Chapter Text
The pains of an eidetic memory come not from the acute detail one recalls, but rather in the absences that one cannot help but notice. It is akin to a symphony with no violas, or a Renaissance portrait with no underpainting. Were all things as they should be, these pieces would go unnoticed beneath the greater whole. When they are missing, it is a discord.
And so Hannibal considers the presence - or more specifically, lack thereof - of little William Graham. As pristinely polished shoes carry him over a mirror-sheen floor, the headmaster moves upstream the flow of students to their classes, and among them he searches for the flicker of glasses, the wild curls of hair that twist forever untamed around his pale cheeks. On any given day, if Will were where he is meant to be, Hannibal would pass by him with no more than a glance.
But today, his absence is felt acutely. The boy has not been unwell - Hannibal would certainly have noticed the first dissonant chords of illness long before Will became symptomatic. The boy has not had troubles at home - he never has, despite his father’s persistent absence. Each step down the hallway creates a steady rhythm to which Hannibal times his heart to echo in grace-notes, creating in himself a drumbeat of rising alarm.
He is being avoided.
“To class, please,” Hannibal tells the students malingering in the hallway. He watches them go, hands folded behind his back, and continues back to his office. A call to the Graham residence perhaps is in order - if Will has taken to truancy, it would certainly merit an additional meeting.
His hand set against the door, the headmaster stops. There, so soft as to be nearly inaudible, are his violas. There, so faint as to be unseen by anyone else, his underpainting. On the air is a particular melange of newly pubescent sweat that tingles salty against Hannibal’s tongue, blended with a trace of animal dander and cheap orange soap, little more than chemicals. The headmaster holds his breath and on his palate the particular taste of Will Graham, as behind his lids he sees wide and glittering blue eyes and rosy lips, lily-white skin framed in a wreath of rosewood curls.
He does not bother to suppress the smile that Will’s scent brings to him, and passes by his own office to that of the secretaries and counselors and teachers.
Counseling is a scheduled period for some students, those that have permission from the nurse or their parents or the counselors themselves. Those students that need the time to talk their problems out and feel them vanish like smoke into thin air and into meaningless words on a page. Will has never been a student in need of such a thing. He has rarely been disruptive, and not troubled.
And should he have need to unburden himself, he certainly knows what door to knock on to have his words and thoughts and pleas heard.
Perhaps he has forgotten. Perhaps he needs a reminder that he will not so easily dismiss this time. Silly boy. Perhaps he has been told to go, due to a lack of interest in his subjects, due to lack of sleep or something more dire still. Hannibal does not for one moment imagine that Will had told, had spoken a word of their private lessons, their gentle education. Surely his good boy would not do such a thing.
And yet.
There he sits, swinging his feet so that only his toes scrape the floor, palms pressed together between his knees. His socks slip pool around skinny ankles, revealing pale legs and knobby knees. Wireframe glasses press precariously to the point of his nose, head bowed as if in contemplation, or perhaps in prayer.
It would be more fitting, then, to be on his knees.
The thought shivers up through Hannibal, and he sets aside the mail through which he skimmed with a murmur of thanks. He knows the moment that Will notices him from the faltering movement of his feet; he can feel the air shift when Will pulls into his chest with a silent gasp. Hannibal approaches with unhurried strides, and briefly glances to the name on the door outside which Will waits.
Alana Bloom.
Good.
“How are you this morning, William?”
The boy swallows, a small sound just enough to be audible that adds to the symphony already alive in Hannibal’s mind. He is nervous, staying as still as he can in favor of fidgeting as he so often does otherwise. There are bags under his eyes, suggestion that at least the night before, he had not slept.
But of course the night before he had not been in the office, he had been excused to do his homework and catch up on his classes. The night before he had not made soft little sounds against Hannibal’s chest as he held him.
It warms Hannibal to consider the boy missed him enough to lose sleep over it.
“I’m well, sir,” Will says softly, flicking his eyes up over the rims of his glasses quickly before slipping them away, towards the door that he waits before. “I was excused by Mr. Gideon for an appointment period.”
“I have no doubt of that,” the headmaster replies, warming his tone as one rosins a bow. “You have never been one to step out of line. I admire that in you.”
The words widen Will’s eyes, and then just as soon crease his brow. He lifts his eyes enough to reach the headmaster’s knees before turning back towards his hands, and crossing his ankles together. Hannibal watches, rapt, the shy little gestures, the suppression of a smile into a very serious look indeed. Sitting motionless, he is the picture of a well-behaved student - nothing at all like the wanton boy that bends so prettily over Hannibal’s knees.
“It is customary,” adds Hannibal, bending nearer, “to say ‘thank you’ when someone pays you a compliment.”
