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A chart that may be useful to you while you're reading, featuring the shoes that Hannibal is wearing, Berluti Equilibre Leather Oxford, $2,560

The rest of the guests that attended Hannibal’s dinner party have already left when Hannibal stops Will at the door while he’s shrugging into his coat, prepared to follow them. He peers into the dark at the buffeting snow across the covered street and the dancing flakes that swirl around the streetlamps in golden halos, and says with a warm smile of hospitality, “Stay awhile longer.”

The suggestion surprises then quietly thrills Will. He only attended the party because he likes Hannibal, and the entire evening has been a test of his social graces. He should be tired, desperate for the solace of Wolf Trap, but the enchanting prospect of spending time with Hannibal, uninterrupted by pesky guests and unburdened by matters of the FBI is magnetizing – magnetizing enough to divest him of any desire to say no.

Before Will can scrounge up the motivation to resist out of politeness, Hannibal helps him out of his coat, fingers sliding smoothly under the lapels to slip it away and disappear it into a nearby closet.

“Okay,” Will agrees with a half-nervous, half-exhilarated laugh, and Hannibal draws him back into the elegant, dimly-lit walls of his home, the door shut upon anyone but themselves.

This is how Will finds himself in Hannibal’s living room at half past midnight, sitting in the left of two leather chairs before a crackling fire, a glass of high-end bourbon in his hand which Hannibal handed with almost a wink and a sly smile. “I know you prefer liquor over wine,” he said, and Will felt unusually flustered by the observation, by Hannibal’s attention to his wants and desires.

But the bourbon has done its work now, loosened his limbs and his nerves – loosened his tongue. Words come easier in the dark and the firelight with only Hannibal’s ear to hear them. Will dances at the edges, and Hannibal lures him in, the way he lured him back in at the door into the belly of his home. The conversation remains banal and innocent for only a time before the darker, more illicit nature of their worlds seeps into their exchange, ushered along by the smooth, double-aged sweetness of the drink. Not soon after, Hannibal’s inclination to pry presents itself. 

He plucks delicately at a former thread of conversation, one that occurred under the guise of therapy. “You said you led an isolated childhood. Spates of new homes and new schools. In your isolation, did you feel different from the other children? Their interests? Their behavior?”

“Trying to psychoanalyze me again, doctor?” Will asks with a chuckle, taking a sip of the bourbon.

“I’m only curious about you,” Hannibal replies. “My own childhood was one of isolation, and I felt my difference keenly.”

The offering of camaraderie is as smooth as the bourbon, but Will cannot help but feel compelled. They’ve done this before, quid pro quo, and the possibility of knowing more about Hannibal in return is compelling.

“They weren’t interested in my ideas about make believe, that’s for sure,” Will says. “I didn’t want to play house. I wanted to dig up bugs and study the time it took for a skunk to decay after I peeled him off the road and took him home.”

“An inclination towards the morbid even then.”

“Yeah, uh, my dad wasn’t very happy about the skunk either,” Will laughs, swirling the bourbon in his glass and watching it slosh.

“He wasn’t pleased with you often.”

The statement jolts Will with unexpected, painful accuracy, and he glances up quickly to meet Hannibal’s discerning gaze. He blinks, trying to regroup and meet Hannibal’s perception as casually as possible. “He didn’t understand, I mean, he tried his best, you know? But it just got worse the older I got. I hit eleven years old, and I just… Maybe, I remember it this way because of puberty, but I felt like a foreign creature to him.”

“Maturation is transformation,” Hannibal comments. “We begin to discover ourselves beyond our parent’s scope of knowing and caring for us, learning to want and pursue that which stimulates us.”

Will takes a rough sip of bourbon and sets the glass down with a cynical laugh. “I don’t think he or I liked what I learned to want.”

Hannibal falls silent again, and Will feels the searing consequences of his words only a moment later in the harrowing intensity of Hannibal’s eyes. He grits his teeth. He didn’t fully consider how much further he can strip himself until he’s exposed down to the bone when he allowed the self-loathing comment to fall from his lips.

“What did you learn?” Hannibal finally asks, and Will looks away again, humiliation already suffocating him like a blanket over his face.

