. The wet, humiliating rhythm is hypnotic. He can’t follow all of the textures. The input short-circuits him entirely. 

He is gone, he is present, he is unmade.

“H-Han… God, fuck…”

There’s an inhale, a subtle thing, as Hannibal finally dips into the well he knows will push his lover over the edge.

“Greedy girls,” he smirks, "always get what they deserve."

Heat flares under Will’s skin, spreading from his core out to his fingertips. It’s so absurd, but — Hannibal’s hand around him squeezes, his thumb teasing the dripping slit through the fabric, and then it doesn’t matter.

He doubles over as he comes again, the climax wrenched from him by sheer force. Wetness blooms through the trapped length of him, weaker than before, dribbling over Hannibal’s hand and the thin barrier of cotton. It runs down him to his thighs as his body seizes, trying to brace through the intensity of it all.

Hannibal doesn’t stop.

Will’s not sure why he expected him to, but of course he doesn’t. He cups and paws at the drenched mess of Will’s lap even as he starts to go soft, fucking into him at the same unbothered pace. It hurts, oversensitive and raw all over. He wants to pull away, even gets as far as attempting to dislodge himself before an arm cages his middle.

“Hush. We aren’t finished.”

Will groans, loud and long, grateful for the distance between them and their neighbors. The tremors in his weakened limbs are more than he can stand.

“Fuck, fuck,” he pants, “God, please, I can’t—”

Teeth find his earlobe, silver tongue scraping up his spine. “Have faith in yourself, my love. I do.”

Will shakes his head, teeth gritted. He feels like he’s shattering apart. He won’t get hard again, barely managed last time, but that doesn’t mean Hannibal won’t find new and terrible ways to manipulate his body into doing what he wants it to.

"Here, I'll make it easier for you."

Will cries out as he’s lifted again, gravity such an ephemeral concept. Hannibal’s cock pops free, another terrible mix of absence and relief, too sudden. It feels like the world falling out from under him, and then he’s on his back just in time for the killer to do the unthinkable.

“Oh, fuck, no, no, please no—”

A tongue, hot and malicious, licks up from his knee past his tacky inner thighs to his soft, spent cock. He yelps and tenses, trying to kick free. It’s pointless. Hannibal’s got him by the hips, the vise of his hold more than happy to bruise.

“You can’t, Han, please, I mean it—”

He looks up, eyes glistening. His teeth flash in the sunlight.

“Say the word,” he threatens, stopping to lick and nip at the wincing flesh until Will is writhing beneath him. “If you want this to stop, say it.”

Will bucks and moans, brows crushed together. Hannibal’s mouth, that guiltless, endless hunger, keeps on cleaning him of his own release.

“W-would it matter?!” Will chokes, flailing from the torment. 

Hannibal bites, deep and claiming on the flesh of his upper thigh until he has to cover his mouth with his arm to muffle his screams. When the monster relents and meets those glazed eyes again, there is no mercy left in him.

“No,” Hannibal says, licking over his canines, “but it would make me harder.”

Will’s back arches at the sentiment, head thrown to the side, digging his hands into the cushions above him. Under him. There’s no break in his whines now, focused as he is on enduring. Hannibal sucks and licks at him, fellating his small, soft length even as Will cries out for pity. For anything but this.

When two fingers find their way back inside him, he briefly considers throwing them both off a cliff all over again. Will’s eyes go wide and fearful as he tries to bargain, hips wriggling as if he could get away.

“N-no, Han, I mean it, it hurts—”

“We’re almost there, Will. Do you know why I’m doing this to you?”

He shakes his head violently, body wracked with shivers, desperate to escape the pressure. It isn’t good, but biology is a science, and Hannibal strokes him with clinical efficiency. 

“B-because you hate me,” he gasps, roiling from the onslaught.

Hannibal laughs, low and cruel, breath hot against his groin.

“No one could ever love you this well,” he counters, dismissing the thought utterly. He twists his fingers, earning more melancholy howls. “I’m doing this because I want you pliant when I claim you. Soft and open with none of that pesky arousal to distract you from your purpose.”

The groan is discordant, Will’s sanity frayed. The pressure building in him is a funhouse mirror of orgasm, twisted and cramping. He hates this; he is held by the glacial hand of epiphany. This, he thinks, is ecstasy in the biblical sense. A crown of thorns, a knife to the gut.