Before Will can loosen the breath held in his chest, the door beside them opens. Hannibal straightens and runs a hand down the buttons of his jacket to tidy whatever wrinkles may have insolently appeared in the hunter green wool, checkered through with stripes of cream.
“Dr. Lecter,” Alana says, eyes bright. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“Checking the morning mail,” he answers with a soft smile, “and I could not help but notice that one of our best students had need of your services.”
Alana smiles, just as polite, and entirely pretty, and turns to look at Will as well.
“Will is a very good student,” she agrees. “I wish I didn’t have to call him into the office for a meeting but -” She turns back to Hannibal, gives him an apologetic look. “That is between Will and I. You understand, Dr. Lecter, you have never broken confidentiality of your patients either.”
“No matter their age,” Hannibal agrees, eyes narrowing in pleasure. He can see Will in his peripheral vision, watching the two of them speak as though he is spectating a tennis match, eyes quick between the two, widening a little at the familiarity between them. He sits up straighter when Hannibal turns just incrementally more towards him, and keeps his eyes forward as though he had not been listening in.
“Quite right,” Alana agrees with a laugh. “I’m sure it will go very well. His teacher says he is doing so well in his classes that he is permitted the one a week to miss to come and see me.”
Hannibal’s brows lift, and with a smile, his expression eases into a look both effortless and unconcerned.
“What a relief, then. I was concerned that something may be amiss, and perhaps I had been too otherwise occupied to notice.”
“Hannibal, you can’t notice every detail of every student,” Alana says to him, not without a hint of amusement. “I do admire you for trying though.”
He inclines his head, turning ever-so-slightly towards the praise as a cat leans towards a patch of sun, and then lets his eyes settle on Will once more. “Dr. Bloom and I have had a long history together, you see. I was her mentor at university, and I am pleased that she has, in her area of expertise, surpassed me entirely.”
Alana offers a good-natured eyeroll and arches a brow, giving Will a little smile as Hannibal sets a hand to the boy’s hair and ruffles his curls.
“You are in trustworthy hands, William,” assures Hannibal, before he motions with palms up towards them both. “If I can be of any assistance, you know where to find me.”
He watches Will stand to go to Alana’s office and offers her one more smile before she closes the door and leaves him in the hall. He takes his time getting back to his office, and while the period runs long, he begins his monthly reports.
---
Will spends too long in the bathroom. He doesn’t even need to go, he has, already, but his body is sending confusing nervous signals at him and he can’t seem to bring himself to leave the stall. He knows school is over, he had heard the last bell not five minutes ago, and he knows, too, that he is expected. Just as he knows that should he not go on his own he will be found.
He bites the side of his thumb and considers his options.
He knows, in truth, that Hannibal does not hurt him, not intentionally. Everything is a lesson and lessons are rarely pleasant. He could go, he will go, he knows, eventually, but he hesitates still with the memories of his session with Alana - Dr. Bloom - in his mind. The things she’d said, the way she had looked at him so softly and promised to help if anything was wrong.
Nothing’s wrong, Will had lied softly. I just get tired sometimes.
But that wasn’t entirely true.
He leaves the bathroom when the guilt tugging at him grows stronger than his reluctance, and he shuffles his feet on his way to the headmaster’s study.
It’s easier to go than to resist. He tried, when this began, leaving as soon as the bell rang, or dallying in distant corners until he was certain he could walk home without being summoned on the way out of school. It rarely worked, and even when it did, Hannibal’s displeasure had lingered for days after, every time Will stretched or sat. He didn’t care for being so stern, of course, and he always rubbed liniments into Will’s skin afterward.
His whispers were always the same, no matter how fast Will had fled or how much he disobeyed.
Dr. Lecter wasn’t angry - he was only disappointed.
Even the echo of those words tangles tight in Will’s belly. He squeezes a hand into his jumper to try and quiet it. At the end of the hall, music plays softly through the door to the headmaster’s office, slightly ajar. Will feels his feet move as if they weren’t his own, as if he were watching himself walk rather than inside his own body.
He stands as if waking from a dream at the doorway, and claps a hand over his mouth to quiet his voice as the headmaster says only:
“Hello, Will.”
Will swallows, turns to look behind himself to find the corridor - predictably - empty, feeling his bag slip off his shoulder as he turns back. He takes another gentle step forward, fully in the room now, and hoists his bag back up again.
“Hello Dr. Lecter,” he murmurs. He can feel the tension from the man, despite the music playing, or perhaps because of it. It’s rarely quiet in the office, with Will’s sounds, but when there is something else, something pressing, music plays in the background always. Like a lullaby.
Will hears it in his dreams sometimes and it keeps him awake.
“I’m -” He furrows his brow and steps closer again, one tiny step at a time. “I’m sorry I didn’t thank you this morning. I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m sorry.”