He could lie or simply refuse to further the conversation, but he imagines that Hannibal would only allow him retreat for a time, and the admission is already heavy on his tongue, searching for the relief of freedom even as his stomach turns with dread.

“There was one incident I remember… I had gotten this video tape from the library, used my dad’s card to get past age verification,” Will begins in a whisper, “and I took it home. It was some B horror movie with a lot of sex in it. Not just sex, but some really depraved stuff… Torture, experimentation…”  

He pauses, finding himself in the middle of the humiliating part of the story and hot in the face. He’s grateful for the low, golden light of the fire masking what would have been an obscene flush otherwise.

“There was this one part…” He breathes out unsteadily, searching for any scrap of fortitude or nonchalance. “I’d replay over and over again where this, um, dominatrix, I guess, came out. She had on these, um, these thigh high, lace-up boots, and the camera, it would follow her feet, down the stairs, before you even saw her face, you know… She was just the shoes, stepping on this guy’s genitals.” 

He stops again, his ears throbbing, a twisted stir in his belly that comes simply from thinking of it — and he feels the shame rush over him, familiar in its embrace. He’s revealed too much, miscalculated in the hypnosis of liquor and Hannibal’s presence, and a low-rising panic clutches at his throat. He can feel Hannibal watching him carefully, and he castigates himself. Hannibal isn’t forcing Will to tell him anything, and that’s worse than Hannibal’s invasive questions because Will can’t claim that spilling the story is anything but his own choice.

He rushes on towards the conclusion of the recollection, hoping to bury the embarrassment in the far less arousing topic of his father’s disappointment. “Anyways, I was an idiot, and I didn’t return it on time so my dad found out when the librarian notified him of the fine. He was… not thrilled, to say the least.”

“And at most?” Hannibal asks, smearing away any Will’s attempt at levity.

Will frowns, swallowing against another turn of his queasy stomach. “It’s one of the only times he ever hit me.” He takes a quick hit of the bourbon to anesthetize the memory of his father’s fingers digging into his arm as he laid into him, but it only makes his eyes sting harder.

Hannibal is quiet for another moment before he says, “Despite what polite society would have us think, proclivities towards certain things may develop in children from an early age. Even those deemed depraved.”

“It wasn’t the violence,” Will says sharply. “I was a stupid kid who saw something he shouldn’t have and got excited like any twelve year old does the first time he sees porn.”

“Naturally,” Hannibal murmurs, his voice soft. The affirmation settles warm in Will’s belly, clutching his spine in a shiver. Hannibal is looking back at him without judgment, his head tilted attentively, and Will suddenly feels like they’re in therapy again rather than sharing a drink in Hannibal’s living room as friends.

“You really can’t stop psychoanalyzing me, can you?” he asks, but the accusation has already been declawed by the shame percolating in Will’s stomach.

Hannibal smiles. “Is this psychoanalysis?”

“I don’t know, Dr. Lecter, you tell me. Pretty Freudian of you, asking about foundational sexual experiences.”

“What do you believe that it would tell me?” Hannibal asks, his head cocking a centimeter further. “What could I intuit about you now from this experience when you were a boy?”

Will swallows roughly, struggling to hold Hannibal’s gaze. When he fails, his eyes have nowhere to fall but to Hannibal’s feet. He has one leg crossed, the pant leg riding slightly higher from the position to reveal the bone structure of his ankle underneath a wine-colored sock. In the firelight, the chestnut leather of the Oxfords gleams bright. Genuine leather. Probably Italian. Maybe even custom-made. Hand-made, at the very least. Hannibal wouldn’t settle for anything less than the finest.

Will tears his eyes away, trying to re-center himself in his cynicism.

“You might be tempted to think I carried on with this, uh… fascination.” Will licks his lips and smiles sharply, a defense against the vulnerability flaying him open.

It’s not true, he tells himself. He hasn’t carried on with anything. He’s never consciously sought out a woman with these predilections. He doesn’t secretly hoard shoes or privately prance around in lady’s heels. He’s never put his dick into a boot and jerked off. As with most things he’s ever been ashamed of enjoying, he’s pushed it to the back of his mind and berated himself when the thing slips out again. Now, it’s slipping out in front of Hannibal, and a cold drop of panic splashes into the hot pool of arousal gathering in his stomach.

