Chapter Text
Will waves his phone in Beverly’s face, holding back the scream he feels perched on the tip of his tongue. “What the hell would inspire you to do something like this, Katz?” When the screen goes black he opens it again, a page on the display showing a profile with his name and basic details, and an artistically shot image of him on the front lawn of the university, studying anatomical references for his latest sculpture.
Bev doesn’t even glance at the screen, she doesn’t need to. She’s perfectly aware of the havoc she’s wreaked on Will’s perfectly dull, simple life. He’s received dozens of messages in the few hours since she put the account up, his phone pinging in rapid succession during class, pinkening his cheeks as he had to turn it to silent.
“Look, Graham, you’ve run yourself ragged working three jobs with barely enough time to even focus on the classes you can pay for. We both know next year will be even tougher when your grant money runs out. This is a good option. A better option. Let some lonely Dom throw money at you just for existing.”
“I’m pretty sure I have to do a bit more than just exist. This is a sugar baby website, Bev. Not just some crowd fund for my bills. There are...expectations.”
Beverly laughs, that bright, teasing sound she reserves only for Will. “Well yeah, you have to be pretty too, but you’ve got that part down already. At least whenever you actually put in some effort. Plus, you were literally just saying how you wished you had a Dom so Matty would leave you alone. Two birds, one Daddy sized stone.”
“I told you all that in confidence!” Will squawks, undignified and shocked.
Bev rolls her eyes and huffs a laugh. “Drunk confidence, which is why I know how seriously you feel about it, even if you like to pretend otherwise in the sober light of day.”
Will knows his mouth is open in disbelief, but he can’t seem to close it. “You’re a filthy traitor and I hate you.” He tosses himself onto the couch, putting his head in her lap and disrupting her photo editing session.
She runs her fingers absently through his hair, balancing her laptop precariously on one hiked up knee. “Look, Will, if you don’t like it we can take down the profile and never speak of it again. But what if you do manage to find someone?”
“I’ve had over a dozen messages so far and they are seventy percent let me see your dick, baby and the rest of them are just some form of hey.”
Bev grins, looking down at him and closing her laptop. “So you have looked?”
He closes his eyes and takes several deep breaths, determined not to scream at his best friend for her smugness. “Of course I fucking looked, you made a secret sugar baby account without my approval! I had to see what you’d done.”
“Uh huh. And now that you know you’ll what? Shut down the account? Go back to working every second you aren’t sleeping or in class?” Her smirk falls, and she grows serious for a moment, her brows drawing together. “Will, I know you don’t like talking about it, and I know you hate people offering you help, but this felt like something I could do, you know? It isn’t charity if it’s like a business transaction. Sure there are expectations, but you set those expectations. You can make it a purely platonic relationship. Just dinners or events.”
Will sighs, opening his phone back up to stare at the webpage, the cursor blinking aggressively in the empty text box of a never to be replied to message thread. “Well, if I decide to take sex out of the equation I’m going to need something a lot more enticing than how’s your day going, beautiful. At the moment I’m struggling to see who on here could possibly entertain me intellectually.”
“Well, it’s still the first day,” Bev points out, her fingers snagging in Will’s curls to give a soft but entreating tug. “Give it some time before you give up altogether, how about?”
Bev might’ve been the only Dom Will feels naturally inclined to follow directions from, giving a soft sigh but nodding. He drops his phone to his side and lets his eyes slide closed, simply relishing in the friendly contact and silence as Bev continues to pet through his curls and opens up her laptop again to work on her editing one-handed.
---
To no surprise of Will’s at all, the second day of messages is much akin to the first; suggestive and outright lewd remarks interspersed with simple but lame greetings and platitudes. By day three he’s all but taken to ignoring the incoming messages, disabling push notifications to his phone and only checking his email once a day to take a glimpse at his Sugar Bowl inbox.
He’s quickly grown into the habit of viewing the subject line of each email which shows a message preview, nearly all of which are easy enough to categorize and cast aside with a simple drag of his thumb to the left. It’s as he’s clearing out the recent flood of obnoxious emails that Will’s eyes catch on the preview of one, his brain registering the words a split second after his thumb follows the muscle memory of twitching to the left.
He hastily swipes right while the email is still highlighted, cancelling the action and keeping it in his inbox. He reads the first line of the message again, slower this time, to make sure he hadn’t been hopefully projecting essence into a website that has, until now, shown him largely anything but.
If I could see you everyday forever for only one purpose, it would be to draw you. You are without…
Will is surprised to find his mouth unexpectedly dry as he swallows around the heart beating in his throat, his stomach buzzing with interest as he clicks the email open to view the full contents.
New message from CarthaginianBarca
If I could see you everyday forever for only one purpose, it would be to draw you. You are without a doubt the single most exquisite creature I’ve had the pleasure of viewing. Too often I find my attention drawn to your profile, your single photo the tease of something miraculous; too far away for explicit detail, body and face turned so unintentionally demurely from the camera which sought to capture your beauty.
There are, of course, many attractive individuals on this website, but none quite as effortlessly so as yourself. Add to that the unexpected pleasure of learning you are studying the arts and I simply couldn’t fathom not seizing the opportunity to message you. To learn even more.
During the tiresome stretches of my somewhat drawn out days, I find myself wondering: Do you study music? Visual arts? Are you a performer? A dancer? I can imagine you’d thrive in any of these realms, but find I’m more persistent in wishing to know for certain.
Tell me, beautiful boy, how do you make art?
Yours,
H
Will swallows again, this time fighting to dull the roaring of blood in his ears. He shifts in his seat, suddenly unbearably aware of the heat pulsing through him and the very public setting in which he’s stumbled upon this message. He glances around the library, his cheeks burning hot even as he observes the few other students present are either absorbed in their own work or dozing slumped over their desks with heads cradled by arms and backpacks.
