Chapter Text
Curls streaked with varying browns rest against Hannibal’s abdomen, a stubbled cheek on his thigh as Will’s throat houses his half-hard cock, sucking and constricting in rhythmic intervals.
One hand propping his chin, Hannibal buries the other into the mussed tangle of hair to scrape along Will’s scalp with well-trimmed nails, rewarding the good behaviour.
Will might still be trained yet. Eventually far enough to bend to his whims while fully conscious with no amnesia to wipe the slate clean after each encounter.
Hannibal dates the paper with a hum, ink easily flowing and connecting into a web of intricate letters as he starts the next report.
He takes a swig of Pinot Noir.
Will’s breath warms the base of his cock with another exhale before settling once more, swallowing.
Work abandoned for the moment to relish in his Darling’s beautiful display of submission, Hannibal drops his gaze to the bulge of Will’s throat where his cock resides, eager fingertips tracing it.
Hannibal fills quickly again, forcing Will's mouth to part for him, pink lips stretched obscenely around his flesh.
Temptation, ever the downfall of man. And Will is one he’ll gladly indulge in.
He finishes his glass of wine.
Cradling the back of Will’s skull, he holds him in place while rocking forward, the remnants of blood and come bubbling and spilling down Will’s chin, following a line down to his jugular where Hannibal’s palm thumbs the delicious pulse thudding beneath.
With Will’s gag reflex suppressed by the flunitrazepam, Hannibal pulls him deeper, the heated channel housing him bruising in its desperation to yield.
Even if Will won’t remember what happened, he will feel it. Throat scraped raw, sore, bleeding, his hole stretched lewdly, torn and aching, his muscles screaming in pain.
The divine mortal flesh embellished by prints of his hands and teeth, remembering the treatment Hannibal subjected it to, the ghost of his touches still there in the morning.
Inexplicable to the inexperienced Will situated in his plush guest bed, wounds dressed and cleaned by antiseptic, body scrubbed clean, all traces of Hannibals’s influence gone.
Until he invites Will to the next dinner. Lunch perhaps. Breakfast.
The next dose tipped into his water. His coffee. His food. Mind wiped, sheepish loyalty replacing logic and reason. Will too starved to notice. Too stressed to care.
Hannibal quickens his pace, building his force, drool easing his path, choked breaths goading him into rougher action and careless thrusts lost to the temptation of Will utterly wrecked in the wake of his doing, the havoc of his actions.
He squeezes the column in tandem with his movement, feeling himself as he slides down, faster, erratic, reckless. Will's nose scrunches against his pubic hair, coating it in droplets of foamy spit as Hannibal urges him closer by the nape, suffocating him.
Orgasm approaching rapidly, Hannibal’s nails cut crescent shapes into Will’s neck, revelling in the shape of his cock carving its way through the other's insides while, just under the collar bone, his signature resides — angry and red, bold. Serving as a reminder to everyone else.
That Will has been caught and collared. Tamed to his whims and wills.
He comes with a violent shiver shaking his frame, his seed pooling neatly into the deep passage. It encourages the unconscious Will to swallow, letting his stomach be filled by his come, allowing Hannibal to nurture, stuff, feed. As he was always meant to.
Hannibal has to paint him again. Show the contrast of his marks. The beauty that can be achieved through a few of his artistic touches.
He strokes himself, spilling the last few drops onto Will’s tongue before retreating and pulling Will’s unresponsive form to his feet, manoeuvring him across table into an optimal position for viewing.
Collecting the materials, he sits, raking his ravenous eyes across the form of his muse to satiate curiosity before starting with the rough sketch.
The guidelines set, he dares another glance at the mystical creature decorated in his design, setting pencil to paper to attempt the translation of the ethereality he sees.
Rotten fruit and shallow breaths dance in his peripheral as the graphite moves, weaving a decaying crown of flowers he adds to Will’s hair — the encephalitis festering in his brain, ravaging away at his enigma of a mind.
He’d have to send him to a specialist soon. Give him the salvation of a diagnosis and the relief of a treatment. Will would sing his praises, relieved, grateful.
Gratitude serves Hannibal well.
