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Will exhaled, the breath easing out of him in a long sigh as Hannibal’s thumbs worked deep into the knot just below his shoulder blade. His cheek was pressed against the couch cushion, eyes closed, one arm dangling off the edge. The dogs had retreated to their corners the moment Hannibal produced the small bottle of massage oil—they knew better than to hover when that particular bottle came out.
It was the good kind, of course. Sandalwood: smooth and grounding, the kind of scent that wrapped around you like smoke and honey. Heat and depth, earthy and lingering. The kind of smell that settled in the lungs and stayed there.
His skin glowed where Hannibal had already passed, hot with friction and oil, the muscles around his bad shoulder unraveling in careful increments. Some days, the ache came back mean, biting down with the same brutality Dolarhyde had used to open him up. A reminder—as if he needed one—that bones could knit and nerves could reroute, but the damage had already filed a change of address and made itself at home.
Against his better judgment, Will had allowed Hannibal to talk him into a cupping routine. He’d rolled his eyes at it, initially—something about increasing circulation and moving stagnant blood, probably read aloud from some medical tome kept in the library. But the aftermath always left Will feeling like his limbs weren’t attached to him anymore. Warm. Loosened. Half-feral and drugged with relief.
Still, some days were just worse, and today was one of them.
Hannibal had offered a massage without assumption, and Will had said yes before thinking too hard about it. That’s how he ended up here: face-down, shirtless, in nothing but soft cotton boxers, with Hannibal’s full weight perched neatly across the backs of his thighs.
Hannibal’s hands moved in a way that straddled the line between clinical and intimate. Not teasing, not lingering, just knuckles and thumbs and palms working oil into skin. Will let himself drift, the heat from the fire bleeding into his bones, the sharp-clean scent of eucalyptus in his nose, and Hannibal’s steady breath pulling him somewhere heavy-limbed and quiet. The ache in his shoulder was dissolving under the careful pressure, replaced by lazy relaxation. He groaned softly into the cushion, unaware of the sound until it was already out.
It was too easy to give in like this—to let Hannibal draw out those sounds without a fight.
“Your muscles are more tense than usual today,” Hannibal murmured above him, thoughtful.
Will hummed in response. He didn’t want to talk. He wanted to keep melting.
The next press came slower, more focused—a thumb dragging across the fresh bruise high on his shoulder, the edge of one of the cupping marks from three days ago. The pressure bloomed—a slow, spreading burn that crawled under his skin and radiated deep, like someone had dropped a coal into muscle. A pained pleasure, low and buzzing, that settled somewhere in his gut and curled there.
Will hissed between his teeth. He didn’t want it to feel good. Not yet. Not so soon.
Hannibal’s hands paused, held just above the skin. Contemplating.
And then he did it again, more purposeful. Thumb centered on the tender flesh and pushed.
Will gasped, the sound breaking out of him too fast to hide.
Behind him, Hannibal made a small sound. A click of satisfaction, a puzzle piece falling into place.
“That sounded… promising,” Hannibal said after a beat. The pause that followed stretched taut and golden, and even though Will couldn’t see his face, the attention of him was blinding. He felt pinned to the cushions like a specimen under glass. “Was that pain or pleasure?”
Asshole, Will thought.
The bruise pulsed with its own small heartbeat, a deep throb in time with the heat now building between Will’s legs.
Another press. Firmer.
Will moaned—helpless, this time. His hips shifted against the couch, and his body betrayed him fully, stiffening beneath him, cock hardening against the cushion in an agonizing throb.
“Ah,” Hannibal exhaled, delighted. “Both, then.”
Will wanted to say something cutting, or dismissive, or at the very least coherent, but his tongue had latched itself to the roof of his mouth. He breathed shallowly into the couch cushion, his whole body stiff and vibrating, every nerve wired directly to the point of Hannibal’s thumb still planted in the bruise.
The air shifted, almost as if the very shape of the room had changed—as though the shadows reoriented themselves around the weight of Hannibal’s attention. He hadn’t moved, not visibly. But Will felt the difference: the subtle pulling in of focus, the way Hannibal’s presence congealed into something tighter, hungrier.