“I accept your apology.”
The headmaster sits centered at his desk, all things neatly in order, and his hands folded together. He was waiting, Will knows, the only question is how long. Will feels his mouth drain dry and his pulse quicken, and presses his lips together to keep at least that much of himself small and hidden.
“Please,” Dr. Lecter says. “Set down your things.”
Will’s feet carry him forward, and he is careful to lower his bag to the floor without dropping it. The weight of the books makes it tip over, and Will’s hand wavers over it, uncertain whether to stand it up again or not. He does, and despite how hot his cheeks burn when he bends, he takes advantage of the moment to pull his socks up again.
“You were missed this morning.”
“I had a note.”
“Not from class, William. You were missed by me,” the headmaster says, tapping his pointer fingers together slowly. “Tell me - have you seen, or heard, a symphony?”
A stitch pulls Will’s brows together, and he looks to the record player in the corner, nodding once.
“There are many pieces that make up an orchestra so that it reaches its full capability. There are the very low end instruments - bass and tuba, bassoon and timpani. They lay the groundwork upon which the rest is built.”
Dr. Lecter’s chair rolls silent against the carpet, and he stands slowly.
“There are the more forward instruments as well,” he continues, languidly circling the desk. “Violins and flutes and cellos and trumpets, instruments that shout to be noticed, carrying the melody that defines a piece of music.”
He finally settles against the front of his desk, leaning back against it, just before Will.
“And there are the others. Violas and second violins, clarinets and french horns. The audience, unless of a particular ear, is unlikely to ever notice them. They blend, they support. They provide neither framework nor advancement, but exist only in the context of those around them.” He reaches, slow and visible, to set the side of his finger beneath Will’s chin. “And yet, were they to go missing, their absence would be felt profoundly. The symphony would be incomplete, lacking color and texture.”
Ignoring the soft breath that draws quick across his thumb, Hannibal presses it against Will’s lips, stroking delicate skin to watch it flush and bend gently out of shape.
“So it is with you, William. Do you understand your importance to me? Without you, the music cannot play. Without you, there is no symphony at all. Nevermind that others do not notice you - would not, ever, perhaps, except in your absence. I notice. And I appreciate,” the headmaster says, leaning near enough to rustle Will’s hair beneath his breath. “My good boy.”
Will shivers fully at the words, always enough to get under his skin and tug him in just that way and he is helpless again. How could he be anywhere else, belong to anyone else, when he is Dr. Lecter’s good boy?
Will draws his lip into his mouth to bite, and feels the pull against it from the man’s thumb to release it again. So he does, on a breath, on a shivering whisper, and lets his eyes open as well, down still and not meeting the headmaster’s but no longer closed. He feels that warmth again, that feeling of being needed, of being noticed and missed. He feels it like a balm, like a warm hand through his hair, and makes a soft noise as the older man turns his head against Will’s hair.
“I slept in,” he mumbles, an apology for his absence from the office when he is usually there at an ungodly hour almost every morning for the man’s whims and designs. Will swallows. “I slept in and had to rush to class and -”
“And you did not come to me.”
The words sink just as deeply into Will’s skin, but rather than warm, they chill. Enough to ripple goosebumps along his arms, enough to make him shiver. He parts his lips a little as Hannibal tugs the bottom one down, skimming across the damp, delicate skin within, brushing across his teeth.
“You went, instead, to Dr. Bloom,” the headmaster reminds him, dark eyes seeking relentless across Will’s face, even as Will avoids his gaze, even as Will’s cheeks burn hotter under the inspection. “I wonder what you needed to tell her, William, that you could not tell me instead?”
Will swallows thickly and trembles. He feels that guilt again, that shame of not going to the man who he trusts, who gives him protection and friendship. Who gives him attention and care. He should have gone, he thinks. He should have gone and talked to him instead, and take whatever punishment the headmaster would have doled out for his being late to morning classes.
He hums softly and parts his teeth a little for Hannibal to press his thumb further into his mouth. Will curves his tongue as he had been taught to, to accommodate the bend of Dr. Lecter’s finger, and breathes through his nose as he gently folds his lips around, and sucks.
He wants to tell him that Dr. Bloom asked to see him, a follow-up from a message passed to her from another teacher, when a few weeks ago Will had cried in class. It had been the one time, and it had been a difficult week, and he had seen someone then. He had seen someone because he was too scared to see the headmaster. Just as now he had seen Dr. Bloom because -
Because.
Will sucks softly and releases Dr. Lecter’s finger as he pulls it free, with a little sound.
“I didn’t want to burden you,” Will whispers. “I didn’t - you have a lot of work -”
The headmaster’s gaze lingers, and though Will tries to turn his head a little, shift his shoulders, squirm, he cannot shake the weight of displeasure.