He isn’t sure why he feels as though so many eyes must be upon him, almost as if reading such a message has projected it out loud to everyone in his vicinity. It is...unequivocally other from the rest of the messages he’s received so far, that’s certain. Not only in the fact that it keeps his attention for more than ten seconds, but also because it’s the first one he’s even felt the vaguest of impulses to reply to.
He fills his lungs with the deepest breath he can manage, trying not to think too intensely when he allows his thumb to tap the reply icon at the bottom of the message.
Of course, starting a reply and actually starting one are two very different things. Will finds himself staring at the blank text box, cursor blinking impatient and mocking, with not a single character added to the reply before he catches the time at the top of his phone and is forced to - much to his relief - cancel the impromptu response in favor of making it to his sculpting seminar on time.
He’ll reply when he gets out of class, he tells himself. Though of course, after class he’s famished, having skipped lunch in order to make a few final edits to the paper on the history of Baroque art he has to have turned in by six. He’s more than happy to leave his phone, ignored, in his pocket while he seeks out Bev and cajoles her into hitting their favorite pizzeria, which in turn leads them to going to their favorite on campus bar - one which is most popular with the college crowd for the mere fact that the workers there, more often than not, forget to check the IDs of students.
It isn’t until nearly one when Will and Bev stumble out of Tilly’s Pub and back to their dorm that Will remembers the phone in his pocket, flopping down on his bed to set an alarm and check his email one more time before passing out. He swipes away the barrage of new, unimpressive messages, sending them to his trash can unread until his inbox has been cleared down to the last read message. The one from CarthaginianBarca.
Emboldened by the buzzing in his body and mind, Will taps the message open once more. He chews on his lip as his gaze slides over the powerfully worded email again, wondering not for the first time that day if this guy is for real or if the whole message is bullshit constructed around a convincing and enticing foundation. All the same, he finds himself clicking on the Reply icon once again, this time words spilling into the text box unheeded by doubts and reservations.
Send New Message from SubvertingExpectations
Wow. You really know how to get a guy’s attention. All the same I have to wonder: Is the message you sent earnest and honest? Or is it a more flowery prose of the same boring platitudes I’ve been incessantly pelted with for the last three days?
I must give you credit at least in standing apart from the crowd in the way of usernames. Astounding how many ‘big dicked’ and ‘filthy rich’ men frequent this website. I’m assuming you’re named after the better known Barca - Hannibal.
So tell me, Hannibal, do you truly draw? Or was your declaration as passionate as it was bullshit?
I sculpt, by the way. Though I’m also taking a course in graphic design and minoring in the Baroque period.
Will hits send and watches as his message appears in their chat thread on the app. It isn’t until after he’s read his reply three times over that he realizes he forgot to add his real name to the end, his phone dying before he can remedy the issue. The exhaustion from his day and the drinks from the bar catch up to him all at once and he manages to fall into a deep sleep only achieved by the drunk, phone falling to the other side of his mattress as he drifts off.
---
“Mister Graham, are we boring you today?” Will snaps awake, knowing he has drool at the corner of his mouth without even needing to see it. He cringes and shakes his head, cheeks flaming.
“Sorry Doctor Sutcliffe. Late night.” Will offers up as the weak excuse it clearly is, the professor not impressed in the least. Whoever convinced Will to take a morning Biology lab his Sophomore year to finish out his degree requirements was a dick.
“What you do outside of my class is of no importance to me. If you can’t stay awake and participate in the discussion I’ll need to ask you to leave.” The doctor pauses, a cruel glint in his eyes. “Maybe go take a nap.” The class laughs and Will flushes deeper, sinking into his seat.
“I’ll stay awake, sir.” He tacks on the sir maliciously, knows Sutcliffe hates being referred to by anything other than doctor or professor. It has the desired effect, the other man giving a dismissive hum before returning back to the chalkboard behind him.
Will manages to make it through the rest of the lab through sheer spite and willpower, pulling his phone from his pocket once class is dismissed to check in with Bev who’s studying for a major test later in the day. It’s only now he realizes his phone is dead, and he groans. The vibrations make his head throb, his temples pulsing violently. He really needs to stop letting Katz convince him to drink himself into a hangover every few nights.
His mouth still tastes like something crawled inside and died, and he pulls out a pack of gum along with his portable charger before making his way to the library. He has an hour between classes and could use a quiet space to study… or nap.
Forty minutes later he’s awake and mostly functional, and his phone is alive again, the display nearly too bright in the dark corner of the library he’d managed to curl into. He looks down at the Sugar Bowl app icon and sees a red notification sitting atop it, pressing it immediately.
The first thing he notices is the time stamp, the reply from Hannibal sent at four in the morning, just a few hours after Will had sent his message and passed out. Either the man is an extremely early riser or he was waiting for Will’s response and replied immediately.
New message from CarthaginianBarca
Your wit is sharper than I could have even hoped to dream - such a clever boy to suss out my given name so quickly. Though it seems the pleasure is all yours, as you’ve given no clues whatsoever as to your own. Shall I throw in my lot with fate and cast a guess amongst a million variables? Or will you be kind enough to indulge me with a mere request?
Call me presumptuous, but given your username - so ill-suited to the brand of cleverness I’ve already seen from you - and the recent updates to your photos yesterday evening, I can only guess your account was created and is controlled by an acquaintance of yours, either as a playful joke or a well-meaning extension of care. All the same, please thank whatever individual cares for your page for their recent gift of the influx of photos. You are even more stunning than I’d first imagined, and the new content was highly inspiring.