Next are Will’s once soft lips. Split and cracked bloody, shiny with saliva, glinting with his release. The corners are torn, bits of skin tearing away to reveal sensitive flesh rubbed red from the friction.
Below, the neck carries Hannibal’s prints, blushing bruises covering the whole expanse of it down to his neat scrawl, the wound agitated, fresh blood mingling with the dried.
The nipples, a dusky shade of pink, pebble to garner his attention, unused, ignored — something he’d keep in mind the next time.
But by far the most breathtaking sight proves to be Will’s entrance — puckered, swollen flesh agape and torn an inch toward his perineum, the muscle barely containing the trickle of white and scarlet that smeared and stained the inner part of his thighs.
The drawing signed, Hannibal steps around the desk to admire the gift that stepped onto his doorstep this evening.
So willing, so alive, brimming with blood, empathy and creation, and yet diminished to nothing more than a vessel of unconditional obedience.
Despite the reports still waiting for completion and his recent orgasm, his cock still stands at full attention, flushed and eager to desecrate Will with the marks to prove it.
He runs them a bath.
Feverish heat welcomes Hannibal as if made for the shape of him alone, Will easily sinking to the base and slumping against him.
His hands find the crests of Will’s hips to hold his lax, receptive body as he rocks into him, lavender-scented water rippling and sloshing against them with the movement.
Charting Will's chest, Hannibal easily finds the neglected nubs, nipping and pulling until the dusky pinks are swollen red, bite marks gracing the pale backdrop of them.
Pleased, he moves to his signature, incisors scraping and tongue laving dried blood and agitated flesh, teeth digging a circle around it. He tastes salt and fresh copper, his cock throbbing as blood rushes to coat his mouth.
Swallowing, he licks his lips, hunger growing, growling, snarling and smearing scarlet along the pale skin on Will’s tender neck.
Canines catch on the nicks of skin where he pressed deep crescent shapes into the length of it, dragging the wounds’ borders down and making them expand with another bite.
The flesh quivers with Will’s pulse, those delicate vessels expanding, scarlet pushing at their edges until they rip under the force.
Hannibal closes his jaw as he drinks the red that bursts from torn skin, revelling in the sweet taste of divinity and fresh meat.
His stomach responds, constricting, urging, wanting.
Oh, how he’d delight in eating Will. Stripping skin from meat and savouring each morsel as if it were his last. Feasting on him.
He’d space it out, each meal another cause for celebration, every shred of Will plated among five-course meals to honour each the same.
It’d be glorious.
Hannibal’s teeth itch to bury deeper, clamp around the supple flesh and scarf it down like a starved beast, his hips stuttering involuntarily.
Self-control waning.
His fingertips slip under the skin, plunging into blood.
Tongue chasing after the taste, Hannibal presses the heels of his palms into Will’s shoulders to push him closer, quicker, firmer, the bones creaking under his grip.
Not yet.
Desperation urging his nails to rip grooves into Will’s back and his mouth to ravenously connect with Will’s, he comes, release ripping through him and into Will’s pliant frame.
Despite the overstimulation he rolls his hips further, sinking deeper until his seed seeps into the water, Will’s hole unable to keep it inside, turning the agitated waves a cloudy red.
The water returning to a gentle lap, Hannibal gathers the scarlet from Will’s blood-soaked lips, tasting ambrosia and letting it linger, before reaching for the washcloth and soap, lathering it generously to wipe Will down in tender circles.
The foam spreads evenly along the bruised expanse of Will’s body, cleaning remnants of blood and salt while revealing the extent of his hedonistic destruction.
Will whimpers as he dabs at the raw tissue, his features — twisted and pinched in pain — easing once Hannibal rinses him and turns to his hair, massaging his hair and scalp with the shampoo in soothing circles.
Vanilla wafts in thick ribbons, circling them until he lowers Will into the water, curls spreading into a halo, and the scent dissipates into a soft reminder of its presence.
Pulling Will into his lap once more, he conditions his curls and stubble before cleaning himself and letting the tub drain.
Towel-dried and cloaked in his cologne, Will rests in his arms as Hannibal carries him to the guest room, antiseptic spray, ointment, sterile towels and wound dressing already arranged on the nightstand, sheets changed to a new set.