No.
Disappointment.
Dr. Lecter brings his suckled thumb to his own mouth to stroke against his lips in thought. With a hum, he beckons Will closer once, and then again when Will does not move quickly enough. A little step brings him near enough to touch, and folding his hands behind his back, Will tries not to shake.
He fails, and begins to tremble uncontrollably when the headmaster curls his fingers through Will’s hair, squeezing softly.
“My work, William, is to be present and attentive to those who need me. My work is to discern where help is needed, and to provide it,” he reminds him, giving Will’s head a little shake. “What is burdensome is when my attempts to assist are rendered meaningless. Do you know how that happens?”
He smiles, soft and slow, when Will shakes his head. A simple tightening of Hannibal’s arm brings the boy’s body against his legs, and his cheek against his stomach.
“A lack of trust,” Hannibal answers. “Trust in the guidance I have offered you, and trust in my methods of teaching. Trust, William, which you now have shown me does not exist between us. I am not angry -”
“Please,” whispers Will, and though his voice is small, it is enough to give the headmaster pause. “I’m sorry.”
“Sweet, gentle boy,” Hannibal sighs. “What’s to be done about this?”
Will whimpers, just a little sound, and turns his head a little more into the man in front of him. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know how to make the headmaster not disappointed in him anymore. He doesn’t know how to tell him that he does trust him, that he will never tell others what they do here, that he will come to him, still, even if he goes to Dr. Bloom. He doesn’t know how to tell him that, so he trembles against him and closes his eyes when fingers gently scrape against his scalp.
Slowly, Will brings up a little hand to grasp against the doctor’s shirt and hold onto him, a childish gesture of trust and need. He knows what he could do, knows what he has done before to have the disappointment go away. He thinks of being bare again, he thinks of being touched and penetrated, he thinks of the hot kisses and wandering lips. He thinks of the time he had taken a spanking for being very disappointing, and trembles harder.
The spanking had hurt, a lot. His bottom had been so red after, and the headmaster had made him stand in the corner with his hands on his head so he could see, watching Will as he worked. He had rubbed soothing cream on it after, though Will had protested, and Hannibal had told him he was his good boy again.
The disappointment Will is, now, makes him sick. He doesn’t want to be that anymore. He wants to be good again. Even if it does mean a spanking, or hot hands spreading him open.
Will gently extricates himself from Dr. Lecter’s hold and moves back towards the door. Quietly, he closes it and after a hesitation, he lets the lock click in place. He bites his lip and returns back to the man he had disappointed, bending to tug up his socks before he reaches him.
“I don’t want you to be disappointed,” he whispers. “I want to be good.”
“So you say,” agrees the headmaster. “And yet time and again, William, we find ourselves here, guilt weighing down your shoulders and an apology on your lips.”
The boy makes a small sound, aching and ashamed.
“No one else,” Dr. Lecter reminds him, “has so earned my favor. No one else receives such attention as you. I let no other student share in the lessons I reserve for you, William, because no other is as capable. And rather than return that to me, you seek elsewhere. Perhaps I have misjudged you.”
“No,” breathes Will, harsh and sudden. “No, you haven’t - I’m -”
“Do not. Not again. I have heard enough apologies for a lifetime. Perhaps, since you use those words so liberally, we are past the point of words.”
The gentle hand that sweeps Will’s curls from his face tightens, and Will follows the tug without resistance. Hannibal turns Will and lifts him into his lap, seated against the edge of the desk. He releases his hair only to snare an arm around Will’s belly; the other works across the boy’s mouth, pressing two fingers past his lips.
“Show me, then, that I have not wasted my time.”
Will presses a hand against the doctor’s arm and holds on as he parts his lips to suck. He has been taught to, now, a few times with a few different things, and he isn’t very good at it yet, and he knows that Dr. Lecter wants him to get better. He knows that he should practice more, in his room alone, when no one can hear.
He rubs his tongue against fingertips that roam deeper into his mouth, and when Will gently chokes, the arm around his belly tightens to hold him still. Spit slips past Will’s lips and down his chin. It’s messy and unattractive and he knows that Hannibal abhors mess. He brings his hand up to wipe at his face. His feet dangle, toes pressing to each other in discomfort and worry, but he does not try to squirm free.
This is a special lesson, for a special boy. No one else gets this. No one else is important enough to be allowed to learn.
Will whimpers softly and sucks in a breath through his nose.
Drawing in a deep breath, Hannibal nuzzles the boy’s temple. He whispers, low, for Will to please remove his shorts, but makes no move to help him do so. Nor, for that matter, does the headmaster remove his fingers from where they press to the back of Will’s tongue, stroking deeper when Will curls it against him. Will reaches for his belt with shaking hands, and it takes him a long time to work it free and unzip himself. Tears swell glittering against his lashes and spill from the corners of his eyes, from the strain of moving this way, from the shortness of his breath, from the hard ridge that he can feel pressing against his bottom as soon as he settles back, bare, into Dr. Lecter’s lap.