“Please, don’t, I’ll be good, I’ll be so good—”

Hannibal chuckles softly. “Yes, you will. I’m giving you the opportunity for true obedience. Allow your body to become what it was meant to be; filled and owned, the property of someone who knows how to use it.”

Will feels a twinge in his cock, though it’s less a physical response than an extension of the twisting pleasure-pain from deep within. Hannibal takes the entirety of him into his mouth, every exposed inch of flesh, lips pressed to the sticky lace around it.

Those fingers crook, and it’s less of a moan than a wail as something like a climax gnarls his gut. He hisses and sobs through it, a dry mockery of relief despite the tears tracking down his cheeks. Every touch is like sandpaper and lye and he hates it, he hates it, he’s so viciously proud of himself for not slashing Hannibal’s jugular even as the man keeps licking and fingering him long past the point of deniability.

“Please, pleasepleaseplease, Han, fucking stop!”

His husband pulls off with wet lips and a feral grin. “As you wish.”

Will can’t track up or down as he’s lifted effortlessly, lost for balance until his chest hits the outdoor dining table and Hannibal’s cock glides back into him without any effort at all.

“Oh, Jesus, fuck—”

He makes quick work of Will’s hands, wisely concerned with how wriggly the boy has become in his oversensitive state. There’s the hiss of a tie pulled through Hannibal's shirt collar, and then they’re bound at his back.

“Hold still, pet. This is for your own good. Don’t make me have to muzzle you, too.”

Will tries to bury his face in the hardwood when Hannibal has him hold up the hem of his skirt to keep it out of the way.

“There we are. That’s better, isn’t it?”

Language is a funny thing to imagine having the use of. Will’s eyes roll back, his cheek smashed into the table as he’s rocked back and forth by each thrust. Hannibal’s right; there is nothing to do but take it.

“Still so tight,” the voice praises, its accent gone thick. “So fucking pretty like this, baby girl.”

Will shivers viciously, a strangled moan crawling past his lips. Hannibal always saves his least erudite filth for when he’s close, and frankly, Will doesn’t understand how he still hasn’t come. Knowing that it’s finally a possibility allows him to sink into it fully, past the deep end and into dark water.

“Nngh. F, fu—”

Hannibal blankets across his back, holding Will close as he presses his lips to the delicate fabric of the dress. It’s gone see-through with sweat, sticking to him, but so has everything. 

“Are you ready?” he asks, his tone finally broken by exertion. Will nods in place. “I’m going to put your plug in, after. Keep you full and soft until I need you again.”

He groans, pulling at his bonds. Sure. Yes. Anything you want.

“Such a perfect slut,” Hannibal whispers to his curls. He grabs the collar by its ring and tugs.

Will tenses, trembles, and then goes slack as Hannibal bottoms out. He pulls Will’s cheeks apart with his thumbs to get as deep as he can and then he spills, so hot and full and how is there so much and Will feels consumed, like there's nothing left of him. He is a gasp, a fragment.

He has met his end, his purpose fulfilled.

“Perfect,” Hannibal repeats under his breath, a prayer against Will’s shoulder.

Will’s pretty sure he grins.

Eventually, Hannibal pulls out. As promised, though God knows where he was keeping it, he slips the plug in before any more of him can drip free. Will barely feels it; he’s dissociated from his body, floating above it all. There are anchors of soreness and satisfaction, yes, but he can’t quite settle into them just yet.

He is out to sea, drifting in the warm current of obliteration. The fragrant breeze teases his hair, skating over his bound arms. He can hear birds in the distance, gossipping about what they’ve seen.

He hopes they’re impressed.

Hannibal shocks a yelp out of him when his hand collides with Will’s ass, just once.

“Run yourself a bath,” he hums, rustling as he tucks himself away and stands. “You’re a mess.”

A guttural rumble of laughter, trapped below Will's throat, vibrates against the table. He’s still bent over it, legs shaking, debauched in what’s left of his outfit. He feels his age for a moment in the ache of his joints and the first stirrings of shame. He wishes they’d both leave him be.