“Have you?” Hannibal asks without blinking.

A laugh barks out of Will’s throat, overly loud and defensive. “No,” he scoffs even as humiliation burns him down to his collar and through his midsection, sending waves of heat crashing over him. “No, of course not.”

“Why does that seem so preposterous to you?” Hannibal asks, his smile twitching wider as though he is amused by Will’s contrived chagrin.

“Oh, so you believe in Freud, after all?”

“I believe as any good psychiatrist does that experiences in life have the ability to mold and change us. Your young age and the taboo nature of the acts being depicted left you impressionable to the intended effects of such videos.”

“Innocence corrupted and all that?” Will asks, stridently. “Sounds more like a smut novel than psychiatry.”

“Do fetishes strike you as inherently deviant?”

“I’ve seen enough go wrong.”

Hannibal pauses the barrage of interrogation, studying Will with a slow lick of his lips. He takes a sip of his wine and considers the twirling liquid in the bulb of glinting glass. Will feels no less at ease for it, however; he’s been in therapy long enough to know that when Hannibal is quiet, he is not finished with the conversation – only thinking and strategizing. The vice around his throat tightens when Hannibal eyes him again.

“Imagine for a moment, if you might, how you would feel if someone indulged you in this ‘fascination,’” Hannibal says, smiling when he borrows Will’s terminology.

Will huffs. “Close my eyes and visualize a sexual scenario in front of my therapist? Isn’t that bordering a little on the side of inappropriate?”

“If it causes you mental distress, shouldn’t I, as your therapist, be inclined to treat it?” Hannibal asks, his voice smooth and calm, seemingly unaffected by the idea. Suddenly, for a reason that Will doesn’t want to acknowledge, Hannibal being unaffected by his salacious desires makes him blanch where only a moment ago he wished the conversation had never begun.

“Indulge me for a moment, if you would, Will. Put your drink down and close your eyes,” Hannibal urges, motioning towards the side table.

The word “indulge” in the context of the situation brings more to mind than heeding Hannibal’s instructions, and Will puts the drink down if only as an excuse to look away from Hannibal and hide the way his phrasing is turning Will’s stomach into quivering jelly.

Sitting back, he grips the arms of the chair in his hands. The wood grain feels slick under his sweating palms. His breaths are slightly constricted, and he wants to move into a different position because he can feel the seedling of arousal sprouting between his thighs, and the only thing more embarrassing than explaining his repressed sexual desires to his therapist would be popping a boner in front of him. Moving now or crossing his legs, however, would be far more obvious than the current low thrum of his dick. He can only hope that it doesn’t get any worse. Trying to calm his breaths, he closes his eyes at Hannibal’s request.

“Good,” Hannibal says, his tone low and soothing with approval that makes Will blush all over again. “Now, imagine for me that a partner of your choosing is allowing you to explore these desires without judgment, without need for clarification… They know you intimately, and you do not feel ashamed in their presence. You are safe. Imagine it and tell me… what would you do?”

Will grips the arms of the chair harder as he follows Hannibal’s voice. He wants to believe that it is only because he is already in his presence that he sees Hannibal behind his eyes too, but he feels helpless to the urge to imagine this very room and Hannibal in that chair with Will at his feet. How regal and beautiful and severe Hannibal would look in the firelight, gazing down at Will with his sculpted face, honeyed eyes, and full, curving lips. How gentle yet commanding he would be, stroking Will’s hair as he guides Will’s mouth down his crossed leg to his raised foot. How warm his skin will be through the sock, the leather smooth against Will’s lips, the scent musky and rich. When he presses his tongue against the curve at the inside of the Oxford, it tastes slightly of polish but mostly of the leather — the hide of a beast stretched, scraped, treated, conditioned and finished into this work of art that is meant to cradle and elevate a part of the human body that is so often only regarded with disgust and revulsion. Will can hardly imagine harboring such feelings towards what must lie beneath Hannibal’s shoe.