On that note: I do indeed sketch as a hobby in my free time. If you’d like proof as to such I’ve attached my most recent piece to this message.
I think I’d quite enjoy meeting you, mysterious boy. Would you do me the honors?
Yours,
Hannibal
Will stares down at his phone, reads the message again and then one more time for good measure. He taps away from the message to view his own profile, unsurprised - and partially livid - to see that Bev had been feeling very generous to the strangers on The Sugar Bowl and uploaded several of the pictures she’d taken throughout the previous night at the bar. He’s relieved at least when he finds they are all rather flattering, Bev too much of a professional even drunk to take a sloppy photo and launch it into the ether without thought.
He moves back to his inbox then, his eyes scanning the message once more before landing on the icon that hovers sandwiched between the messager’s linked username and the beautiful body of text that sends heat blooming to Will’s cheeks.
There’s the promised attachment, and he opens it without hesitation, nearly gasps when he sees himself drawn in charcoal. A perfect rendering of a photo he only vaguely recalls Bev taking last night. They really need to talk about that the next time he sees her.
He traces along the lines of Hannibal’s drawing now, their subtle shading and the way they curve perfectly. It’s one of the most realistic drawings he’s ever seen done in charcoal, and it’s beautiful. He knows theoretically he’s attractive, Beverly reminds him often enough, but he’s never felt beautiful until this moment, until he sees himself in exquisite black and grey detail.
Is this man for real? Will’s daddy always warned him against looking gift horses in the mouth, but he also always warned him if something seems too good to be true it probably ain’t.
His finger hovers over the reply button, but he hesitates. Should he risk it? What if he offers to meet with this guy and he ends up being some sort of crazy fucking serial killer?
He can almost hear Beverly’s response, her aggressive and enthusiastic support of his possible near murder. What can it hurt? She’s right, if he has a terrible experience he can just delete the app and never worry about it again.
Send New Message from SubvertingExpectations
Hannibal,
I’d love to meet you in a very public place. How about Tilly’s Pub tomorrow night at eight? It’s right off campus on university ave, I’ll be inside at the bar.
- Will
He hits send and immediately pockets his phone, not wanting to watch the screen for a reaction. He brings his ragged thumb nail to his mouth and bites anxiously at the cuticle. What the fuck is he doing?
---
The bar is busy for a Thursday night - busy any night, really - so Will isn’t surprised when he’s forced to squeeze himself between two groups of students milling around the bar as he sidles up to the counter. The press of strange bodies against him and loud chatter does little to dispel the anxiety swelling up within him, though he’d been more than comfortable in this very setting just forty-eight hours previous with Bev at his side.
He knows the reason for his nerves, of course, but wishes also that some of the restlessness that stirred beneath his skin wasn’t due to the very real fact that, against all odds and his better judgement, he feels hopeful.
It’s silly, he knows. He’s barely had any correspondence with this man, hasn’t even seen a picture of his face - though he’s seen several of Will’s - but at the end of the day, though he imagined cancelling this meeting more than once over the last twenty-four hours, Will can’t stop thinking about the eloquent messages, the flowery poetry in regards to his beauty and intellect that are, admittedly, overzealous and almost hamfisted but at the same time strangely...flattering?
It was the drawing that sealed the deal, he’d decided the night before, after catching himself pulling out his phone to gaze at it for the tenth time mere hours after first viewing it. He feels both a burning humility and a gnawing hunger when he views himself through Hannibal’s eyes, and that was only from art that had been inspired by a mere photo. Will wonders what the man might be able to do after viewing Will in person, if he might, even, wish to do a study of Will in the flesh…
Will shakes the thought aside, his cheeks warm and fingers numb as he fumbles for his wallet. He’s in desperate need of a whiskey, preferably at least one before his company arrives, and it’s as he’s frantically thumbing through the singles in his billfold, realizing too late that he left his debit card in his dorm room, that a warm and confident hand presses against his low back.
There’s a voice at his ear a moment later, before he can even react, low and accented and sinfully smoky, breath fanning warmly against Will’s already too-warm skin.
“Allow me, please.”
And wasn’t Will just surrounded by students? He’d only just himself pressed through the throng to make it to the bar, and now the man beside him - the very one he was meant to meet here, he knows this without a doubt - has materialized as though his very presence distorts the space around him.
Suddenly it’s just Will and Hannibal, pressed side to side, and Will is too terrified to look anywhere but at the man’s other hand, which is reaching out to flag down the bartender.
“You don’t have to -” Will finds himself at last, turning to shrug out of the casual and somehow still intimate touch, moving his gaze up the body that’s appeared at his side and -
Oh fuck.
He’s gorgeous. Obviously foreign, Will could tell enough by his voice, but his face also holds an Old World aesthetic, overtly European; sharp lines and thin lips and eyes the color of the whiskey Will was just about to order, hooded as they gaze at him expectantly, as his mouth moves to form more deliciously sensuous sounds -
“All the same, I would like to. Your drink?”
“Uh. Jameson.”
Hannibal gives a considering hum at that, and Will is surprised he can hear the sound over every other noise in the bar. “No,” he decides after a moment, his head tilting to the side and his eyes sliding to the liquor on the top shelf behind the bar. “I think if it’s to be whiskey, we ought to make it Macallan.”
Will blanches at the careless confidence in the older man’s voice. He’s never even tasted Macallan before, the drink far and away out of his modest price range, and he can’t imagine allowing a complete stranger to spend that kind of money on him. This is the part of him that’s bad at accepting gifts - charity, the word floats in the back of his mind, in a voice suspiciously similar to his daddy’s - the part that Bev had begged him to ignore when she’d signed him up for this ridiculous venture.
All the same, he finds himself piping up, refusing the generosity with cheeks heated with shame and indignation. “That’s not what I want,” Will argues stubbornly.