The ease slipped away, and in its place came something more surgical.
Predatory.
“You’re very quiet, Will,” Hannibal said, his voice dragging along Will’s spine like breath down glass. “But your body speaks volumes.”
Will squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. There was nothing in his mouth but cotton balls.
“I hadn’t planned to provoke this reaction,” Hannibal went on, thumb finally lifting from the bruise. The release sent a ripple of sensation echoing out beneath Will’s skin—like breath rushing into a vacuum, the pain collapsing in on itself only to bloom hotter in its absence. It left behind a raw, buzzing echo that pulsed without pressure and ached all the more for the loss of it. “But perhaps your body needed something more than pain relief.”
One of Hannibal’s palms swept up the curve of Will’s back, fingers spreading wide to catch the ridges of each rib. The oil slicked his touch, smooth and hot, gliding across Will’s skin like it had a memory of its own. A languid stroke, bordering on indulgent.
It felt good—too good. But not enough.
Not right.
Will didn’t want comfort. He wanted the edge. He wanted Hannibal’s hands rougher, meaner—to feel pressure dig in and drag out that dull, punishing ache that made his breath catch and his hips twitch. He wanted bruises on top of bruises, wanted to feel ruined and remember it tomorrow.
“You’re flushed,” Hannibal murmured. “Skin fever-warm. Tensed. And yet…” He paused, and Will could feel the smile behind him. “Erect.”
Will groaned into the cushion. It wasn’t denial. It was the sound of someone rapidly losing altitude. He hated how close he already was to giving in. Hated that Hannibal knew exactly which pressure points to press.
“I suspect,” Hannibal said, conversational now, like they were discussing meal prep, “that it isn’t simple tension troubling your shoulder. You carry a wound that aches when left untouched—and like most deep discomforts, it can’t be soothed with gentle attention. No, you need a different kind of pain, Will. And I am more than happy to provide it.”
He punctuated the offer with another push—this time into a bruise lower down, tucked close to Will’s armpit. The pain bloomed slow and ugly, a thick, bruised throb that made him twitch away and toward it all at once.
“Fuck,” Will breathed out.
Trying to escape the pressure in his cock, Will shifted his hips, only to rut deeper into it. The friction made his toes curl against the cushions. His fingers clenched, useless and buried under his own weight.
“Do you know what I see when I look at you like this?” Hannibal asked, still in that infuriatingly conversational tone. “Sprawled. Marked. Offering every inch of yourself, whether you mean to or not.”
Will made a strangled sound—something between a scoff and a choke before biting out, “Jesus, shut up.”
But he didn’t mean it. And Hannibal, of course, knew that.
Proceeding as if Will hadn’t spoken at all, he leaned in.
“I see devotion,” Hannibal whispered, his breath ghosting across the nape of Will’s neck. “And hunger. And the most beautiful canvas.”
Hannibal’s hands moved again, fingers pressing into the dark blooms of cupping bruises scattered across Will’s shoulder. He lingered on each mark, cataloging the textures under his thumb, mapping the borders like he meant to memorize them.
"Such vivid color," Hannibal murmured, more to himself than to Will. "Blues deepening into violet. Edges kissed in gold."
Every push into tender flesh lit Will up in perfect, aching flashes—a satisfying throb that turned the ache in his shoulder into something better, something wanted. His cock throbbed against the couch, humiliatingly eager, and still Hannibal moved with glacial patience, as if he had all night to drive Will out of his skin.
He did. And he would.
Will shifted under him, restless, canting his hips in a silent demand for more—for harder.
Hannibal noticed, of course he noticed.
"Impatient, Will?" he asked, his tone almost pitying. "Should I stop?"
The question dropped like a knife between Will's shoulder blades.
Fingers curling into the couch for strength, Will forced his body into stillness. His body screamed for more attention, but he bit down hard on the noise rising in his throat, holding himself taut and obedient under Hannibal's hands.
Hannibal made a small, satisfied sound—not quite approval, not quite mockery.
“I will give you what you need,” he said gently, “when you need it.”
A slow, lazy rake of fingernails dragged down the shallow groove of Will’s spine, leaving goosebumps blooming in their wake. The tips of Hannibal’s fingers skimmed the dip just above the swell of Will’s ass, pausing there like a man savoring the menu before making his order.