“What do you see?” Hannibal’s voice whispers, causing the fragile fantasy to quiver and shatter, startling Will into keen awareness of reality again. He can hear his own breaths, rough and shaky, and the pulse of arousal in his groin that was almost indiscernible before he closed his eyes is swelling to life.

He tears his eyes open with a jolt, sitting up quickly and scrubbing his hands over his face. He leans his elbows on his knees, hoping to mask the evidence of his blatant erection and the bloom of humiliation on his cheeks.

“This isn’t working,” he whispers, his voice jagged with mortification.

“What did you see?” Hannibal repeats.

“Why does this even matter?” Will asks, scraping his hands away from his face to send Hannibal a glare that barely covers the high-pitched desperation reaching a crescendo in his chest. “This was a long time ago. I don’t even think about it anymore! I d-don’t go to bed every night and jerk off to fantasies of kissing some woman’s shoe!” He throws out a hand in emphasis, aware even as he does it, that it only makes him look more defensive and irrational. “I was a stupid, fucking kid” he reasserts anyway, “and that’s it!”

Hannibal accepts the desperate rant without comment or interruption, his expression placid, and Will runs out of breath and ire before he can conjure a response in him. The outburst leaves Will’s face throbbing, and he presses his forehead into his hands, blinking against a harsh rise of panicked tears. It’s ridiculous, he thinks, crying over something like this when he simply could’ve refused to participate in the exercise.

Finally, he hears Hannibal’s glass clink against the side table as he sets it down then the rustle of fabric and soft creak of the chair as Hannibal stands. Will’s throat tightens as Hannibal comes to him, and he sees the Oxfords stop right in front of him. The bright high points of the toe caps gleam back at him like two discerning eyes.

Hannibal sighs quietly and lowers himself to Will’s level on one knee. “Will,” he says softly. His large, warm palms smooth up Will’s bare forearms, fingers wrapping around Will’s wrists to draw his hands away from his face. Will surrenders, but doesn’t lift his head, his nerve endings sparking as Hannibal continues to hold his arms, his thumbs massaging gently. He doesn’t think Hannibal has ever touched him so intimately or for such a long period of time, and the sensation immobilizes him.

“You have always been honest with me,” Hannibal says. “What about this situation alters your trust in my abilities to help you?”

Will wants to pull his hands away in humiliation, but he doesn’t. Hannibal’s touch feels too good, too calming despite the novelty of it. “It’s not about you,” he says — perhaps, the biggest lie of all.

“Despite what society might lead you to believe, or even your studies in criminal psychology might tell you, sexual desires of this nature do not point to an inherent deviancy.” One set of Hannibal’s fingers slips away from Will’s wrist to dip beneath Will’s chin, and Will’s stomach clenches and shivers, but he lets Hannibal guide his face upwards to join their gazes again. Hannibal’s expression holds no more judgment than it did minutes ago although Will is certain Hannibal saw his erection.

“You should not feel that you must hide this part of yourself or flagellate yourself for it,” Hannibal continues softly. “I believe it would only help you if you told me what you saw. Often, speaking a thing aloud does a great deal to dispel the fear of it.”

Will swallows hard, his pulse fluttering all over again. The desire to blurt it out rests heavy on his tongue despite his embarrassment.  “I…” he begins huskily, but the anticipation of explaining the fantasy causes him to turn his head away again. Looking into Hannibal’s eyes when he confesses is an ordeal he isn’t sure he can weather. Mercifully, Hannibal lets Will’s chin slip from his grasp.

“Can you just, uh… sit back down?” Will asks, staring off at a painting on the wall. “I’ll tell you, I just…”

Hannibal nods in his peripheral and pats Will’s arm. “I will be wherever you need me.”

Will closes his eyes, heat flaring through him at Hannibal’s words. Perhaps Hannibal will rescind the reassurance once Will tells him what he imagined.

When Hannibal settles in his chair again, resuming the same posture as before, Will breathes out against a tide of arousal. He keeps his elbows on his knees, unwilling to straighten and display himself further.