Hannibal leans down to correct the distance between his mouth and Will’s ear once again, his eyes sharp and never leaving Will’s own. “Are you even old enough to be in here?”
The heat in his cheeks is something more akin to embarrassment, and Will gives a shake of his head, turning sheepish eyes away from the commanding presence before him.
“Then you’ll drink what I give you and be grateful for it, won’t you?”
Fuck.
“Yes, Sir,” Will relents, a shiver rolling down his spine and his stomach clenching pleasantly at the order. He can practically feel the honorific, the capital S, as it spills from his tongue completely unplanned and unprepared for.
He’s never felt so attuned to a Dominant before, and the man before him is clearly that. Will has struggled his whole life with being a Submissive, with finding where he fit in with...everyone else. He’s spent more time than he cares to recount attempting to be something sweet and pliant, something perfect and befitting of what his biology has dictated he is to be.
He’s spent even more time failing, hating himself for it, wishing there were outside forces to blame but knowing all the same that something inside of him is just fundamentally... broken.
Receiving an order from Hannibal, complying with it, doesn’t feel like the defeat Will has associated with every other Dom he’s attempted to partner with. And the surge of pride and pleasure that barrels through him when the man graces him with a fond smile and a soft good boy is wholly unrecognizable as well.
Will likes it. He thinks he does, at least, because he says nothing more when the bartender arrives and Hannibal orders for the both of them - his suggested Mclellan. And when their drinks are in hand and Hannibal suggests they migrate to one of the more private booths in the corner, Will agrees to that as well.
He forces himself to take only a small sip once they settle across from each other, though he longs to grasp onto liquid courage with both hands and down the whole thing in one go. Even with his meager background, he knows the value of what sits in his tumbler, knows very well that the Dom across from him likely sips at even more expensive drinks on the regular.
He relishes in the slight burn that coats his tongue and throat, in the subtly sweet and smoky tones of the top-shelf whiskey. When Hannibal’s gaze falls heavily upon him, he takes another sip, this one slightly greedier.
“I’m not what you envisioned,” Hannibal guesses, apt as fuck and somehow not sounding offended in the least by it.
Will finds his mouth working wordlessly for an embarrassing amount of time before he snaps it shut and takes in a sharp breath through his nose. “That’s not a bad thing.” He replies at long last. “Most people that opt out of putting their face on their profile don’t...well, they don’t look like you. Handsome, I mean. I mean you’re…” Will snaps his mouth shut again to stymie his blathering, even more embarrassed than moments before when he’d done his best impression of a fish out of water.
Hannibal's smile is soft and pleased, his eyes hooded as he reaches across the table between them and ghosts a soothing touch down the inside of Will's forearm. "Thank you, Will," the man all but purrs.
His fingers linger at Will's wrist a breath too long, no doubt aware of the way his pulse rabbits erratically beneath the thin flesh, his lips tilting slightly higher as he finally pulls his touch away. Will's face flames all over again and he's forced to drop his gaze from the amber in the other man's eyes to the one in the glass.
"You were right," Will blurts, apropos of nothing. "My friend made my profile. I'm not...good at this stuff."
"Yet here you are."
"I feel like a mess."
"You look beautiful."
Will pulls his eyes up to Hannibal once more, his teeth finding his bottom lip as his stomach clenches with pride. "Thank you for the drawing. You're very talented."
"I was blessed with an exceptionally breathtaking subject."
Will shifts in his seat, twists his tumbler idly before remembering the alcohol in it might soothe his nerves some and he takes another sip. "I'm not good at this." He repeats helplessly.
"You're doing just fine."
"Not just the...meeting with strangers part. Any of it. I was raised by a prideful man that would rather see his son hungry than accept handouts. Bev told me to think of it like a transaction but…"
"You're wondering what that transaction would look like."
"I don't have a lot to offer."
"I disagree."
Will scowls at the gorgeous, nonplussed man across from him. "You don't know that. You don't even know me."
"I'd like to. What little I've learned of you has intrigued me. The communication we've shared enticed me. I have a sense for these things."
“You talk like we’ve had more than a handful of conversations in a dating app,” Will scoffs, immediately biting his tongue and wishing he could stuff the words back into his mouth. He really needs to learn to think before he speaks.
Thankfully, Hannibal seems totally unbothered by his little outburst, smug smirk still firmly in place. “Tell me, Will, when was the last time you were with a Dominant?”
Will grimaces, certain his lack of recent experience will be what finally convinces Hannibal that Will is a dud. “It’s been over a year. My last experience wasn’t particularly good, and then the semester got chaotic and sort of stayed chaotic. I did summer classes in between terms this year and haven’t had time to even think about sex or relationships. If Bev hadn’t signed me up for the app we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”
Hannibal nods along, steepling his fingers. “Do you mind telling me a bit more about why exactly your last interaction wasn’t good?”
Will does mind, but he also knows it’s important to talk about this stuff in the beginning. Otherwise he’ll end up in another shit situation like he had with Christophe, who’d been good enough in theory, but who’d also consistently ignored Will’s safe word in favor of doing what he thought was best for Will. Will had a panic attack by the end of their last scene together, and his entire walk back to the dorms he’d berated himself, questioned why he’d even had a second or third date with Christophe after the first one had ended in a similar fashion.
“If it’s an uncomfortable topic we can move on, darling boy. I’m not here to make you miserable.” Hannibal offers Will an out and he’s tempted to take it, but he shakes his head, curls falling into his eyes. He leaves them there, lets them act as a barrier so he doesn’t have to fully look Hannibal in the eyes as he confesses.
“My last Dom was super traditional and strict. I couldn't be...what he needed me to be. I'm kind of a bad sub, I guess?”