Will was burning alive, and Hannibal hadn't even started in earnest.
The hand at his back smoothed lower, cupping the full curve of one ass cheek, warm and steady and possessive. A thumb dug into the fresh bruise left by Hannibal’s teeth the night before—a mark Will had already caught himself pressing into his mattress earlier, shame burning hot in his gut.
The thumb pressed harder. Will shuddered, a sharp, helpless gasp escaping before he could catch it.
"You carry tension everywhere worth touching," Hannibal said, almost fondly.
Will gritted his teeth. “You’re the one making it worse,” he muttered into the couch, voice cracked and uneven.
Hannibal only chuckled—dark and delighted.
He slid lower, graceful as ever, settling onto the backs of Will’s knees. His thumbs hooked into the waistband of Will’s boxers, tugging the fabric taut against oversensitive skin.
“Lift up, darling,” Hannibal murmured, with a warmth that made the command even crueler.
Will obeyed without thinking, hips lifting, offering himself up.
Hannibal peeled the boxers down slow and merciless, dragging the worn cotton over his hips, his thighs, baring every desperate inch of him to the cool air and Hannibal’s gaze. Hands reached between Will’s stomach and the couch, gently maneuvering his cock and balls downward—tucking him just so, so that the head of his cock peeked out from beneath his thighs, flushed and leaking and helplessly visible. The position robbed Will of friction, of leverage, of any ability to chase sensation. He was utterly at Hannibal’s mercy, and Hannibal knew it.
Will’s stomach twisted with raw, electric want.
"Beautiful," Hannibal said, voice rich with satisfaction.
Will groaned into the cushion, biting it to keep from saying something unforgivably desperate.
He clamped down harder to reclaim some illusion of control. He wouldn’t hand this over too easily. Not yet.
Behind him, Hannibal’s hands resumed their slow, reverent path, sliding down the backs of his thighs. His thumbs spread Will open with a patience that was almost worshipful, and Will twitched between his hands, frantic with the need to be touched, to be devoured.
"You bruise so easily here too," Hannibal murmured, tracing the vulnerable skin of Will’s inner thighs with maddening gentleness. "I could mark you everywhere. Leave you sore for days."
Will whimpered, hips canting up, chasing after hands that refused to settle where he needed them.
The need built inside him, thick and stifling, buzzing under his skin.
And Hannibal hadn’t even really started yet.
He bent low, exhaling against the soft skin of Will’s thighs, and Will’s muscles tensed reflexively, waiting for the bite, the press, anything—but it didn’t come. Instead, Hannibal nosed between his cheeks, dragging the bridge of his nose along the soft skin there with cool leisure.
Teasing bastard.
Lips grazed the tender flesh just around Will’s hole, warm and slow and pointedly not where Will needed him. A slow pass of skin on skin. The faintest drag of teeth, more suggestion than threat. Will hissed through his teeth, hips twitching, but the grip holding him only tightened.
He didn’t need worship. He needed contact. He needed to be fucked open. The restraint grated. Every soft pass, every breathless almost was another reminder that Hannibal was making him wait, making him want. And he did want—he wanted to be cracked open. But only on his terms.
“I could spend the rest of the night like this. Just opening you. Letting you imagine every inch of what I’m not giving you yet.” Hannibal’s voice came low and calm, warm breath sending a shiver through Will.
Will cursed under his breath, frustration crackling through every nerve. Hannibal knew exactly how to wind him tight. And Will knew he should endure, outlast, prove he wasn’t so easily taken. But fuck—he was already halfway there.
“Hanni—” he started, breath catching, rounded with disbelief.
Without a word, Hannibal cut him off. One hand darted up and clamped hard into the bruised curve of Will’s shoulder, still tender from their last session. Pain bloomed like fire licked with alcohol. His vision blurred at the edges, a flare of white-hot heat crashing through his skull, and his mouth fell open around a groan
Before he could recover, the first pass of tongue wetly dragged over the ring of muscle and made Will jolt like he’d been shocked.
