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I squeeze his jaw into my left hand. I feel his pulse against my knife.
I dig it into his skin, feel the blood pooling on the blade.
I slice his throat, slowly. I want the other to see.
This is my design.
I move back, wait for him to bleed to death.
I step towards the other man, he’s struggling against his bindings.
I hold his head so he can’t look away. I am trying to send a message.
I don’t need him to know for long, though. I sink the knife in his neck, kill him on the spot.
I don’t want him to suffer.
This is my design.
----------------------------------------------------
“Will?”
I open my eyes, and blink a few times. There is more light than there was in my head. I look around: Jack is waiting for me to explain. What I saw, what I still see in my head, and behind my eyelids as I press my fingertips against them.
“We are looking for a gay man. This… The second victim was his lover, maybe a fiancée. He was punishing him for betraying his trust and his love, with the first victim.”
Jack nods and uncrosses his arms, looking around. “What about the message?”
I look at the wall. On the opposite wall from the second victim, the white paint is covered with wide strips of skin. Human skin from that same corpse, probably taken off the victim while he was still alive.
Next.
“He, um… He will kill again.”
“Yes, good to have a specialist to tell us the obvious,” Jack says, and I flinch.
“Please,” an intruding voice says from the door, calming. I close my eyes as Hannibal continues. “Jack, I must insist that you stop interrupting Will’s thinking process so abruptly. As he needs time to get in the killer’s headspace, he also needs time to come out of it.”
“I need to know who will be the killer’s target so we can stop him!” Jack retorts, and I cringe.
Soft steps on the moquetted floor and a strong hand on my shoulder. Offering comfort.
“I won’t let you jeopardize Will’s mental stability for your own purposes.”
“He,” I say, softly, clearing my throat. “He will kill other men. Gay men… He doesn’t trust anyone anymore, and wants to get revenge on them. On them all.”
Jack sighs and runs a hand over his face, nodding. “What’s out best chance to get the psycho?”
“I don’t think he’s a psychopath. Maybe you should look for something that these three victims had in common, other than being homosexuals. That could help,” Hannibal says.
I nod, put my glasses back on the bridge of my nose. I turn around and start walking out of the door. My job is done.
Hannibal follows me to our cars.
“You didn’t have to defend me just because I’m not a fine porcelain teacup anymore,” I say.
He raises his eyes and looks at me, and I divert my gaze. Eye contact, too distracting. Specially with Hannibal. Trying to understand his dark, always questioning eyes is too much.
“I appreciate you doing it,” I end my sentence, opening the door of my car and sitting on the driver’s seat, pulling off quickly.
***
The phone rings at five forty-three pm. I look away from the pages of my book, the images of a girl running in a field still swimming behind my eyes.
I close it and try to hang on the sense of peace the reading left behind when I answer the phone.
“Hey Will,” Beverly says in her usual tone, polite and a shade too cheery for the job she does.
“Hello,” I reply quietly, rejoicing in the interpersonal power of telecommunication.
“Jack told me he found a link between the victims. The first man, Roger White, worked in a gay bar in Baltimore. The second, Edward Harris, had a mark on the back of his hand, one of those they use at clubs or discos to let people back in,” she explains practically, and I nod.
“The killer might start from there. He, thinks it’s that place’s fault, that if his lover had never set foot in it he would have never betrayed him.”
“Jack hoped you might say so. And… He hoped you would go there tonight.” She sounds entirely uncomfortable.
“Why? So I can sit on a bar stool and try to enter the mind of all the men in the room, when our killer might have planted a bomb there and not even be present?” I reply.
There is a pause on the other side of the line.
“Do you think he would do that?”
I shake my head.
“No, even if his first victims were more personal, he would probably want to kill as many as he can with his bare hands, before eventually killing himself, or let himself be killed.”
“Should we just send armed people in, then?”
“He would escape… No, he would want to hunt. Jack’s right, I should go there. Try to understand what his first move would be…”
A sigh.
“You know, you don’t have to do this. We have many other men, surely someone will…”
“Jack won’t think anyone else capable of it. It’s, i-it’s, it’s fine. I’ll go.”
“You won’t go alone, Will. We’ll get you some undercover police officers. Just be careful.”
A nod and the conversation is over.
***
Nearly nine pm. I glance at the digital clock over the oven and sigh.
“It was nice of you to invite me to dinner,” I say to Hannibal as I watch his hands work on the meat in his frying pan.
“How could I not after learning you were going to be around? I don’t like the idea of you going clubbing with an empty stomach,” the doctor says, and I snort to contain a laugh.
“Yeah, well, hunting potential mass murderers isn’t what most people would call ‘going clubbing’.”