All according to plan.
Spray in hand, and Will obedient as ever splayed across the comforter of the guest bed, Hannibal wipes down the worst of the wounds with the alcohol and covers them in the ointment, surgical precision and judgement guiding him through the motions that draw a soft, unconscious hiss from Will.
He hushes him with whispered assurances that he’ll be finished soon.
Wiping his fingers with the disinfectant, he applies a few pieces of gauze to the marks on Will’s neck and torso which he fixates with adhesive strips along the edges to keep them in place. Covering his more elaborate gifts for Will’s later viewing pleasure.
Hannibal can already taste the scarlet shame staining Will’s cheeks as he rubs the mark, wondering where it came from while fighting the urge to hide it from view, anger, betrayal, frustration brewing, bubbling, flowing into his façade once the pieces click, public eyes demanding the professionalism he can’t uphold.
He slides the items back into the bottom drawer of the nightstand and turns to tuck Will beneath the downy sheets, stealing a last taste of chapped lips before he takes his leave.
Will groans as they part.
Even unconscious, he can still be trained to want his touch, need Hannibal’s depravity to defile and desecrate him down to nothing and everything at once.
Hannibal clicks off the light with a smile.
Will’s mouth squeezes tight around him, sucking dutifully as he kneels on his place between the stove and him. His expression is that of bliss — eyelids heavy and fluttering, breathing slowed, pulse steady.
Hannibal has been edging on his climax for a while now, absentmindedly stirring brown sugar and vanilla into the coconut milk, the gentle rhythm eventually morphing into harder thrusts that graze Will’s willing throat.
Orgasm close, he releases from the intoxicating heat that is Will’s mouth and lowers the pot beneath his cock, his hand gliding across pre-come-slick flesh in short, rough motions.
Strings of come pool on the surface as he squeezes the remaining drops from his tip, quickly whisking them into the mixture once the pot is back on the stove.
Tucking himself away, Hannibal takes a moment to catch his breath, one hand weaving into curls that retire to his mind palace, retreating to the room made for Will alone until he calls upon it once more.
He'd have to gradually wean Will off the flunitrazepam. Using less with each dose while honing his other tactics.
The sugared milk boils and he lowers the heat until it simmers, placing the gelatine sheets into cold water in the meantime.
Eventually, with enough training, real blue eyes would blink up at him, asking for permission before sinking down to the hilt and holding him there, falling into this dream-like state until Hannibal deems it enough.
Hannibal dissolves the gelatine in the warm mixture and adds the heavy cream, chilling the silicone moulds in the fridge once they’re filled to the brim.
Soon.
Checking the clock, Hannibal hums. 6:57 o’clock. Enough time to finish the sauce and wash up before breakfast.
Proper precautions are set in place if Will should wake alarmed, windows and the front door locked to prevent any mishaps.
Hannibal sets another pot on the stove, sugared fruit mixing with water and starch into a rich liquid.
Once it simmers, he sets it to the side to cool. Preparations made, he rinses the dirty dishes and piles them in the sink, the thick scent of sweet decay soon demanding his attention instead.
“You put my clothes in the washer?” Will chimes up as Hannibal places the last pot into the soapy water, voice thick, roughened by sleep (and Hannibal) as he trudges down the stairs.
He’s donned in the T-Shirt and flannel shorts he laid out for him earlier, cheeks red, looking positively ruffled, sore and utterly confused. But none the wiser.
The dryer rumbles in the background.
“Drying now. You spilled wine onto yourself. It would’ve stained horribly if left untreated.” Hannibal retrieves the silicone mould from the fridge and sets it under the stream of hot water, coaxing the cooled dessert to loosen its hold.
Will cradles his head as if remembering, wincing. Curious. “I’ve drunk a lot, huh? Can barely remember a thing.”
Hannibal’s cologne covers every inch of him.
“You practically fell asleep at the table. Had to convince you to come to bed lest you hurt yourself stumbling through the hall.” Hannibal puts the cleaned and dried spoons to the others. “Are you always this clingy when intoxicated?”
Will’s face flushes, mouth opening and closing to produce a sound that won’t come. If the imagery or at a particular memory of them tangled in an embrace remains to be seen.