Hannibal moaned into him—a gutteral sound like he was tasting something exquisite—and then licked him again, slower but firmer, tongue flattening out and pressing in.
The relief was immediate and full-bodied, a hot flush that unspooled down his spine. Will let out a wrecked sigh and pushed back against Hannibal’s mouth with a desperation he didn’t bother hiding.
Hannibal gave him just a second of it—a long, indulgent lick—and then moved again, quick and cruel, shifting his hand to jab straight into a bruise closer to Will’s ribs. The pain cracked through him like a whip, sharp and dizzying. His eyes rolled back.
"You’re testing the limits of my generosity," Hannibal said, almost conversational. His voice vibrated against Will’s skin, impossibly close. "You’ll take what I give you, Will. Nothing more, nothing less."
Will shuddered. His body screamed yes, even as his breath punched out in another growl. He wanted to argue, wanted to snap—but he didn’t. Couldn’t.
Hannibal didn’t wait for an answer. He dove back in hungrily, tongue working in rhythm now—relentless, wet, deep. His hands kneaded at the bruises across Will’s shoulder and flank, pressing into them just hard enough to make him flinch with every grind of his hips.
It was unbearable. It was perfect.
The sharpness and the sweetness melted together, pleasure nested inside pain like a knife in warm flesh. Will couldn’t separate them anymore, didn’t want to.
“H-Hannibal—” It came out strangled.
"I should make you beg properly," Hannibal said, trailing his fingers along Will’s trembling thigh. "Use your words. Ask me nicely to put my tongue back where you need it most."
Will swore, a garbled curse muffled into the couch, and lifted his hips without thinking—a wordless plea, a full-body offering.
Hannibal chuckled softly—a low, wicked sound—and sucked another bruise into the curve of Will’s ass. The sharp pressure made Will cry out, cock pulsing, the pain pleasure blurred past the point of recognition.
“I see,” Hannibal said. “No patience at all tonight.”
A slick finger joined the slow press of Hannibal’s tongue, breaching him in tandem, the intrusion just enough to burn. The stretch provided a new layer of fullness that made Will gasp, spine arcing tight as a bow. His hands scrabbled against the cushions, seeking purchase, grounding, anything.
The bruises sang with each twitch of his body, that delicious, dull ache wrapping itself around the bright, obscene pleasure of Hannibal’s tongue.
He wanted more. He wanted harder. He wanted to be pushed past the point where wanting became survival instinct.
And Hannibal gave it—but only in doses. A lick. A pause. A soft bite pressed into the inside of his thigh, just hard enough to bloom another mark.
And then—contact. Not much. Just a brush. The barest graze of fingers against the tip of his cock, slick and swollen where it pressed into the couch. Will choked on a gasp, whole body flinching. The touch didn’t last. It wasn’t meant to. It was a reminder.
Hannibal had every part of him—and he would dole out pleasure only when it suited him.
“Already so wet,” Hannibal murmured, dragging his tongue in a slow, torturous circle. “Your body is very honest, Will.”
Will clenched his jaw. He hated how true that was. His body had been honest for a long time—too honest—even when his mind screamed for control.
Control that was slipping, eroded by each calculated touch. There was a particular kind of humiliation in how quickly his body turned traitor. Not even ten minutes of teasing, and already he was aching, leaking, ready to fold.
But he held the line, barely, determined to put up a fight. His hips trembled, straining for friction, for contact, for anything, but he gave Hannibal only silence in return. No begging. No permission.
Will wouldn’t break first.
Hannibal must have sensed his newly formed resolve.
The second finger came without warning. Slid in slow but deep, joining the first and stretching him wider. The burn was exquisite—just shy of too much—and Will gasped, fists bunching in the cushion beneath him.
That slick glide inside him provided just enough pressure to light up his spine, to make his toes curl and his breath catch. For a second, he let himself believe Hannibal would finally give it to him—that hard, punishing rhythm he needed like air. That sweet relief: pain sharp enough to crack the heat building behind his ribs.
Then it stopped. Everything stopped.
The tongue, the fingers, even the taunting scrape of Hannibal’s voice. All gone. Will was left blinking into the silence, his hips frozen in the air, muscles trembling from the effort of staying open. Still stretched, still aching. Denied.