A smile curves Hannibal’s lips. I don’t see it, but I can hear the amusement in his voice.
“Some people might find that fun.”
“Would you?” I ask, after a pause.
He puts the pan on a turned off cooker, and raises his eyes to mine once again. I look away from his hands and meet his gaze. For a moment, at least. Then I stare at the tip of his nose.
“I would like to know you’re safe there, and with someone who can protect you hastily while in a crowd of people. No matter how many police officers will be there, I usually prefer to do this kind of job on my own.”
“Are you asking me to come along?”
Hannibal puts his pan back on the stove, and I look at his eyes as he focuses on the sautéing meat and adds some wine to it.
“I am not. I will come, whether you like it or not.”
This time, I do laugh. Just a small chuckle, but it’s enough for Hannibal to understand.
“You don’t think it’s necessary?”
“Oh, I think it’s very necessary. And that Jack doesn’t care anymore if I am a chipped teacup, but you. You do. Why?” I ask.
Hannibal doesn’t stop his cooking, but a small crease forms between his eyebrows.
“Because I have only one tea set, with little pieces in it, and I would hate to see one of them shatter on the floor of a squalid gay bar.”
His voice is serious, and I don’t ask any further questions. He turns the stove off, pulls the pan away, and put the meat on the plates, on two beds of roasted potatoes and salad, before taking a pinch from two jars of spices, sprinkling them on the food and adding a dark orange sauce.
“Sautéed roast beef with pumpkin sauce and buttered potatoes. Hope you aren’t against mixed flavours,” Hannibal says.
I take the bottle of wine he opened a while ago and left on the counter to breathe and follow him to his dining room, the table set for two. He doesn’t sit at the end of the table like usual, after placing the dishes, but in front of me. I set the bottle and unfold the napkin as I sit down, draping it over my legs.
“Bon appétit,” he states, pouring us some wine.
***
Quarter past eleven pm. The big pendulum clock lets a tinkling bell sounds reverberate in the air every fifteen minutes, beating the hours loudly, so I don’t have to look at it.
The wine bottle is empty on the table. Hannibal doesn’t have a television, but then again, neither do I. He spent most of the evening drawing, and I oscillated between watching him and trying to figure where the killer would start.
The bar doesn’t open until midnight, but soon Hannibal puts the pencil away, laying it precisely parallel to the nearby scalpel, and stands.
“I’m going to get changed,” he says, unbuttoning his blue vest.
I nod, mind elsewhere as his polished shoes tap rhythmically on the hardwood floorboards.
“Will?” he calls when he comes back, and the clock is tinkling again, calling out the start of the second half of the hour. I must have dozed off while awake, again, and I take a deep breath to replace myself in the present.
Hannibal’s suit is gone, replaced by a pair of blue jeans and a soft looking cashmere sweater, a clear hue of beige creating a nice contrast with his white shirt.
“I didn’t think you had casual clothes,” I say jokingly, and despite my tone being unchanged Hannibal chuckles.
“Of course. How would I conduct my hobbies if I always wore ties and jackets?” he asks, and I shake my head, wondering how many hobbies he had other than drawing, the opera, and fishing, of which we have talked before.
Maybe hunting, though he isn’t the kind of man who kills for fun.
“We should go,” he says before I can ask anything about it, and I nod.
I stand up, feeling my vision dance and blur at the corners. The wine, surely, but the crispy air of the February night will soon fix that.
***
We took my car, but he insisted on driving. I am feeling better, the wine would not have compromised my driving ability, but I am grateful for the long, silent minutes spent with my forehead against the cool glass of the window.
Hannibal pulls of in the small parking lot behind the bar, still mostly empty. The car’s clock says it’s barely four minutes after midnight.
The door of the driver’s seat opens and closes, and I fumble with my safety belt, unfastening it before getting off the car as well. Hannibal locks the car and hands me my keys back, which I pocket.
“You will be able to try and get in the killer’s mind, in order to find him. I will be there the whole time, be sure no one with foul intentions approaches you. Unless you are interested in them, in which case you’ll just have to say so.”
I take a moment to register Hannibal’s words. I look up at him, at his neatly shaved left cheek.
“You think I’m gay?” I ask, watching his muscles shift as he smiles.
“I think some… interpersonal physical activity might do you good. And that you don’t identify yourself as neither hetero or homosexual, because your empathy confuses any sexuality you tried to label yourself with.”
I snort, and he continues: “Besides, I think no one should label themselves. There will always be an exception that doesn’t fit in the box they put in their minds. That’s why I don’t have a label myself.”