“Yes, sir,” he mutters, biting his chapped lower lip. It seems Hannibal’s decided to return to basics here, too, leaving him to recover instead of doting on him like he normally would. “T-thank you.”

There’s a hum of impressed approval, but no more. Every clack of Hannibal’s shoes across the deck as he heads back inside reverberates through Will’s skull.

It takes him longer than he’d later admit to realize his hands are still tied.

*

It doesn’t actually take him that long to get free, though it would’ve been faster if he’d had any control of his extremities. He extracts himself from his bonds a bit at a time, groaning at the state he’s in. Honestly, the sun on his back is what stirs him; he can feel a burn setting in and isn’t keen on that particular thread of pain.

He makes his way to the bathroom on unsteady legs. Everything aches as he fills the bath with hot water, opting to try a little of each of Hannibal’s many bath oils and bubbles. After all, why not? He's certainly earned a little comfort.

He settles in, wincing as the plug connects with the bottom of the tub. The water is perfectly hot; scalding, really. It overtakes him like static, replacing all the individual hurts with one all-encompassing sensation.

A hand lifts from the water, dripping with soap bubbles, trembling all over. He stares at the gold band on it, lost in wonder at how they got here from there. The truth of it all drapes itself over him, leaving a dopey, blissed-out grin plastered across his face.

He doesn’t even feel himself fall asleep.

*

He wakes to a straw at his lips and the sound of cool water running into the bath.

“Will? Can you hear me, darling?”

His eyelids flutter open slowly, remembering how to rise. His limbs come back to him one by one; fingers twitching, toes flexing. There’s a hand around his wrist, a thumb at his pulse.

“That’s it. Can you make a fist for me?”

He tries. He gets close, maybe. His fingers curl, at least. The room gradually unveils itself, swimming into focus.

“Han?”

The first thing he can truly understand is his husband kneeling at the side of the bathtub. There’s concern drawing his features tight, but Will’s response seems to be easing it. He’s in his vest, shirtsleeves rolled up, a glass of water in his other hand. Noting Will’s dawning awareness, he raises the straw to the younger man’s lips again.

“I’m here. Drink, sweetheart. You’re dehydrated.”

“Mmm,” Will agrees, nodding heavily as the chilled water rushes to soothe his throat. His mouth is clammy, his thoughts thick. “Must’ve… dozed off…”

Hannibal nods, encouraging him to sip a few more times before setting the glass down. He turns off the taps, testing to see that the water is now much closer to tepid than boiling.

“I called for you and came when you didn’t answer. Your head was slipping under the water when I entered.”

Will’s brow creases. Was it? He shakes his head a little, feeling the water droplets from his curls hitting his face and neck. He blinks some more.

“Huh,” he says, slurring a little. “Be wild, after all this… if that’s how I went.”

Fondness lifts the corners of Hannibal’s lips. “I’m not done with you yet, darling.”

He doesn’t mean sex. He pets over Will’s arm as if he was afraid to lose it, running him through a few more response tests. He must be satisfied by the gradual improvement, as he nods patiently when he’s finished.

Will shifts in place, noting the absence of the plug inside him. He wants to frown, because how did he not feel that, but he is quietly grateful to not have to deal with it just now.

“I hope you’ll forgive me for this,” Hannibal murmurs, tracing Will’s cheek. “There are limits to how much even I can allow you to suffer.”

A less-addled version of Will would’ve had a pithy comeback for that, given their history of evidence to the contrary. Instead, he huffs a small laugh, leaning into the touch.

“S’fine,” he murmurs. “I’m not… don’t stop.”

“I don’t intend to.”

Hannibal plants a soft kiss to his temple. He rubs the stiffness from Will’s wrists, the knots from his shoulders. Will grunts at the precision. He hums at the gentleness. The water around him has grown cool, but he takes that awareness as a sign that he’s coming back from the edge of wherever he’d almost blinked off to.

“Han?”

“Yes, my love?”

“We can be done now. If you want.”

He hears a soft chuckle at his neck, a brief pause of the hands molding him back together. 

“You won’t feel cheated by an early retirement from your role?”

Will rolls his head from side to side. He presses his scarred cheek to Hannibal’s forearm, nuzzling.

“Had plenty,” he grins, eyes half-lidded. “Don’t know how much more I could take, If m’honest.”