"I don't believe there is such a thing."
"Yeah, well. I'm willful. Too stubborn. Most Doms give up with me pretty quickly." Will knows he’s being unattractively self-deprecating but he can’t seem to stop the flow of confessions.
"Perhaps they simply didn't understand you. Didn't want to. Not all submissives require a firm hand and a short leash."
Will snorts. "I think if a Dom actually tried to leash me, I'd choke them with it. Which is exactly the sort of attitude that most Doms take umbrage with."
"Well I've never been one to shy away from a challenge." Will thinks about the information he learned - or more accurately that Bev learned and flooded him with - and finds himself helpless to ask.
“That tracks. I, uh, my friend showed me an article about you once I told her your first name. Not many Hannibals in the Baltimore area it seems. The article mentioned you were new in the field of psychiatry. A transfer from medicine - an ER doctor? It linked to a paper you wrote on social exclusion theory.”
Hannibal hums in reply, a slight grin ticking his lips upward again. “I found emergency room work wasn’t working out for me and made the switch.”
“Why?”
“I found myself with one too many patients I couldn’t save. I’m a bit like god in that way, I suppose. I don’t like my control being wrested from me. Healing minds is much more fulfilling work, and typically less deadly.”
Will nods at that, as though he has any frame of reference for the experiences Hannibal has been through. “I bet that would be tough. For a Dom especially. To not be in control, I mean.”
“A wise Dominant understands when control is necessary and when it must be relinquished. The same principle doesn’t exactly apply to emergency surgery, however.”
Will’s throat grows tight at the thought of a Dominant relinquishing control to him. He can’t even imagine a scenario in which such a thing would occur. Before he can stop himself, his busy mind begins flitting through all the different ways a man like Hannibal might relinquish control, and all the ways someone like Will could wield it. He takes another sip of the ridiculously expensive whiskey to wet his dry mouth and uses the precious few seconds to flounder for something thoughtful to say.
“We’ve strayed from our original topic,” he points out. Smooth, Graham.
“Our transaction,” Hannibal agrees with a single, conciliatory nod of his head.
“Our theoretical transaction,” Will corrects stubbornly, downing the last of his tumbler and leaning back into the torn vinyl of the booth when he realizes how far he’s been leaning over his edge of the table. “The whole concept of the... sugar daddy thing is a little baffling to me, I guess. Exchanging money for...sexual favors…” Will’s cheeks heat at the words, and he wishes he had more whiskey to numb his nerves, wishes he’d not swallowed down the booze so quickly as he finds it loosening his tongue and reserves. “I get that. But Bev - my friend - made it sound like some people don’t even...expect that sort of thing? So what, people just throw money at a pretty face because they’re bored with how rich they are?”
He takes a shaky breath when the last of his tirade has fallen from his lips, turning a hesitant glance to the man across from him. Hannibal, to his credit, appears amused more than anything else, the fondness shining in his eyes piercing through Will and making him feel warm and admired and positively exposed.
“Some rely on a physical exchange. Others are merely lonely. Others still require a lovely piece of art to hang from their arm and agree with their every word at social events, but find themselves too odious to accomplish such a feat without incentive for the second party.”
“So which group do you fall into?” Will asks boldly, teeth catching his bottom lip and heart pounding in his chest as he awaits the Dominant’s self-classification.
“I enjoy good company, and all things I find aesthetically pleasing. A physical relationship would not be out of the question for me, but it certainly wouldn’t be a requirement of our arrangement. I may wish to take you to an event - an opera or orchestral performance, perhaps even one of the many benefits that I patron, but your presence there would hardly be considered arm candy.”
“So I’d hang out with you and you’d...give me money,” Will sums up lamely, hardly ready to tackle the concept of attending a benefit with such a refined man.
“Dinner. Two nights a week, I think, would be fair to your class and study schedule. And one more outing of our mutual agreement.”
“I work two jobs in addition to a full course load,” Will points out stubbornly.
“Not if you were my boy,” Hannibal amends smoothly, undeterred by Will’s weak argument. “Your schooling would be your full-time job.”
Will swallows around the lump in his throat and mentally crushes the butterflies that take wing in his stomach as the words my boy roll off of Hannibal’s lips in his perfect, smoky accent. “And you don’t want me to do...anything else,” Will tacks on again, still not fully believing such an outrageous claim.
“I don’t require anything else from you, no,” Hannibal confirms. His lips curl into a smirk as his eyes flit over Will briefly; when they settle back on Will’s face they’re positively smoldering. “I’m quite sure I said nothing of want.” Will struggles to swallow around the lump in his throat, bone dry as his mouth is, but a moment later the suggestive, enticing air that had rippled around Hannibal falls away, and his tone and expression are businesslike once more. “Accept my company and my gifts. That’s all that I ask of you.”
Somehow, it still feels like a lot to ask.
---
Will turns Hannibal down the first time he offers to refill his drink, but as time stretches on and they segue from one discussion to the next - this one far more comfortable as he and Hannibal begin discussing art - he allows the second drink. Hannibal doesn’t argue when Will offers to retrieve them himself, still hesitant to leave a drink alone with this relative stranger, and feels put at ease when Hannibal not only doesn’t take offence to this, but reaches into his wallet to send Will back to the bar with a fifty dollar bill.
The bartender is one he recognizes, though he can’t remember his name. He appears to be working solo this evening, single-handedly containing and serving his increasingly rowdy crowd. He’s also never busted Will’s balls about his obviously fake ID - stopped asking for it after the first time Bev had dragged him there, in fact - and so urges him to keep the other thirty as a tip and wishes him a pleasant evening before he can think better of it. It’s nearly careless, how easily he’s allowed himself to be comfortable spending Hannibal’s money.