His shorts and underpants hang around his ankles, but still, Hannibal’s fingers in his mouth are unrelenting. He pushes back further, deeper, and Will’s whole body clenches as he gags, and only then does the headmaster remove them. A sputtering cough wracks Will’s body and he clutches Hannibal’s arm around his waist. He hates himself for choking, he should have practiced, he should have -
“Very good, Will.”
The boy doesn’t argue, though his mind screams otherwise. He is sloppy, his socks are down and there is spit on his face. And it doesn’t matter, so long as Dr. Lecter is happy, it doesn’t matter so long as he spreads his legs a little and makes a sound when Hannibal wraps a hand between Will’s legs, and presses against his opening.
“Do you think, truly, that there is another who would understand this? I don’t,” Hannibal says. “What we share is unique, what I teach you is for you alone. How embarrassing it would be to go to another teacher, or a counselor - even Dr. Bloom - and tell them of this. I would not wish it for you. They could not see what I see in you.”
Will presses his lips together on another small sound and squirms back a little more. Moving forward he would fall, he would look as though he's struggling, disobeying, being bad, when he had just promised to show and prove that he is good.
He doesn’t want to think about anyone else knowing about this. This is special, this is earned, this is just for him. A mantra repeated over and over in a desperate whisper in Will’s mind. That is what Dr. Lecter said. He trusts Dr. Lecter. Dr. Lecter would not lie to him, they trust each other...
And Will had broken that trust.
And now he has to make up for it.
"I don’t -" Will makes another high little sound, as fingers spread his cheeks and hold him vulnerable. "Please -"
The plea is enough to hold the headmaster at pause. For an agonizing moment, Will can hear nothing but the click-hiss of the ended record and his own pulse. He tightens his body to stop from slipping down Hannibal's legs.
Without a word, and still holding the boy in place with a strong arm, Hannibal bends to push off Will's shoes, one by one. His shorts and little white briefs follow, and with far too little effort and far too much ease, Hannibal lifts Will and turns him to facing. Inhaling softly when skinny legs circle his waist to hold on, Dr. Lecter ducks his head to watch his Will. Red-rimmed eyes and damp lashes, spit-slick lips made red from suckling. Cheeks afire with shame and sweet spotted freckles beneath. The headmaster turns his nose into Will's hair, and fills himself with the bramble-dense emotions that permeate the boy's being.
He hears his symphony now, a swelling crescendo. He sees his Baroque beauty, and a hitch in Will's breath that jerks up his shoulders is nearly enough to undo the man. Little arms reach to curl around Hannibal's neck, to stop from slipping to the floor, to press near rather than be pushed away. The headmaster wonders how long it has been since Will was given a hug, since someone told him he was special, since someone knew him to be.
He rests one palm securely at the small of Will's back, and rubs slowly as he holds the boy against him. The other hand comes to curl against his bottom, fingers still damp. Where their bodies meet, Hannibal's cock juts between Will's spread legs, filled thick and heavy, renting up his trousers, and the boy's softened dick rests limp atop it. Slowly, without sudden movements, the headmaster follows the bend of Will's hip, and fans his fingertips across Will's penis.
"Do you wish for our lessons to be at an end?" Dr. Lecter asks, not unkindly. "If you say yes, so it will be. I will not treat you with any more attention than any other student. You would not need come to my office again."
Little hands cling tighter around Hannibal's neck and Will trembles. The idea of being forgotten, of being mediocre, of being just like any other student, after being told that without him a symphony would not happen, after being called good and special and knowing that no other students get this...
Will shakes his head, hair gently rubbing against Hannibal’s shirt. The man knows it will smell like his boy long after he has allowed him leave from the office.
"Please don't make me go," Will whispers.
Dr. Lecter sighs as if the weight of the world is on his shoulders rather than two skinny arms holding fast. He rubs Will’s back up and down, up across his neck and into his hair. It is a comforting gesture, not cruel, and his voice carries a rumbling warmth as his lips move across Will’s ear.
“If you do not wish to go,” the headmaster murmurs, “then do not go, William. Come to me instead when you are troubled, and let me ease your mind instead.”
Inching closer against the man, Will squeezes a little nearer. He nods, face still pressed against the headmaster’s slow-beating heart, and only makes a sound when slick fingers curl between his legs to stroke across his hole. The touch is languid, fingertips pressing easy circles over wrinkled, soft skin, penetrating only a little, to give Will time to find his breath again.