We start to walk towards the main entrance, and I frown. It has always been clear that Hannibal is an open minded person, so the declaration isn’t a surprise. But I wonder why he decided to tell me now. Outside a gay bar we are about to enter, and spend the night within. I shake my head and pinch the bridge of my nose as he opens the door for me, the music blaring out of the heavy metal shutter.
The place isn’t crowded, and it’s small enough I will be able to see all of it from the bar, but when it will be full I may start having problems focusing on only one person at the time. Hannibal sets his hand on the small of my back, sending a message to all people in the room to leave me alone. I am grateful for that, despite the contact making me slightly uncomfortable.
We sit on the far end of the bar, on a pair of stools that watch perfectly over the door. I am already focusing on it, waiting for people to come in, and I fish my glasses from my pocket, putting them on. I don’t notice Hannibal paying drinks until I hear the glasses being put on the counter and whiskey being poured in them.
Time must pass slowly for Hannibal, who keeps sipping at his alcohol, while I stare at the door and watch men and women enter, alone or with friends or partners. I don’t bother to enter the mind of the women, most of them already holding each other’s hands, and the ones I recognize being police officers, but every single man that comes through the door is me for a moment.
When I look away from the last person to have entered, I blindly reach behind me for my glass. I feel it being pushed against my hand by Hannibal. He’s looking at me as I pull the glass to my mouth, intending to take a small sip, but soon I’m swallowing down the third large gulp, feeling Hannibal’s hand on my wrist to stop me.
“Will,” he says soothingly, and I close my eyes, turning around on the stool and taking my eyeglasses off abruptly. I hear them clatter on the floor as I leave the nearly empty glass on the counter, pressing fingers against my closed lids. When I look up, doctor Lecter is offering me my spectacles back, silently.
I don’t bother looking into his eyes to see the curiosity, maybe pity in them as I take them with a small nod.
“You should slow down a bit. It isn’t healthy to jump from mind to mind like this,” he says loud enough to be heard over the now slow music playing.
I shake my head as the song ends, and a steady beat starts to pulse from the amplifiers.
“I’m, I’m fine. Just, it’s, it’s hard to look at these men, be them, and think ‘oh, the boy dancing with his friend is cute, I want to fuck him against a wall,’ or ‘that bitch isn’t really a lesbian, she just needs my cock in her cunt’.” I feel sick as the words come out of my mouth. Hannibal doesn’t comment on them.
“And we aren’t even closer to finding our men. This is,” the thoughts of a twenty-three years old boy come back to me, as I say: “I am useless.”
“Don’t let someone else’s depression pull you down, Will. You are yourself, and you are many things, but not useless. Far from that.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, and I feel an unfamiliar scent invade my personal space as a heavy man sits on the stool next to me.
“Is the old man bothering you, cutie?” a rough voice asked, and I shudder. A glance is enough to know he’s the man who had been eyeing me since the moment he entered. It’s strange to be in someone else’s mind and lust over yourself.
“This ‘cutie’ is my boyfriend, if you don’t mind,” Hannibal says, and I look at him. Surprise must show on my face, because he smiles at me and swings one arm around my shoulders, leaning over to lay a kiss on my temple.
I close my eyes and I squeeze them, smooth lips resting over my skin for a brief moment. The man next to me snorts.
“Aren’t you a bit too old for him?”
Hannibal smirks, and I don’t dare looking at either of them. I silently reach and grab his sweater, trying to calm my breath.
“I don’t know how old you think I am, but I reckon it’s none of your business,” he said calmly.
“Well, he doesn’t seem to be having fun with you. Kept watching at the door. Waiting for someone, I reckon,” he says mockingly, and Hannibal laughs.
“So?”
The man is surprised. He was expecting an angry remark, a biting comment on his weight, not deadpan confirmation. He mumbles something, takes his glass of beer, and wobbles off the stool, walking away.
Hannibal pulls his arm away and sips again at his warm whiskey. It’s still his first fill.
“Thank you,” I say, still clutching the rod of my glasses tight in my head. I clean them on the hem of my plaid shirt, and Hannibal shakes his head.
“Not a problem, Will. I hate that kind of people.”
I nod in agreement, and for a moment I feel something foreign in Hannibal’s voice that makes me want to ask what kind of people, because maybe I got it wrong. But I don’t have time to dwell on that.
I look up at the door, and there stands a man. His posture and the way he twitches every time someone bumps into him, mixed with the way he keeps his hands in his pockets, as if ready to pull a knife out, and the way he looks around leaves few doubts. I put my hand on Hannibal’s arm, and shake it silently.
He turns around and I swallow, seeing the man look in our direction. Hannibal looks at me, and so do I.