His husband lifts his arm, dotting kisses all the way up to his fingertips. Will scrunches his nose, barely stifling his fluster. He makes a long-suffering, delighted sort of growl-chirp that Hannibal almost certainly logs away to revisit for years to come.

“If we’re trading in honesty, I must confess myself a bit depleted as well.”

Will snorts, pulling the hand now intertwined with Hannibal’s to his lips.

“Did pretty well for a couple of geriatrics, didn’t we?”

A resentful huff against his shoulder makes him squirm. “You make us sound as if we’ve one foot each in the grave already.”

“We always have, baby.”

Will turns to find him beaming, absolutely sick with adoration. He rolls his eyes and reaches for Hannibal’s chin, pulling him in for a deep, slow kiss. The water sloshes as he turns, looping his arms around his husband’s neck. Taking the cue, Hannibal lifts him from the water without breaking stride. There’s a towel around him then, plush and warm, and they keep kissing until he’s dry and swaddled in it.

Eventually, Will draws his tongue from Hannibal’s mouth, offering him a last chase kiss as punctuation. He presses their foreheads together, still dazed. In their shared breath, the last two days crash over him. Gratitude swells like a sunrise in his chest, stinging his eyes.

“Thank you, Hannibal,” he whispers, threading his hands through the silky hair at the back of the older man’s neck.

The smile he earns radiates between them. 

“It was, in every way, my pleasure.”

“D’you think it’s greedy of me to want a little... sweetness, I guess, when I talked such a big game about being left alone?”

Hannibal kisses each corner of his lips in turn. “There are few things I enjoy more than encouraging your greed, darling.”

Will grimaces, but he’s smiling, too. “You’re such a prick.”

“I won’t deny it. What would you like for dinner?”

They separate just far enough to lock eyes, the world on hold for them as it has been since the day they met. 

“McDonald’s,” Will grins.

Hannibal’s face falls, grave and unfriendly. “I am not above punishing you, even if you keep all your clothes on for it.”

Every one of Will’s teeth gleam in the low light as he feasts on his beloved snob’s displeasure. He buries his nose in Hannibal’s neck, surprising them both with more of his uncharacteristically open affection.

“Fine,” he pouts, nipping at the crescent of exposed skin above the shirt collar. “Can you do ropa vieja? With the fried plantains?”

Hannibal softens into him. Will has taken to Cuban street food in a way he finds terribly endearing. “That, I can indulge.”

Will leans back, holding him at arms’ length to look him over. There are damp spots where he’s hugged and gripped at Hannibal’s shirt. 

You’d have to know him well to see the signs of his exhaustion; a slight hollowness to the eyes, the way his hair has come loose from its careful styling, a roundness to his shoulders. It’s not surprising. Honestly, he’s stunned that they’ve both given and taken so much in the past 48 hours. 

“I mean it,” he says at last, squeezing Hannibal’s biceps. “This has been… well. A really great birthday.”

There’s another pause as his husband seems to consider his next move.

“Would it be atrocious of me if I asked for something, tonight?”

Will blinks, jaw tightening. “Han, I’m really not sure I can—”

Hannibal almost laughs, a real laugh that a real person might make. The warmth of it floods Will’s chest like whiskey. He feels buoyant.

“No, darling. Not that. I would like, if you’ll allow me, to pamper and spoil you rotten for the rest of the evening.”

Will snorts again, biting his lower lip. “Been rough for you, hm?”

Hannibal’s cheeks color as he nods, caught out by his one true weakness.

“Agony,” he admits, his eyes glistening. “You know I love to hurt and ravish you, but…”

“...You need this part. The reconnect.”

He nods again, strangely vulnerable under Will’s knowing gaze. “I do. Try not to think less of me for it.”

Will doesn’t. He guides their lips together, closing the distance. Everything goes quiet for a moment as they sigh into each other. When he finally breaks the kiss, Will can’t stop grinning.

“You’re a sap, Dr. Lecter.”

“And you are a ravenous harlot, Special Agent Graham.”

“Only for you.”

Hannibal’s comeback dies on his lips as Will guides their mouths back to each other, smirking all the while. 

Only for you, he thinks.

Only ever for you.

*