A beat passed. Then another.
Will whimpered—involuntary, furious with himself. He should’ve kept quiet. Every sound he made gave something away. Every twitch and gasp confirmed what Hannibal surely knew: that Will was losing ground, and part of him was grateful. That part was louder now.
A hard palm pressed into the curve of his hip, right where an old bruise was blooming again under new pressure. The message was clear: stay open. Stay waiting. Stay hungry.
“That’s my good boy,” Hannibal murmured, the words low and molten. “Look how beautifully you suffer.”
Fingers pushed back in, stretching him wide again. They curled just slightly, brushing up against Will’s prostate, making him buck, helpless against the pressure lighting him up. A mouth followed, hot and open, lips sealing over the tender skin between his cheeks, tongue dragging along his hole.
The other hand anchored him—fingers digging into his hip, hard enough that Will knew he’d wear the shape of that grip tomorrow. It hurt. It felt incredible. He pressed back into it, greedy for the sting, for the pressure, for the ownership in that bruising hold.
He wanted more of that—wanted to be held down, pressed into, possessed until there was nothing left of his stubborn pride. But the wanting still came laced with resentment. He shouldn’t have to ask. Hannibal should just take.
Hannibal’s tongue jabbed up alongside the two fingers, slick and obscene, the heat of it catching Will so off guard he choked on the breath he’d meant to curse with. But his body leaned into it. His hips moved without thought, chasing pressure, grinding down into the couch when Hannibal’s fingers slowed, rutting back into him when they deepened. He moaned, bit the cushion, whimpered again.
He wanted it to hurt. He wanted it to break him open.
And then—
Silence. Absence. Emptiness.
The absence was almost worse than the touch.
Heat gone. Weight gone. Fingers gone. Just open air brushing against his hole, still stretched, still wet, twitching around nothing. His body didn’t understand the sudden loss. It bucked for more, chased what had vanished.
Then heat returned—the slick press of fingers, the wet drag of tongue—filling him again like they’d never left, wringing a strangled moan from Will’s throat. A rhythm started. Built.
Built.
Then vanished. Again.
And again.
Each return brought him closer. Closer to the edge of something beyond orgasm. Beyond speech. Something animal. Something loose and unthinking.
The build was unbearable—heat low in his belly, his cock twitching with every pulse of slick movement inside him. His balls ached. His spine bowed. His skin felt too tight.
And still he clung to the idea of withholding, like it could shield him from the inevitable. But what was left to protect? Hannibal already had his body. All Will could do now was hope to be undone enough to give him the rest.
The pressure coiled deep in his gut, mean and snarling, a heat with nowhere to go. His nerves thrummed under his skin like they were trying to crawl free, each denial tightening the wires until even the ghost of air against his hole made him flinch. The pain layered itself—burn on stretch, stretch on bruises, and he wanted more. He wanted it worse.
Hannibal pulled away. Always right before. Every time.
By the fourth time—fifth? tenth?—Will’s mind couldn’t count anymore. His body was a live wire, sparking and fraying.
His thighs quaked. His mouth wouldn’t close. His cock was a mess, dripping freely, untouched. The pressure behind his eyes throbbed like a second pulse.
He couldn’t form words—only noises, broken and desperate.
Every breath felt like a sob held just beneath the surface, his throat tight with the effort of restraint. His hands clawed at the fabric, nails digging in, seeking purchase against the overwhelming tide of sensation.
Hannibal kissed the small of his back.
“I’ll stop when you ask me to,” he murmured. “Or I’ll keep going. Until there’s nothing left but instinct and ache.”
Will didn’t respond. Couldn’t. His thoughts were fraying at the edges, unraveling into heat and pressure and float. So Hannibal continued. The room was too quiet, too loud. He was aware of everything and nothing at once—Hannibal’s breath, the press of fingers, the throb of every bruise. His own heartbeat, stuttering behind his ribs like an animal trapped in its own ribcage.
He was coming undone by inches.
And somewhere between the last retreat and the next push back inside him, something cracked.
His hips sagged, tension bleeding from his limbs like steam from a cracked pipe.