“I am his target,” I whisper, and Hannibal probably doesn’t hear, but by the way his posture on his stool changes I know he understood. “This is his design.”
The young man approaches the bar and I tense, looking away as he sits on the stool previously occupied by the fat man.
“Hi,” he says, his voice not very deep, but still heavy. Or maybe I can hear the purpose in it because I have been in his mind.
I’m not sure how to reply, and he doesn’t seem to take it well.
“I said hi,” he repeats, gripping my wrist, and I jerk away.
“Leave him alone,” Hannibal says, threatening.
The man’s hand is still on my wrist though, other one curler around his concealed pocket knife.
“He’s with me,” Hannibal insists, standing from his stool and placing himself in front of me, placing one hand on my shoulder and letting it slowly slide to my neck. I feel his fingers linger on my neck, and once he’s sure I am not panicking, but not calm either, he lets them move higher still, and tangle in my hair carefully, soothingly. His right hand rests along his body, curled in a fist.
“He’ll betray you,” the man says to me. “He isn’t what you think. Don’t trust him, everything you know about him is wrong. You don’t deserve that, no one does.”
It’s a moment. He pulls the knife out and raises his arm to stab me in the neck.
I close my eyes as his blade flashes, and hear a wet noise. Metallic scent, warm liquid dripping on my shoulder. I look up and see that Hannibal’s right hand went to stop the blow, and he cut his palm in the process. He presses his fingers in the soft spots between the bones of the wrist in an expert manner, and the knife clutters on the floor, the sound swallowed by the music that keeps playing despite everyone is looking in our direction.
The man tries to punch Hannibal, but in the small pause he needed to understand why I am not dead the psychiatrist pulled his hand away from my hair, and proceeded to punch him first.
Soon a group of three policemen were pushing the man against the counter, bending his arms behind his back to handcuff him.
Hannibal is calmly taking some napkins from the dispenser on the counter, some of his blood dripping on the bowl of peanuts besides it. The bartender looks too shocked to pay it any attention, even less of it at Hannibal’s polite apology.
He looks at me, and I actually meet his eyes, finding them filled with concern.
“You aren’t hurt, are you?”
I try to shake my head, but my muscles don’t cooperate. I try again, and this time manage. He sighs quietly in relief, and smiles.
“Good.”
***
When we enter through the door of his house, his clock is beating the forty-fifth minute past three am. I insisted I don’t want to be a bother, and Hannibal insisted it is too late for me to drive back to Wolf Trap.
He is right. After the murdered was arrested, Jack arrived with his squad and took our and some witnesses’ statements, making us fill all the due paperwork for the arrest and case before we could go home. If anything, he seemed quite satisfied with how swiftly the case has gone by. I rejoice in the fight Alana will want to have with him.
I sit on the leather couch and sigh, rubbing my hands over my face. I am tired, and I have a terrible headache. After all, I’m grateful for Hannibal’s offer.
When I move my hands away, he is placing a glass of water on the ebony coffee table in front of me with his bandaged hand. There are a few droplets of blood from his stitches as they shift with every movement of Hannibal’s thumb, the wound right in the hollow between it and the forefinger.
“You didn’t even flinch,” I say as I realize he hadn’t even grunted in pain.
He lets go of the glass and looks at his hand, smiling. “I guess being stabbed in the knee is more painful,” he says, remembering the attack Tobias had performed against him. “Moreover, it’s hardly the first time I cut my hands. It took time to learn how to use a kitchen knife properly,” he adds in a light tone, and I snort.
“You seem the type who learns quickly,” I point out, noticing his hands are devoid of any scar.
“I quickly learnt to cook with leather gloves before trying with bare, vulnerable hands, yes,” he says as he hands me a bottle of aspirin. My headache must be very evident.
I take two pills and swallow them dry, picking the glass up and emptying it with few eager gulps.
I clutch my forehead in my free hand as I rest the glass back on the table, and I feel ready to throw up. Multiple voices and actions stumble over each other in my mind, each trying to take the upper hand; me raping that woman, me banging the boy against a wall, me slicing Abigail Hobbs’ throat open, me stabbing myself in the neck…
“Will!” Hannibal says, shaking me by the shoulder, his voice laced with concern. He must have called for me more than once.
“I walked through too many heads at once,” I say, and I can hear my voice shaking.
“In whose headspace are you in?” Hannibal inquires, and I can only shake my head.
“The gay man. Garret Jacob Hobbs. The Angel Maker. The Ripper.”
“You need to go back in your own head, Will,” the doctor says, and I squeeze my eyes tightly.
Which one is me? Which of these is the strongest personality, ready to swallow mine?