Hannibal accepts the scotch with a nod and a murmured thanks when Will returns, and doesn’t inquire about his change. They talk a bit more about Will’s mediums and style preferences, and about Hannibal’s own artistic talent. Will blanches when the man informs him he received his scholarship to Johns Hopkins based on his artistic merit.
“They let you study to become a doctor for free...because you can draw? I didn’t know that was a thing.”
Hannibal, as with all the rest of Will’s rather rude blurtings that evening, doesn’t take offence to the question, but grants him a small smile. “Is it so difficult to fathom? Both require a steady hand, patience and confidence. The architectural drawings I drafted from memory showcased a mind both keen and retentive. Of course, I wasn’t admitted by my art alone; my test scores saw more to that, I’m sure. But even at sixteen they could see the talent I possessed. It’s a shame it didn’t work out for me as a career; I’ve always been fascinated by the human body. In any case, I’ve been quite happy with my shift to psychiatry.”
“Sixteen?” Will blanches for the second time in as many minutes. “Christ that’s...aren’t people usually in their twenties before they go pre-med?”
“Usually, yes.” Hannibal’s simple reply is filled with a well-earned smugness Will finds he can’t bother to find annoying. “I’m surprised by your shock. You yourself must have been admitted early to be in your junior year and not yet of drinking age. How old are you?”
“Nineteen,” Will responds automatically as he takes a sip of his scotch, then immediately flusters and scrambles to correct himself. “Twenty. I turned twenty last week. Still feels... new, I guess. How old are you?”
“Thirty-eight. Will that be an issue for you?”
“No,” Will denies immediately upon finishing another decent sip of his scotch. And then, because he has no control over his own body at all, blurts out, “You look fucking great.”
Hannibal’s hooded gaze and the way his lips tilt up into a small smirk sends another wave of heat to Will’s cheek, causes his stomach to twist not unpleasantly once again, and Will hastily downs the last sip of his drink and clears his throat, stumbling to speak again before Hannibal can open his mouth and say something so charmingly eloquent that Will feels like even more of a dumbass.
“I, uh, I should probably be taking off. I’ve got an early class tomorrow.” He almost sounds half-way convincing, even though it’s the complete truth.
“I wouldn’t dream of disrupting your schedule,” Hannibal assures him, hesitates - perhaps for the first time that evening - and adds, “May I walk you out?”
Will is nodding before he can think to stop himself, and before he knows it he’s weaving through the increasingly dense throng of students towards the exit, his handsome stranger hot on his tail. He doesn’t hesitate when they slip through the exit, but bypasses the parking lot altogether to head straight for the sidewalk.
“You don’t have a vehicle here?” Hannibal questions curiously.
Will spins on his feet and pins the man with a cheeky grin, his confidence growing as the superior scotch he’s imbibed seems to swallow him full-force in a single moment, warming and relaxing him.
“You would advise me to drink and drive, Doctor?” Will asks playfully, loving the way the word doctor slips off his tongue; something coy and flirtatious. Something he never is. Will’s teeth snag his bottom lip as he glances over the man beside him. “I don’t own a car. I was just gonna walk back. It’s really not that far.”
“All the same, I wouldn’t advise traversing the streets alone after imbibing alcohol any more than I would recommend someone drive.”
Will finds himself tensing, frantically attempting to conjure a convincing argument against Hannibal’s very reasonable concerns, his suspicion mounting as he begins to calculate the very real likeliness of Hannibal offering to escort him back, or offering him a ride outright.
Will’s half-formed, semi-polite rejection withers and dies in his throat when Hannibal steps toward the road and flags down a taxi. He turns toward Will with a soft smile, and Will’s heart pounds harder even than he thinks it would have if Hannibal had attempted to cajole him into his own vehicle.
“I’d feel much more comfortable if you had a secure way of arriving home,” Hannibal informs him as he bobs his head in a nod of greeting to the waiting driver. “Of course, I don’t expect you to foot the bill,” he explains, reaching into his wallet and handing Will another fifty dollar bill.
He hesitates for a moment, gazing contemplatively at the billfold in his hand, and then reaches in to pluck out a small, white business card as well. “I suppose there’s no harm in giving you this, seeing as how you’ve already managed to suss out my identity.”
Will takes the proffered card without thinking, his eyes glancing down to flit over the information on the business card - the official one, the one Hannibal uses for referrals and networking.
“Please feel free to contact me anytime, Will. It was truly a pleasure to meet you.”
Hannibal opens the rear passenger door, stepping aside to bid Will passage, and Will can’t stop himself from returning the gesture, so completely thrown by Hannibal’s propriety that he can’t help but hope to reciprocate it
“Graham.”
“Sorry?”
“My name,” Will clarifies as a warm wave of embarrassment sweeps through him anew. “Will Graham. I - It, uh. It only seems fair. Since I know you. Not much to gather on me though, I’m afraid.” He brushes past the older man, sliding into the backseat and gazing out at him in the moment before he pushes the door closed. “It was nice to meet you too, Hannibal.”
It says a lot that Hannibal only offers him a small smile before the door closes, turning away immediately to be out of the general vicinity as Will gives his destination to the driver. He studies the business card his nervous hands turn over again and again for the short drive back to his dorm, and is immensely relieved when he discovers their suite is empty, Bev still at her Thursday night study group; he’s not sure he’s ready to unpack how the night went to her when he’s still attempting to know for sure himself.
He shuts and locks his door, a clear sign he’s turned in for the night should she get home and attempt to pester him. He, in fact, does not turn in, but lays wide awake on his bed, body still slightly warm and buzzing from the alcohol but mind persistently clear as he attempts time and again to shut out all thought and fall asleep.