“Please,” he croaked, barely above a whisper. It came out rough, barely human. “Please, I—just—” Will's fingers clawed at the couch cushions, hips rocking in the air as if friction alone could save him. “Please, you know I can’t—”
He was begging now. Genuinely. Shamelessly. No more games, no more defiance—just the raw, wrecked ache of someone pushed too far and left dangling there, broken open and empty.
Hannibal exhaled, slow and steady, the sound dark with pleasure. “Yes, you can,” he said, tone edged with hunger. “You can give me everything, Will. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
He didn’t touch him yet. Didn’t give him relief. He let the silence stretch, let Will writhe in it.
“Beg me again,” Hannibal said softly, like a request rather than a demand. “Tell me how badly you need it.”
“I’ll do anything,” he gasped. “I’ll—fuck—just give it to me, don’t stop—don’t—don’t leave me like this—”
“That’s a good boy,” Hannibal murmured, and the word hit somewhere deep in Will’s chest. “That’s it. Let go. Let me have you.”
The words washed over him, a balm to his frayed nerves. Will's sobs quieted, replaced by shuddering breaths. He felt weightless, untethered from the constant push and pull of control.
Hannibal rewarded him immediately—by giving him everything.
The next thrust of fingers was sudden, hard enough to punch a sound out of Will’s throat. Hannibal fucked him open, no longer teasing, no longer gentle. His fingers curled just right, hitting a spot that sent Will’s entire spine jolting.
“You take pain beautifully,” Hannibal whispered, voice steady over the slick, obscene rhythm of his hand. “You were made for this violence.”
Will couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe properly. The stretch bordered on savage, and it felt so good it made his vision swim. His cock twitched where it was still pinned beneath him, untouched, dripping. Every nerve in his body pulsed with sensation—the push and drag of Hannibal’s fingers, the burn of bruises being worked from the inside out.
“You were made for this,” Hannibal said, almost reverent. “Made to be opened. To be claimed.”
Will moaned—ragged and wrecked—and pushed back into it, chasing that rhythm, that roughness he’d been denied for what felt like hours. Every thrust of fingers lit up something deep inside him—something cracked and greedy and no longer concerned with endurance.
He could barely remember why he’d tried to hold out in the first place.
So when Hannibal pulled his fingers out—sudden, slick, leaving him wide open and empty—Will whined before he could stop himself.
And then Hannibal was inside him.
There was no warning. No sound of slicking lube, no breathless mutter of preparation. Just the hot, thick pressure of Hannibal’s cock spearing into him all at once, hard and deep, stealing the air from Will’s lungs. He cried out—part shock, part ecstasy—as his entire body seized, toes curling, hips twitching involuntarily around the intrusion.
It was pain and fullness and possession all at once. He didn’t want to move—he wanted to be held there, split on it.
“There you are,” Hannibal breathed, voice ragged with control. “I’ve got you.”
Will didn’t know if he was breathing or sobbing or moaning anymore—maybe all three. He felt split open, stuffed full, everything slick and raw and blazing. Hannibal didn’t give him a second to adjust.
The first thrust hit like a fist. Deep, bruising, fast. The sound of flesh on flesh filled the room, wet and punishing. Hannibal’s hips snapped against Will’s ass, driving into him again and again, and with every thrust his hands roamed—clawing down Will’s back, nails dragging hard enough to sting.
There was no rhythm to ease into. Only impact. Only force.
“You needed this,” Hannibal growled against his skin. “Didn’t you?”
Will didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Hannibal didn’t wait.
He sank his teeth into the back of Will’s shoulder, right over the edge of an older bruise, and bit down. Not gently. Will howled into the couch cushion, body arching, nerves singing.
The pain was exquisite. Sharp enough to make his cock pulse where it was still trapped beneath him. He didn’t pull away—he arched into it, mouth open, throat raw.
“You want to be eaten alive,” Hannibal hissed, teeth still bared against his skin. “Split open and filled. Marked until you forget where you end and I begin.”
Another bruise bloomed just above his hip, Hannibal’s thumb grinding into the meat of it as he used the leverage to slam deeper.
His grip bruised on purpose now, as if marking territory in flesh.