I try to find the answer, but before I can do that everything seems to slow down, and then halt all together. I shift away from the metaphysic, and return on the physic. I notice I am shaking. My forehead is damp with sweat. My blood pulses painfully against my temples. I am being held. I am warm.
I fight to open my eyes, glad of the soft light in the room. One inch more on the bright side would have started a migraine. My eyes are unfocused this up close, my glasses gone. I can only see beige, feeling soft fabric against my cheek. My arms are wrapped tightly around Hannibal just like his are around me, but I have no memory of being hugged or hugging back. My hands clench on the back of his sweater, and I gasp for breath. Have I spent all my crisis in apnea? Must have been shorter than it felt.
Once my breathing patter returns close to normal, Hannibal starts stroking my back in a soothing manner, like one would pet a dog.
“You need to return in your own head,” Hannibal repeats, and I nod, pressing my face against his chest.
“I can’t,” I say. And it’s true. I don’t feel capable of it, not alone.
There is a long pause, during which Hannibal pressed his hand back into my hair.
“Remember what I said earlier about interpersonal physical activity?” he asks, and I nod slightly, closing my eyes. “And about labels?” I nod again.
“I knew you meant sex, if that’s what you were trying to imply.”
“Seems like I was successful,” he murmurs, amused. I let myself chuckle softly.
“You managed to tell you think we should have sex, too,” I mumble against his chest, grimacing as a few hair from his jumper end up on my tongue. I pull away slightly to take them out with my finger, and feel Hannibal’s fingers take hold of my jaw.
I look up, letting myself be distracted by his eyes.
“Are you giving me permission?” he asks, and once again my muscle don’t seem to want to cooperate with me as I try to nod.
But he takes the failed attempt for good, and leans in to press his lips to mine. The familiar sensation of skin on skin contact floods into my brain, and I focus solely on that as I reach to cup Hannibal’s face, my fingers brushing along his skin, feeling the subtle hint of growing stubble over the firm jaw.
His lips start moving against mine, and I let them. I can’t really bring myself to kiss back at first, but soon Hannibal starts to bite at my bottom lip, sharp teeth causing blood to rush in the spot. I can practically feel it redden as it becomes more sensitive, and Hannibal stops this close to drawing blood. That’s when I press my lips back against his, eagerly, and I find my hands pulling at his hair.
He laughs against my mouth, and I pull back, feeling mortified. It has been a while since the last time I kissed someone like this. I have kissed Alana recently, but it wasn’t like this. Not really.
“We should move to the bedroom,” he suggests, stroking my cheek. Part of me tries to flinch away, but I pull his hand closer. I don’t even know when I took hold of his sleeve.
He stands, and I follow.
My consumed leather footwear doesn’t produce a sound as nice as Hannibal’s wooden heels, but a dull, flat replica of it. The door to his room is already open, and I look around, curious to see what kind of things Hannibal’s bedroom would let me learn about him.
There is an opened door that leads to a vast wardrobe built in the wall, I can see his suits hanging in it even with the light turned off. Another door, supposedly leading to a bathroom, stands closed on the opposite wall.
The king sized bed sits in the middle, the paintings on the walls recalling the floral motives of the craved wooden headboard, the dark blue sheets looking like silk. I don’t think I’ve ever slept on anything so fancy.
Hannibal wraps an arm around my waist and I lean in the touch, closing my eyes and turning my head up towards him. His bandaged hand is on my cheek in a soft movement, and I let myself be touched.
“I want you to focus on yourself, Will. I want you to find your centre, and get your balance back.”
“You will guide me through the process?” I ask. My tone is mocking, though I don’t intend it to be.
“Yes, if it will help you.”
I grip his sweater tightly and nod, opening my eyes as he sinks his teeth into my neck.
“I need you to be focused on the present. On this moment, on this place, on me. To find your equilibrium. You need to stop losing track of time.”
I shake my head, and I hear thudding noises. Hannibal’s feet are firmly planted on the floor. I look behind him, and the black stag is looking at me, blood dripping from one of his hind legs…
I feel myself falling. I am being pushed on the bed, and Hannibal is on top of me. Pinning my wrists down. A blue checked tie in his hands, which he uses to tie my hands together over my head.
“What are you doing?”
“No distractions, Will. I am narrowing your senses down.”
I take a deep breath, but I am starting to hyperventilate. Hannibal rests his warm hands on my chest, stroking it. The gauze on his hand feels rough against it. I look into his dark eyes as his hair falls slightly to shadow them, and despite my heart still hammering in my chest I do feel calmer.
He starts unbuttoning my shirt, and I squirm slightly for a moment before he presses his lips back to mine. That must be better than any kind of sedative I have ever tried. My brain starts releasing endorphins, and I lean back into the bed: I know exactly where I am. I feel every small movement of Hannibal’s hands against my skin: I know when I am.