Hannibal waits, as patient as ever, and Will clears his throat in the silence, takes in another unsteady inhale. He stares down at the floor, attempting to construct words around the images in his head that will be honest but as vague as possible.

“I was, um, still in this room,” he says at last, his throat raw. The admission is met with more silence, but he can’t look up. “I don’t really feel… ‘safe’ with a lot of people or unashamed like you wanted me to imagine…”

More silence.

Will presses eyes shut and clasps his fingers together to rest his forehead against his knuckles. He prays Hannibal will have mercy on him, say that he understands and that he is not offended but that their relationship is professional, that Will should seek this out with someone else.

“You understand me,” he pushes out, his voice choked. “So… you’re really the only person I could imagine.”

His stomach is turning with nauseous anxiety, and he thinks that he should’ve burst into flames along with the wood in the fireplace long ago for the way that humiliation burns him. Instead, he remains in the chair under Hannibal’s scrutiny with what should’ve been a very private fantasy exposed.

“Will you fucking say something?” he whispers sharply, at last, but it’s more pleading than angry.

For a moment, Hannibal still doesn’t speak and Will thinks of getting up and running from the room, but then Hannibal says, very calmly, “I want you to come to me.”

Will lifts his head, his pulse kicking into a percussive rhythm, drumming against his ribs. Hannibal hasn’t moved. The only indication that anything has changed is an undefinable darkening of his gaze which glints in the flicker of the fire.

“What?” Will hears himself whisper.

“Come here,” Hannibal repeats, unflinching. If not for the movement of his mouth, he could have been a statue.

Will swallows again, but the obstruction in his throat won’t go down. Faintly, he hears his pulse in his ears, and he can see himself down on his knees again, only this time, it won’t simply be a flight of imagination.

“Why?” he asks, a tremble in the huskiness of the question.

“Because I’d like to resolve this… And because I want you to.”

Will’s stomach trembles again, arousal seizing his groin at the statement – the naked intention and perhaps, desire in Hannibal’s words. Will has been clinging to the assurance that Hannibal will draw the line at this particular boundary, and without this assurance, he realizes that there is nothing stopping him.

They stare at each other for a few more weighted seconds.

“All right,” Will says, at last, his voice quiet and raspy.

His hands hold a quiver as he rubs his palms over his knees and stands up slowly. The front of his pants are beginning to tent, but Hannibal doesn’t spare a glance towards it. He watches Will’s face as Will takes a few halting steps towards him.

“Where do you…?” Will begins, his eyes darting, his fingers fidgeting at his sides.

Hannibal unfolds his legs, opening a broad space between his knees. The posture is unfamiliar on Hannibal’s body but not ungainly or unattractive by any means, and Will thinks again of darting from the room. He could simply leave now and make a joke of it at their next official therapy appointment where the professional space of Hannibal’s office might act as a buffer for Will’s churning thoughts. He could blame his concupiscence on too much whiskey and pretend to swear off the stuff for good. He could…

“Here,” Hannibal directs, gesturing with one hand to the floor in front of him, and instead of moving towards the door, Will steps closer to Hannibal, his legs all but shivering and ushering him to the ground. His pulse throttles him as he sinks awkwardly in front of Hannibal, squatting then settling unsteadily on his heels.

With Will’s obedience secured, Hannibal’s face softens for the first time since Will laughed off the insinuation of his obsession with shoes. A smile tilts Hannibal’s mouth, warm pleasure crinkling the corners of his eyes, and Will’s heart stutters. Inexplicably, he feels his own lips curling hesitantly as his entire midsection flutters and dances.

“Now what?” he whispers with a nervous but genuine laugh.

Hannibal’s smile broadens incrementally. “Now, you do as you imagined.”

Will bites at the delight tugging at his mouth and glances away with a flush. “God,” he laughs, embarrassed all over again but not in a wholly unpleasant way. Despite the unconventional nature of what they’re doing, the truth remains that Hannibal does make him feel understood and unashamed about desires that typically would have warranted him the world’s disapproval. Thus far, Hannibal has not judged him. In some situations, like tonight, he has not only accepted Will’s desires but reciprocated them as well.