He’s still awake when Bev comes home, listens to her complete her nightly routine and turn in herself. It’s nearly an hour later still that his eyes finally begin to drift closed, his mind slowly quieting from tumultuous contemplations and ever-tempting daydreams. In the morning he’ll blame his final coherent thoughts on the cozy slip into sleep, but in the moment can’t help but think it would be nice to have his financial burden lifted from his shoulders, more time to study and focus on his art, and nicer still to have a man like Hannibal for a friend.
---
“Graham! You sly dog, why didn’t you tell me you were seeing your Sugar Daddy again so soon?” Beverly bursts into Will’s room not unlike a wrecking ball, his door slamming loudly enough to make him grimace.
“What are you talking about? I haven’t seen Hannibal since the weekend?” Will corrects her pointedly, her antics only increasing over the week. It’s Friday, six days after meeting, and Bev hasn’t let him forget it.
Bev tosses a package onto his bed, hip thrust out and a smug smile on her face like she’s won some sort of bet Will hadn’t even realized they had.
“What’s this?”
“It has H.L on the notecard attached. Pretty sure it’s from your Daddyyyy,” she sing songs, and Will reminds himself murder is illegal and he would eventually miss her anyway if he killed her.
“I haven’t texted him since Wednesday. We don’t have plans.”
“Just open the damn thing! I’ve been dying since they gave it to me downstairs.”
“How did he even know my address?” Will asks absently, fingers going a bit shaky as he slips the thick white satin ribbon from around the glossy black paper. Even the packaging looks expensive, most likely worth several dining hall meals.
Once the paper falls away he’s left stunned silent, the familiar apple logo searing into his retinas. It’s the latest model, a sleek grey and there’s a separate box settled against the side that includes a pen.
He also noticed a letter on a heavy cream paper, and reads that before even considering touching the tablet in his lap. Thousands of dollars, just sitting on his shitty retail store sheets.
Dearest Will,
I have it on good authority from the salesperson this is the newest model and most commonly used at your university by the arts department students.
I hope it provides you some inspiration in your studies and personally.
This is a gift without expectations. Whether you wish to see me again or not, I’m happy to aid a fellow artist in his endeavors.
Happy belated birthday.
Hannibal Lecter
The letters in his name are written in swirling, sweeping cursive, the lines bold and seemingly written using a calligraphy pen of some sort. Will swallows thickly, turning disbelieving eyes on the gadget.
“Wow. He’s got it bad, huh? Must be some of that Will Graham charm I’ve heard so much about but never seen in action,” Beverly jokes, reading the letter over his shoulder. She plucks up the tablet and turns it over in her hands, inspecting it. “Damn, he went all out.”
“What am I supposed to do with this?” Will asks, helpless. He feels himself drifting a bit, a cavern opening up at his feet that he’s unsure how to traverse.
Beverly, to his eternal gratitude, is all Dominant as she notices him struggling and swoops in to pull him against her, settling on the bed beside him and tucking his head beneath her chin. “You deserve this, Will Graham. Stop catastrophizing in that gorgeous, curly head of yours and think about the facts. You met a wealthy man on a website devoted to people wanting to spend money lavishing others with gifts. You went on a date with that man, you’ve texted him nearly everyday since you met. Is it really so out there he would show his appreciation and celebrate your birthday by gifting you with something useful for you?”
“It’s so much money, Bev. That’s, like, enough to pay for all my books for a year!”
“Context, babe. Hannibal is clearly well off enough that the amount he spent is perfectly reasonable to him. He wouldn’t have bought it if he couldn’t afford it. Just enjoy it for what it is; a lovely gesture.”
It was a gesture, Will thinks, his brain a jumbled mess only slowly reorganizing itself with Beverly’s continued gentle petting down his spine and the soothing cadence of her familiar voice. But Will also believes Hannibal when he says it’s a gesture without expectation, and that alone shakes something loose in his chest and allows him to breathe more normally again.
The texts between them have been nothing but chaste and curious, Hannibal clearly interested in Will’s mind perhaps even more than he’s interested in his body, and that’s a new sensation for Will. With previous Doms, with past lovers in general, there wasn’t really a typical dating period. More often than not, Will ended up on his knees and servicing the Dom within hours of meeting them. He’s never had someone so keenly interested in his thoughts, with how he saw the world.
He’s not sure what to do with the gift he’s been given, Hannibal’s regard a heavy, but not stifling, weight. Will finds he welcomes that regard, that genuine care the Dominant seems to exude so naturally, effortlessly and honestly. He realizes, suddenly, he feels safe with Hannibal already, even now while spiraling he’s yearning to talk to the other man. He can’t help but wonder what it would feel like if Hannibal were here in place of Bev, if it were his stronger, experienced hands roving over Will’s spine and through his curls, soothing him and - if Will’s honest with himself - incensing him in equal measures.
Will’s thoughts have been far less wholesome than Hannibal’s behavior the last week, and he’s been extremely thankful he has Bev as a roommate and lives in the RA residence so he doesn’t share a shower with the entire floor. He can’t imagine they’d appreciate his come staining the drain.
He pulls himself together bit by bit, until he’s finally able to think more coherently. “I need to send him a message. Thank him. Something.” He tugs himself free of Beverly’s touch, and she immediately removes herself from his space. She’s such a good Dom, Will knows she’ll be amazing to a submissive one day, already so intuitive and caring.
“What are you gonna say?”
“Nothing for you to worry about. Out.” Will points to his door with a stern finger, and Beverly rolls her eyes but shoves herself off his bed and towards the open door.
“You should send him some kissy emojis. He seems like he’d like those.” She deadpans, and Will throws a pair of rolled up socks at her as she laughs her way down the hallway.