He pulls my undershirt up to expose my chest, and starts kissing my neck slowly. I fight with the tie around my wrists, but the knot is secure. I ache to tangle my fingers in his hair, pull at them, push him further down. His teeth sink in my flesh, and I gasp.
“Don’t force me to blindfold you as well,” he murmurs, a deep growl close to my earlobe.
I shake my head, breathing heavily already. His lips curve against my jaw, and he does move further down. He rakes his neatly trimmed nails down my sides and I arch off the bed. Then, I blush. I wasn’t expecting this reaction, and it embarrasses me.
His mouth wanders on my chest, and his teeth graze against my nipples. They’re not particularly sensitive, but my skin covers in goose bumps at the potential danger. Sharp teeth against soft flesh. They could sink into it and tear it away from the muscle, and I wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.
Why does the thought arouse me?
“I’m going to eat you up.”
I gasp and shiver, and understand. To be consumed, every ounce of me used and almost worshipped. Garret Jacob Hobbs’ message. I squeeze my eyes close, and shake my head to try and get him out.
“Wrong, wrong, wrong,” I whisper to myself, and in a moment Hannibal’s hands are back on my face. Lips on my own. I realize I was hyperventilating again only now, that my chest stops feeling too tight.
“Apologies,” Hannibal breathes against my lips. I look at him, and he brushes some hair away from my damp forehead. He pushed his fingers in my hair, and I feel them pulling at a tangled curl, but I don’t mind. “I didn’t mean literally.”
I reach up silently, pressing my lips back to his. I don’t close my eyes, and neither does he. It doesn’t feel distracting. I have nothing else to focus on. Nothing more worthy of my attention.
He pulls back, but I press against him again. He smiles, licks my bottom lip, and I let my eyelids flutter closed.
A firm hand pushes me back by the shoulders, and Hannibal starts undoing my trousers, his fingers elegantly and expertly disposing of the worn out leather belt I’m wearing and pulling the button out of its hole. The zipper is pulled down, and he backs away long enough to take off my heavy shoes and socks. I should care that one of them has a hole in it, but I can’t think of a good reason to do so. Not when my pants are being yanked down, my underwear doing nothing to conceal a better reason to be embarrassed.
Hannibal lets my jeans fall on the floor, and looks at me as if to study me. I don’t really mind. Instead I spread my legs and part my lips, inviting him. I’m his.
He takes off his jumper and throws it in direction of the armchair besides the bed. I don’t bother checking if he gets it. I am too focused on his dishevelled hair. His eyes look darker, but I don’t dare check his state of arousal.
And then I frown, realizing. I have no idea what he’s thinking. Is he doing this just as some sort of therapy? Or is he really interested in me, in this? I try to get in his mind, his point of view, but I can’t. The way he looks at me makes me think he sees me like one of his dishes. Needing to be perfectly prepared and laid out, before being consumed.
He touches my erection, and I close my eyes, inhaling sharply through my nose.
“Will you take me?” I ask.
“If you tell me about yourself.”
I open my eyes. He’s smiling at me, and my own lips curl up.
“My name is Will Graham. I live in Wolf Trap, Virginia. I am a teacher and a consultant for the FBI. My psychiatrist is doctor Hannibal Lecter. He is making sure I know I am not a serial killer, or a psychopath. He keeps me inside my own head, and I am thankful for that. I am also very physically attracted to said psychiatrist, and would like him to fuck me hard against his silk sheets. But I would prefer him to untie my hands, so I can rip his expansive casual clothes off.”
He laughs, the sound more invasive than his usual quiet chuckles, but I don’t mind. It keeps me grounded as he reaches and pulls at his tie. “Why not? You seem to be back, after all,” Hannibal agrees, untying the tight knot.
I roll my shoulders as it comes off, and sit up. I take my shirt and undershirt off, pushing them off the bed to avoid them getting in the way as I take Hannibal by his shoulders and pull him close once more, biting on his lips hard.
I finally manage to tangle my hands in his hair, ruffling them as I suck on his tongue, just as I let it sneak in my mouth. He seems quietly surprised, if the way he squeezed my hips is any indication.
I moan and open my eyes, still kissing him. He does too, few moments later, pulling my head back gently by the hair. I groan, but it’s because I like it. I press my body against his, pushing my hips into his, but his hands still prevent our crotches from meeting. I groan again, but this time I don’t like it.
“Patience,” he murmurs against my mouth, his voice thick with his accent. I don’t care at the moment, but I do briefly wonder where he’s from.