The massage feels good, brings a tickling sensation running up and down Will’s body until he shivers and squirms, and makes a sound that is not unhappy. The rubbing continues until Will twists his hands together, until his toes curl a little, and when Hannibal presses the tip of one finger into him, Will gasps in a breath and holds it.
"Who else would do this?" The headmaster muses. "Who else would teach you with such gentleness? With such patience.” He pushes a little deeper into the boy and Will wriggles to try and get away. Not yet a struggle but enough of a reluctance that the stretch is too much, too uncomfortable. Hannibal hums and Will curls little hands in the collar of his shirt, forcing himself still.
Dr. Lecter’s lips drift over Will’s cheek, tasting the feverish heat of his blush and the traces of salt from his tears. They do not close into a kiss, nothing so intimate as that, but he passes them down the stricken tendons of Will’s jaw, lower to the curve of his neck. Each shift of movement, mouth and hips and hands, perform in tandem. As the headmaster rolls his stiff cock up against the boy splayed over his lap, so too does he press his finger a little deeper, as steady as the beat of his own heart.
When he reaches his second knuckle, Will whimpers into his shoulder. He stops squirming and settles still, hands clenched into fists so tight that his arms shake around Hannibal’s neck. He won’t cry again, he won’t disappoint Dr. Lecter again. He will be good, he will let himself be touched.
A stubborn breath hitches, and the sound of it builds into a rumbled purr from the headmaster.
Will has been told it will feel good once he has accepted the lessons, once he has learned that pain and pleasure can be one. Once in a while, a touch will send Will’s little body to sparking in pleasure. When the headmaster uses his tongue, spreading Will’s little cheeks wide and tickling the skin with rubs and slicks from the strong muscle. When the headmaster strokes Will’s little cock and whispers praises against his hair.
Those lessons Will likes, those he remembers in fond nostalgia when pain pulls sharp in his muscles as it does now. He has been told that he will learn to take Dr. Lecter entirely, that he will learn to stretch and arch and feel him slowly push in. Will can’t imagine it. The doctor is too big. Surely, surely, he cannot stretch so much?
The finger pushes deeper and Will whimpers louder, muscles clenching tight.
“Breathe,” whispers Dr. Lecter. “I know it is uncomfortable, but I will not hurt you.” The movement of his mouth against Will’s ear tickles and the boy squirms, gasping when his muscles pull tighter instead around the headmaster’s finger, entirely inside him now. Hannibal lifts a hand and strokes Will’s hair back from his face, cradling the back of his head to keep Will against his chest.
“Trust in me, now. Trust that I will only do what is best for you, and what I know you are capable of achieving,” he murmurs. “Remarkable boy.”
The second fingertip is enough that Will shudders, a sob ratchets from his throat, and he holds so tightly to Hannibal that the man is forced to lift his chin to free his airway again from the little shoulder shoved against it. Will’s thighs tremble, quivering tighter, splaying wider, anything to ease the stretch that seems to split him in two.
And yet the stretch gets worse, as Hannibal's finger pushes past the tight virgin ring of muscle, untouched by anyone but himself, Will makes a very discontented sound. Hannibal presses his wrist against Will’s lower back to hold him secure, and brings his free hand down to stroke the boy’s cock again, grown limp once more from the pain.
"Beautiful boy, look how good you're being," he whispers, as Will clenches and relaxes on seemingly every exhale. He is caught in a whirlwind of confusion and contradiction. He is good but he is punished, this is painful but his cock responds regardless, he is taking two fingers but surely, surely they are too big.
"Take both," Hannibal tells him. "Sit back against my hand, Will."
And Will does. Enough that it hurts, a lot, but he does. Because he promised to be good.
For a moment, it is all Hannibal can do to watch Will, just as he is. The boy keeps himself balanced, despite the dizziness each time he blinks. Skinny legs, only the first downy dusting hair across his thighs, press shaking over Hannibal’s lap. He trembles harder each time Hannibal’s hand curls tighter around Will’s cock, little enough even as it swells that the headmaster’s grip nearly covers it entirely. Bowing his head, Will’s curls spill forward enough to hide his eyes, but his teeth grit behind flushed lips, as stark a contrast as his blotchy blush is against white cheeks.
“I have, I think, never known anything so beautiful as you.”
Will chokes back a desperate sound at the praise, as gentle as the stretch is agonizing inside him. Hannibal turns his fingers slowly to let the boy feel how they move, smoothing out the wrinkled skin around his opening. The boy can hardly breathe for it, and what little gasps remain in him snip shorter as Hannibal begins to curl his fingers.
“Do you trust me?”