Will stares at his locked phone screen for several minutes, trying to fathom exactly what one says to a man who just bought you a thousand plus dollars worth of tech. He starts and stops several times once he opens their text thread, aimlessly scrolls up their conversation for a few minutes reading over the last week of messages before he finally clicks into the text response box.
I got your gift. Thank you, it was extremely thoughtful.
Before he can think better of it he sends another message immediately after.
How the Hell did you get my address, though?
He hopes Hannibal won’t mind the language, he doesn’t catch it in time, his thumb already pressing send before he even considers whether it’s appropriate.
Thankfully it doesn’t take long at all for Hannibal to respond, the dots popping up to indicate Hannibal is typing.
I’m only sorry I couldn’t deliver it in person or on the actual day of your birthday, my apologies for the lateness. Don’t be too cross with the very helpful front desk girl, I told her I was trying to get a gift to you for your birthday and she said she would make sure it arrived.
That absolutely doesn’t answer Will’s question, but opens up a whole host of new ones.
How did you even know which building was mine?
Will taps out quickly, a shudder running down his spine as his mind conjures the very realistic yet very unlikely sensation of someone watching him. He startles so badly when the phone in his hand begins to ring unexpectedly that he drops it to the bed. Though he could fathom a guess as to the caller, his stomach still twists when he sees Hannibal’s name flashing across the screen.
“Hey.”
“Hello, Will. I thought a phone call might be more direct than exchanging messages. ...The possibility exists that I also wished to hear your voice.”
Will stretches out on his back, twisting his head to the side to gaze at the gift beside him. Something electric buzzes beneath his skin, settles warm in his stomach, and Will finds his lips twisting into a grin. “Uh huh. And are you going to answer my question?”
“My talking is counterproductive to the goal of listening to you,” Hannibal points out, and Will can hear the smile in his own voice; his cheeks begin to ache as his own grin stretches wider at the subtle playfulness in the man’s tone.
“Hannibal,” he admonishes sternly, though he has little hope of actually sounding stern when he’s grinning like an idiot.
“I have an acquaintance in the campus housing administration. She was kind enough to provide your building information when I inquired about you.”
“That’s a huge violation of privacy.” He’s not mad about it. He’s not quite sure why he isn’t mad about it. “And gross misconduct on the administrator’s part.”
“Please don’t seek to disrupt her career; I’m exceedingly persuasive.”
“Yeah, I’m getting that.” Will rolls to his side and trails a finger across the box that holds the most expensive item in his room.
“Above all else, I want you to feel safe, Will. I understand I’m still a stranger to you and may have overstepped my bounds in my...enthusiasm. But I’d be remiss if you found yourself uncomfortable in your own home, so with my gift delivered I’d like to assure you that I won’t use your location to my advantage again. It will be as though the knowledge was never mine.”
Will hums at that, the buzzing sensation coiling in his gut once more. “That’s gonna make it pretty difficult for you to pick me up for dinner.”
He bites his lip in the wake of Hannibal’s surprised silence, chewing on it fretfully and beginning to wonder if he should have said anything at all. Maybe he should have just said thanks and been done with it? Maybe that speech was Hannibal’s polite way of backing off, the gifted tablet merely a token to thank him for his time. He opens his mouth, half-ready to stammer out a lame retraction to the invitation before getting off the phone as quickly as possible when Hannibal’s soft, smoky voice spills into his ear once more.
“I suppose I could retain the information a little bit longer...when will I be arriving to fetch you for this dinner of ours?”
“I have to finish up a project tonight, and tomorrow I’m working fifteen hours between my two jobs. Sunday?”
He half-expects Hannibal to cajole him into meeting earlier, awaits the argument that he needn’t keep either of his jobs any longer; maybe even the suggestion that Will call off for the evening and Hannibal’s promise to supplement the lost income.
Instead, he hears the older man’s pleased hum and the evidence of his own smile stretching wider when he replies, “Sunday sounds lovely. I’ll be waiting out front at seven.”
Will agrees and then, because the anxiety of expectations still presses heavily onto his chest blurts out in the midst of their farewells, “It’s just a dinner.”
Luckily, Hannibal sounds more amused than anything by this outburst. “What else would it be? Have a good night, Will. Good luck on your project.”
He feels better about the gift after speaking to Hannibal and finally allows himself to open it, getting it plugged in and setting it on his nightstand while it charges. He then throws himself into work so the chaotic thoughts ricocheting around his skull might be dulled by the focus of completing a task. When he’s happy with the draft he turns it in to his professor’s online dropbox, a full two hours before its midnight deadline.
It’s far too early to turn in for the night, but Will also hesitates to find Beverly for company. He’s not ready to tell her about their dinner date yet, knowing she will immediately begin a line of questioning that Will can’t hope to answer at the moment. In an effort to stay busy, he tidies his room. Fifteen minutes later there’s nothing left to distract him from the tablet that sits fully charged on his nightstand.
He’s not sure why his hands tremble when he picks it up. Even during the set-up process, Will can’t help but feel like he’s using something that doesn’t belong to him. It’s not until he gets some of his favored drawing and design apps downloaded that he begins to feel more confident, more natural. A classical playlist on Spotify further helps him to relax and Will spends the rest of the night drawing whatever flits into his mind. Sketch after sketch of him testing out his new pen, playing with brushstrokes and shading, each saved to the device’s drive before a new page is opened and he begins again.
He can’t remember the last time he spent so long drawing with no goal in mind, and he’s surprised when he realizes it’s two in the morning and he has nearly a dozen pieces already saved to his gallery.
He wonders, as he finally sets his new toy aside and allows his heavy eyes to slip closed, if Hannibal might like to see them sometime.