But then he kisses me again with those full lips, and I let my hands fumble over his chest, trying to open his shirt quickly without actually ripping it. Just one of these buttons was probably worth one month of my pay check as a teacher.
I feel Hannibal’s steady fingers come up and cup my hands, guiding them in the movements. They feel small inside his grip, even as I part his shirt and start carressing his chest. I try to remind myself to ask about his hobbies again, some other time, because a psychiatrist has no right to be this firm. But my hands trail lower and I forget about my mental note as I am practically able to feel his muscles move under my fingertips.
My lips go slack against his as I get distracted by his abdominal muscles, and he pulls away to look down at my hand. I open my eyes to meet his amused gaze, and he leans back just to enjoy the gasp that leaves my lips. He then leans back forward, and pushes me back. I let him, just to feel his muscles bend again under my touch.
Hannibal starts undoing his trousers, and I lick my lips. I haven’t felt this lucid in months.
“I’m glad I’m helping,” he says, and I frown.
“Did I say that aloud?”
He pauses, and pulls away to take his jeans off. “I suppose we still have a few issues we’ll need to work on,” he says, climbing back on the bed and running his hand over my stomach.
“Whenever you want, doctor,” I murmur, looking away from his eyes but smiling.
Hannibal leans down and kisses my lips again. I start pulling his underwear down, and he does the same with my boxers. I can tell we’re both growing impatient.
“From what you told me before, I presume this isn’t the first time with a man, but I have to ask if you have ever been penetrated.”
I look at his lips and shake my head. “I haven’t, not… not in a while,” I admit.
He nods and opens the door of the bedside table, looking into the small cupboard and taking a couple of preservatives and a bottle of lubricant from the shelf.
“Silk stains,” I murmur with a giggle, running a hand over my face. “I still feel rather tipsy.”
“Strange. But the buzz of alcohol is helping your mind relax, isn’t it?” Hannibal asks in a soothing tone, to which I nod. A smile graces his lips.
He rips both the packages and rolls the condoms on. I bit my lips as his fingers linger over my skin. I am glad for the lack of foreplay though; any longer wait and I would try and push him on his back, to ride him. Wouldn’t be good neither for my muscles nor for any other part of our bodies. Hannibal looks like the kind of man ready to fight in every moment, even in bed after a misunderstanding.
I spread my legs wide, closing my eyes. I hear the bottle of lubricant being uncapped and closed again, the plastic snapping with a noise that causes me to shiver. There is a long pause, and when Hannibal touches between my legs his fingers have already warmed the lubricant up. I feel myself relax at the simple but thoughtful gesture. I am in good hands.
One finger pushes in, with little difficulty, and I sigh quietly as the doctor starts moving the finger in and out carefully. I imagine the look of concentration on his face, and I rejoice in feeling every teasing movement, seconds slowly stretching between us.
Silently, he adds another finger, pushing it firmly in one sure movement, avoiding useless hesitations. It spreads my muscles more, and feels more uncomfortable, but it’s like taking a band aid off. Better to deliver the pain all in one move, rather than let it dwell with a slow movement. Which is why I soon start rolling my hips towards him, and Hannibal inserts yet another digit.
I open my eyes and look down at him. His erection hasn’t swelled as he prepared me, and it looks longer than I am, probably just as thick. I could curl my hand around him perfectly, but I wouldn’t be able to fit him in my mouth without training.
He moves his fingers in and out, and when I feel a fourth digit start to probe at my backside I shake my head.
“It’s enough,” I murmur, eager to take him inside me before my mind starts to dwell again, but he doesn’t listen. He keeps fingering me, and lets his little finger slip inside me.
A moan escapes my lips, and for a moment I am afraid he won’t stop and will try to fit his whole hand in me.
But he does stop, after he manages to make my back draw a high arch over his mattress. He presses his fingers to my prostate a few more times, and once he’s sure to have located it, he pulls his fingers out. He pours some more lubricant on his fingers and starts adding it to the dried up one on the preservative as my chest falls and rises quickly.
He wipes his hands on his discarded boxers so he can get a firm, safe grip on my hips, and I sigh, closing my eyes.
“Will, look at me,” he says firmly, and I obey. “I want to be sure you know with who you are.”
I shake my head carefully, the aspirins and endorphins doing their jobs in calming my headache.
“I know who I am,” I insist, but he leans in to kiss me, harshly. I am sure one of my lips is bleeding by the time he pulls back.
Hannibal stares hard into my eyes as he repeats: “I want you to know who is fucking you.”