Hannibal keeps his face open, non-judgemental, as he gestures to the chair, plating the dish and coating it in a few generous scoops of the sauce, finishing it with a few fresh strawberries and mint leaves on top. “Despite the mayhap, I fairly enjoyed your company last evening, Will. Would you perhaps entertain the thought of coming by again?”
“Sure.” Will nods, draping himself across the chair (poorly hiding a grimace as he sits, sore, as expected) to grab the spoon from the assortment of utensils.
But instead of eating, he stalls, picking at the skin of his nails as if waiting for Hannibal to sit too before speaking. However, Will quickly catches himself in the act as he resorts to biting them and sighs, eyeing Hannibal as he pours boiling water into a cup. “I’ve gotta ask.”
Will’s gaze drops to the panna cotta, Adam’s apple bobbing. Teasing thing. “Did we…” he points between them with his spoon, “Last night?”
“Did we what?” Hannibal sits opposite of him, the chamomile tea in hand.
Will combs a hand through his hair to hide his flushed features. “Fuck. Did we fuck?”
Hannibal stirs a tablespoon of honey into his drink, dissolving the viscous liquid. Will squirms in his silence. He takes a sip, crossing his legs, before answering. “Are you embarrassed?”
“Yes,” Will answers, then stops, reconsidering. “No. Maybe.” He deflates a bit.
Lowering his tea, Hannibal gives him his full attention. “Do you think we had sex, Will?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know,” Will says, small, desperate, swallowing spit and shifting in his chair, trying to make sense of the soreness in his throat and flank. “I can’t remember.”
“Would you have wanted for us to fuck ?” The vulgarity stops Will for a second. Hannibal sips his tea.
Will merely tenses, digging grooves into his dessert.
Hannibal’s features soften. “Regardless of your answer, we both spent a pleasant evening together.”
Will relaxes again and Hannibal disguises a self-indulgent smile with his cup. How readily he accepts his fabricated retelling of reality… Truly fascinating.
“Was it good at least? I tend to talk when drunk.” Will snorts. “I’d apologise, but you offered the alcohol. Your fault, really.”
“Are you afraid you accidentally shared your hidden sexual proclivities with me?”
Will looks up, hopeful, the scent of pain, infection and embarrassment coiled tight around him. “Are they still hidden?”
“No need to ponder. It's nothing that doesn't align with mine as well. You were extraordinary,” Hannibal reassures, truthful, chamomile washing over his tongue as he recalls the previous evening. Soft walls cradling his cock and pliant lips warming him ever so lovingly.
Extraordinary indeed.
Will flushes impossibly further and finally tastes a spoonful of the panna cotta drenched in dark berry sauce, closing his eyes. “Wow, that’s really good.”
Hannibal’s lips part to reveal teeth, the primal intent of the smile hidden beneath a neutral exterior. “I’ll send your regards to the chef.”
“Why didn’t you,” Will clears his throat, “tell me that you enjoy my company like that? Find me… attractive?”
“Would you have reciprocated if I’d informed you?”
Silence.
Will ducks his head, pushing the cream around his mouth with his tongue. He nods slowly, sighs, defeated, taking another spoonful of dessert. “We could've figured something out.”
Will swallows thickly. “So,” he licks his lips, “It’s a date then?” The last words are small, hopeful.
Hannibal raises an amused brow.
“You are insufferable. I’m trying my best here.” Will stuffs his mouth again.
“A date,” Hannibal repeats. “Wine? Bourbon?”
Will snorts. “No alcohol. Your liquor’s too tempting.”
“I couldn’t have stopped you if I tried. You begged so prettily.” His mouth pulls into a grin.
Will’s face sinks into his hands. “And shameless too, who would’ve thought. ”
“I have nothing to feel ashamed about. Should I?”
“No. And even if you had,” Will cleans his spoon, “You couldn’t if you wanted to.”
“No,” Hannibal agrees, finishing his drink and offering Will seconds. He accepts.
Something possessively primal stirs in Hannibal once more, opening its jaws wide, eagerly awaiting their next meeting. The next time he can plate Will his release. Where he can train him into unconditional obedience.
Hannibal uncrosses his legs.
The morning couldn’t have gone any better.