“It hurts,” Will whispers, breathless, fingers curling against Hannibal’s shoulder until he almost hurts him, too. It’s endearing, the sweetness of his voice, the innocence of his words. Everything hurts, in life, and William would learn that soon enough. It is a mercy he has the lessons early, to prepare him, to make him stronger and more resilient.
“That isn’t what I asked, Will.”
The boy swallows and shivers, shaking his head. For a moment more he says nothing, body throbbing and heart racing, dizzy and a little sick from this. With another little whimper, Will nods his head.
Hannibal watches a sigh unfurl Will’s lips, pink tongue touching just to the center of them. He would kiss him, if only to savor the sweetness of his mouth, if it were not so entirely inappropriate. Instead, Hannibal rolls his fingers a little tighter around Will’s cock, stroking in patient, easy tugs to feel the boy harden despite himself.
“Good boy,” Hannibal tells him. “My clever Will.”
In increments, the headmaster slinks his heels outward. Will’s legs widen, spread across him, his body tightens just a twitch further and Hannibal swallows back a deep, low sound at the pressure, hot and perfect, around his fingers. Will trusts him, he has bared himself, brought himself to be bared, bent and spread and asked so sweetly for all that Hannibal has offered him, and drank down every drop of praise or punishment as if he had not ever heard such words before. Perhaps he has not.
He has certainly, at any rate, never felt what Hannibal shares with him now.
Despite the rising, panted whimpers of alarm that fill the air soft as moth’s wings between them, Hannibal bends his fingers just enough to find the smooth, almond-sized gland inside him. And he watches, through hooded eyes and a ravenous gaze, Hannibal watches, and draws a breath as Will does, when he rubs.
The boy’s cry is music, it is an entirely symphony in its own right. High and pitched and desperate. His little nails dig into Hannibal’s shoulder through his shirt and he hopes, in some distant way, that there are little tears in it, come next morning, so he has something to punish his beautiful boy for.
He keeps stroking, rubbing against his prostate as Will all but sobs against him, and then he does sob, heaving, needy little things as his thighs clench and his muscles tense and his little cock leaks clear against Hannibal’s palm. He is close, he is shaking and flushed and he is so truly beautiful.
Hannibal lifts a hand, smearing Will’s own mess across the boy’s red lips as he tilts his chin up to watch his face, to watch his eyes widen, shining and bright and as confused as he is aroused. Beautiful, beautiful boy. His beautiful boy.
“Does it feel good, Will?”
The boy’s lips press hard together, part, a sticky thread of precome between his lips before it splits as Will sighs heavily against it. He nods, a shaky thing, and makes another of those beautiful sounds again.
“It feels good, and it hurts and -”
His frantic words are quieted into a little moan as Hannibal skims a thumb through a viscous bead on Will’s bottom lip, and feeds it back to him. The headmaster’s lips part in sympathy as Will’s close around his finger, suckling his own mess away with breathtaking obedience. He has learned, in their time together, he has become more striking than Hannibal might ever have imagined. Each weak pulse of pressure against his finger is mirrored in the clenching of muscle around Hannibal’s fingers, still circling slow and remorseless against his prostate.
“Can you come for me, William?” Dr. Lecter’s voice is low, roughened by the desire his remarkable boy stirs in him. The gentle nod that follows, the glittering tears that dampen his lashes and spill down scarlet cheeks, it’s nearly enough to undo the man entirely, and he leans close to touch his tongue to the join of his thumb and Will’s obedient mouth, a shiver curling up Hannibal’s spine at the taste of it.
He gently tugs his thumb free, slow, to watch the way Will’s lips pull at it even still, and returns his hand to the boy’s cock, flushed red and full. Curling his palm around the head, Hannibal tugs in tandem with the push of his fingers.
It doesn’t take long. Whatever willpower the boy had held onto to allow himself to be so good breaks like a flood, and with it, he spills hot and sticky over Hannibal’s hand, body near convulsing in his pleasure as he presses close and gasps hot wet breaths against the shoulder of Hannibal’s shirt.
It is messy and innocent, and the relentless stroking does not stop even when Will has spent himself entirely. He squirms then, helpless little pleas for Hannibal to stop when he is so sensitive, when he can’t possibly have any more.
Resting his cheek against Will’s hair, Dr. Lecter hushes him gently as he milks the boy dry. Steady pressure, pushed inside of him, slowing strokes, to feel every slick drip squeezed from his cock. And then, so soft that his words are scarcely a whisper, Hannibal praises him. Again and again, as he slips one finger out of Will, that he is extraordinary. Again and again, as the other follows, telling his boy that he is clever and brave. Again and again as Hannibal slips his arm around Will’s waist and holds him trembling, before offering up his semen-sticky fingers towards Will’s mouth:
“Good boy.”