“You’re so tight,” Hannibal growled, panting now. “So fucking good like this. Letting me ruin you.”
Will couldn’t speak. Could barely hold his body together. Each thrust tore through him, scattering him further, driving him into that space where the pain was the pleasure and he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. Where surrender wasn’t weakness—it was obliteration. And it felt divine.
A hand slid around his waist—not to touch his cock, not yet—but to hold him still as Hannibal pounded into him.
“Good boy,” Hannibal rasped. “Look how you take it. Perfect. Just like this.”
Will sobbed again, the praise hitting harder than the thrusts. He’d never felt so fucked in his life. Never felt so whole.
Never needed something so vicious this badly.
And then something in him gave way.
No warning. No permission. Just the sharp collapse of tension as his body seized and let go.
His orgasm tore through him like a snapped wire—no buildup, no arc, just the raw violence of release. It ripped a broken cry from his chest, spilled hot against the couch where he was pinned. His cock throbbed helplessly, untouched, spurting in pulses that felt like they’d been coiled in his belly for hours.
Every nerve screamed. Every bruise lit up like a constellation.
He couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. The pleasure was molten—white-hot, too much, edged in pain—and it didn’t stop.
Hannibal didn’t stop.
He drove through Will’s climax with a callous consistency, hips still snapping forward, every thrust knocking loose another sound from Will’s throat. Will shook, boneless and broken open, body clenching around the thick press inside him like it didn’t know how to let go.
Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes and he didn’t wipe them away. He couldn’t.
He didn’t want to.
“Beautiful,” Hannibal rasped above him, voice thick with exertion. “You come so sweet when you’re ruined.”
Will whimpered, the noise cracked and wet and completely involuntary.
He had no words. No thoughts. Only aftershocks, and Hannibal’s voice in his ear like it lived there.
Will was still floating when Hannibal’s rhythm faltered. Just slightly—a stutter in his hips, a shift in his breath.
The thrusts grew sharper, sloppier. Less precision, more hunger.
A low, ragged sound crawled out of Hannibal’s chest—half-growl, half-moan—as he drove into Will. The sound of it made Will clench around him, muscles still twitching from his own orgasm.
That did it.
With a final, savage thrust, Hannibal buried himself deep and came with a snarl. His cock pulsed inside Will, hot and thick, and the release seemed to shake him down to the bones.
He bit down again—this time at the junction where Will’s neck met his shoulder, hard enough to bruise, maybe to bleed. A final mark. A seal.
Will cried out, more instinct than voice, his body jerking beneath the weight of it. The pain bloomed white-hot under Hannibal’s teeth and laced the pleasure through with something mean and addictive.
Hannibal didn’t move. Not at first. He held himself there, buried deep, teeth sunk in, hands still gripping Will’s hips like they might vanish if he let go.
He exhaled—one long, trembling breath against Will’s throat—and finally, finally eased back, licking over the bite with obscene tenderness.
The violence ebbed, but the intensity remained—simmering now instead of blazing.
Hannibal’s hands softened, sliding slowly up Will’s sides, smoothing over sweat-slicked skin. Where he’d clawed, he now soothed. Where he’d bitten, he kissed. Light touches, reverent. A silent inventory of everything he’d taken.
“You did beautifully,” Hannibal murmured, voice low and molten. “Perfect. So good for me when you finally let go.”
Will blinked into the couch cushion, the edges of his vision swimming. His body still hummed with the echo of pain and pleasure, but his limbs were leaden now, his breath shallow. He was floating—adrift on the warmth of being emptied and filled and seen.
“I’m so pleased with you,” Hannibal went on, brushing his lips across Will’s spine. “You let me give you what you needed. You trusted me with your body. With your ache.”
Will made a noise—hoarse, wrecked. He thought maybe he was crying. Just a little. A tear slid into the cushion and vanished.
“Thank you,” he managed, barely above a whisper. His throat scraped around the words like they were made of glass. But they were real.
Hannibal stilled, just for a moment. Then he pressed another kiss between Will’s shoulder blades and said, “Always.”
He gathered Will close without withdrawing—just draped over him, a weight and a warmth, lips moving against his skin like prayer. “I’ll always give you what you need, darling.”