His hands on my hips suddenly feel possessive, and I can’t do anything but look at him with wide eyes and nod, digging my heels into the small of his back. He takes the hint and slowly pushes inside me. I moan, this time more deeply, and Hannibal looks at me with concentration. He doesn’t want to hurt me, and he isn’t.
I stroke his back slowly, counting the passing seconds as I hold my tongue between my teeth. I feel his muscles, and suddenly they swim under my fingers, just before I feel him moving. He is pulling back, carefully, and then slamming back in. I gasp and tilt my head back, exposing my neck. Maybe that is why Hannibal leans down and sinks his teeth in my flesh again. He likes to use his teeth, and I like him using them, especially when he’s rolling his hips like that.
His pushes are now slow and shallow, probably giving my body some more time to adjust and relieve tension from both of us.
Hannibal pulls away from my skin and starts talking, his usually soothing voice now laced with lust, his accent making some words difficult to understand, but I don’t mind.
“This is what you need, Will. Someone who will keep your feet on the ground, your soul in your flesh, your mind in your skull. I can take care of you,” he says with a deeper thrust, and I groan. “I will keep you sane.”
I nod and press my forehead against the crook of his neck, biting at the firm muscles where shoulder and neck meet. He does the same, but the way he does it feels hungry. I shudder and leave him more space to feel, to mark, to taste. He doesn’t waste time in kissing my skin or sucking marks of ownership in it. He leaves teeth marks, and I can’t help but think of the way anyone would be able to identify the owner of these marks. Unique, like fingerprints.
I try to leave a similarly unique mark on him, and I sink my nails into his back, scratching. By the way his hips jerk forwards, he likes it quite a lot. Enough for me to try again, and elicit the same response. I roll my hips against his, and feel Hannibal’s teeth take hold of the side of my neck. Like a wolf ready to rip his enemy’s throat open.
His teeth there do nothing to stop the loud moan that leaves my mouth without my permission. The pressure on my veins is starting to become too much, but it only fuels my arousal. I feel myself get closer and closer, and my movements become erratic.
At the same time, Hannibal starts moving faster and squeezing my hipbones harder in his hands, leaving deep nail marks in the tender skin, and invisible bruises that tomorrow will remind me of this act in its minimum details.
I try to speak to warn him of my imminent orgasm, but Hannibal seems to know already. He lets go of my throat and pulls back, my whine of disappointment turning into a deep moan as I see my blood smeared on his lips. I pull Hannibal close and kiss him deeply, tasting my blood on his teeth as they scrap my tongue, and at the same time I feel his hand wrap around my own erection.
The preservative sticks perfectly against my skin as he starts masturbating me with quick movements, and I feel my muscles clamp down around his erection. My mouth stops against his again as I let out a deep moan, and Hannibal ducks his head to lap at the blood threatening to drip from a small cut among his other teeth marks, which haven’t pierced my skin.
And as he sucks gently on the wound, I feel my body trying to fold on himself. I try to curl on myself defensively as my orgasm makes me tremble, but Hannibal’s body against mine barely lets me arch, pressing me down with his weight as he kept pounding at me. I press my nails in his back one last time, hips jerking quickly against his rising pace, which I soon feel slowing down, just as my body was becoming too sensitive for my prostate to keep being stimulated.
Hannibal’s own muscles seem to be quivering, spasming occasionally as he presses his body against mine. He is breathing as heavily as I am, and when he looks up at me I feel a smile tug at my lips.
“So, next Wednesday?” I ask, my voice rasping against my raw throat.
“I think an appointment twice a week would be better for this kind of therapy. Wednesday and Friday?” he suggests, and I chuckle at his own rough voice.
I raise my hand and push his hair back from his face, leaning in to kiss his lips again, calmly.
“Sounds like a plan,” I murmur against them, and I feel him smile.
He rolls off of me and pulls out carefully, taking both of our condoms off and tying their ends in a neat knot, before moving to the bathroom. I hear the lid of a waste basket open and close, then water running in the sink. When he returns, Hannibal is holding two towels. One he hands to me, and one he uses to wipe the lubricant from between my legs. The other I use for my sweat, like he must have done moments ago.
But my limbs feel heavy, and I soon sigh and hand it back, wanting nothing more than rest.
He puts both towels on the bedside table and nudges me off the bed, pulling the covers back before allowing me to climb back on the mattress, my shaky legs grateful for the short use I made of them, my skin hot against the cool silk.
Hannibal pulls me close, and I don’t protest even as he starts running his fingertips on the bite mark on my neck. I quite like it, in all honesty.
“If you want to apologize about that, don’t,” I say as I hear his intake of breath, but he chuckles quietly, and I feel his smiling lips brush against my ear.
“I was about to point out that you didn’t take my suggestion of a finer aftershave.”