Will swallows, throat constricting at the thought of having to suck again, but he does, regardless, parting his lips to take in Hannibal’s fingers, one at a time, to suck clean. And with every one, he is praised again, and with every praise, Will’s entire body trembles for more.
He has done well.
He has not disappointed Dr. Lecter.
His throat clicks when he’s finished, lips red and dripping spit down his chin until he lifts a little hand to wipe himself clean again. He raises his eyes now, seeking, pleading, to know that he has been forgiven for the morning misstep.
The headmaster does not rest his hand against the boy’s face, too much like punishment now, no matter how striking he finds Will when he defiled and dirty. But he leans, touching brow to brow, then cheek to cheek, a languid nuzzle sighed long against Will’s skin.
“I am very proud of you, William,” he murmurs. “For your honesty, and your trust in me. I know that when next you are troubled, you will come to me directly for guidance, won’t you?”
A little nod is met with a warm hum, and gentle knuckles against the boy’s jaw. Hannibal follows the arch of his neck, along the sleeve of his jumper, and gently grasps Will’s wrist in his hand. It is so small beneath his fingers, bird-boned and delicate, eminently graceful in its frailty. He presses his thumb in a slow circle against Will’s palm to feel the tendons and metacarpals shift together, and moves Will’s hand down his chest, across the buttons of his jacket, further still to rest against the ridge still throbbing between his legs.
“One more lesson, then, for tonight - since you have proved yourself so capable.”
Will’s brows draw together and his lips stay parted, trying to catch his breath as his hand is guided harder down against Dr. Lecter’s cock.
He remembers it, its ridges and throbbing vein, he remembers how it smells and how heavy it is on his tongue. He remembers how little of it he had managed between his lips before he had choked, before he had been told that the headmaster was not angry at him, he was disappointed.
Will shivers, sets his fingers around him and bites his lip hard enough to pale it. He brings his other hand down to press alongside the first and strokes, trying not to look at himself, spent and messy, spread in the man’s pristine lap. He rubs until he feels the heat of it through the fabric, until he feels it twitch up against his fingers.
Will raises his eyes, seeing if he’s doing well, and hopes, hopes, that he will not be made to suck today.
He cannot control the sound that escapes when he sees Dr. Lecter watching his eyes, rather than his hands.
A smile curves the man’s lips, fanning wrinkles beside his eyes, drawing up the muscle beneath. He does not relent in his gaze, memorizing every movement in Will’s features, the particular cardinal red of his lips, the sheen of pearly white drying pale around them. Will’s curls cling sweat-damp to his face, ivory skin darkening beneath his eyes and over the bridge of his nose as he’s watched, as he works, as he splays and curls little fingers, pressing his palms against his headmaster’s cock.
He relents only when the boy’s eyes shimmer, damp, and ducks his head to watch Will’s little hands at work. Lifting his hips to meet Will’s unsteady rhythm, he guides the boy wordlessly into synchronicity, as a conductor signals from piano to forte, from largo to allegro. Though the shifts in dynamic are not made smoothly, Will responds. He pushes back harder when Hannibal rocks forward; he rubs quicker as Hannibal speeds his own undulations.
It is cruel, perhaps, to make Will wait for his reward, considering that Hannibal might have finished his own movement from the moment he felt Will spread across his lap and slip his arms around his neck. The weight of his skinny body across Hannibal’s own has always been enough, the sheer potential of the boy to some day bend beneath him and take him whole satisfying even in the imagining. Pressing his lips apart with his tongue, the headmaster lets his head lower, and does not keep his satisfaction from the boy any longer, dampening his trousers with the force of his release, pulsing through enough to soak against Will’s slender fingers.
The boy’s motions still, fingers slowly pulling away to just hover over the fabric, now, no longer touching. He is panting quietly, breathless still from his own release, and from the effort to bring Hannibal to his. He will learn. He will get better. He will grow to endure so much more than a simple fingering. One day, Hannibal imagines, as he brings a hand up to stroke knuckles warm down Will’s cheek, he will watch the boy with his release spilling from his lips as he tries desperately to catch his breath.
One day.
As though he knows, Will swallows. As though he can feel the thoughts caress him, he blushes darker.
“Did I do well?” He whispers.
The question is so softly spoken, so entirely genuine, that Hannibal feels his breath catch in just the same way as when an aria lifts to its crescendo. He spreads his fingers over Will’s cheek, searching between blue eyes rimmed with red, and gently tucks a curl of hair behind the boy’s ear. Hannibal leans, just a little, as if by breath alone he might kiss the sweetness of Will’s words from his lips.
He reminds himself, even so near, that he is a professional, and with a swallow that clicks his throat, leans away again. A faint smile catches once more beneath his eyes, and he lifts Will’s chin with the side of his finger.
“Very well, sweet boy. And how fortunate we are that there is still so much to learn.”