Will glances down at Hannibal’s foot to his left, the leather and warmth of skin underneath so close to his fingers. It would be hardly any effort at all to reach out and stroke the smooth, slightly pointed toe of the shoe. He inhales shakily, another flutter of nerves disturbing his stomach and chasing the last of the merriment from his mouth as he realizes that he feels woefully unprepared to boldly put physical action behind the images in his mind that come so easily when nothing is required of him but to let his lids slip shut.

Save for a scattered few instances of fucking a woman with her shoes still on – more often a consequence of neither of them being fully undressed than an intentional addition to the sex – he’s never allowed this ‘fascination’ to infiltrate in his life. The memory has become a video tape inside a video tape in his mind that he slots in when he is alone rather than an actual experience. Almost as though it didn’t even happen to him but someone else. A terribly naive but troubled young man who’d just begun to learn how to suppress the darker urges that followed him into his bed at night. Sitting at Hannibal’s feet, he feels certain to a terrifying degree that he wants this to happen to this version of himself with this man.

“How do I…?” he asks in a whisper.

“Perhaps, it would help if you closed your eyes again and began from there,” Hannibal suggests. Despite a lack of true evidence for Hannibal’s qualifications in helping Will in this department, the sound of his voice, tranquil and confident in navigating this unexplored territory, mollifies the racing of Will’s thoughts and anxieties.

Will can’t look up at him, but he blows out the breath he was holding and nods. His lashes flicker shut, uncertain at first. With the reality of Hannibal’s shoe being under his mouth in the following minutes, settling into the fantasy again takes more effort than it did the first time. His body flares hot in proximity to Hannibal, distracted by the fact that by sitting at Hannibal’s feet, he’s already acted out half the fantasy; but Hannibal’s direction is the only stable signpost in the foreign landscape of desire, and he does his best to obey.

He plays back the moment he had imagined only a few minutes ago and watches himself kneel at Hannibal’s feet. His breath wobbles out when Hannibal’s hand on the head of his fantasy self is added to his corporeal position, and arousal tugs him deeper, to trail his mouth along the line of Hannibal’s shin, until the feel, taste, smell, and longing shroud his mind again. He clenches his eyes shut harder, reaching for the moment he imagined when his mouth arrived at the silky, shiny Oxford. When he clutches hold of the fragrant leather under his lips, his cock aches anew.

He’s sure his hands are shaking, but he uncurls his fingers and reaches out. His fingers brush against the hem of Hannibal’s pant leg and skim lower down the slope of Hannibal’s ankle to the lip of his shoe. The first touch sends a shiver skittering back up his arm, bursting a plume of exhilaration in his chest. The tiny, neat stitching feels like silk under his hand, and he lets his fingers glide over the taut laces. His thumb trails behind, stroking over the lip again before following the rest of his hand towards the toe. He swallows convulsively as his palm settles and the shoe perfectly fills the hollow of his hand. It’s warm from their proximity to the fire and from Hannibal’s body heat underneath and as soft as Will had imagined – no, softer, conditioned and shined to pristine velvet.

The release of decades long repression makes him go light-headed, and he hears himself involuntarily breathe out a pleasured sigh, soft and lusty, lighting his cheeks to flame again. His fingers tighten over Hannibal’s shoe, and he ducks his head further, pressing his lips together to catch any other embarrassing noises. He feels himself sway in the dizzy arousal, and his crown bumps against Hannibal’s knee. The bone underneath feels like a fortress, and Will sinks closer, resting his forehead fully against Hannibal’s leg. In any other situation, he might’ve found the act too forward or too intimate, but at the moment, Hannibal’s knee feels like the only thing keeping him from crumbling to the ground.

He tries to catch his balance in the lapping waves of tingling arousal, clenching his thighs together and holding back a moan as his cock twitches against the prison of cotton, entirely hard. He wants to go on, but for a moment, he can’t move, overcome as he is by the immensity of his desire and the fulfillment produced by the minuscule foray into indulgence.

Hannibal shifts ever so slightly, then Will feels his fingers carding gently through his curls, gliding from his temple to the back of his head. The caress brings with it a prickling wash of shivers that sluices down his skull and spine, and a groan rushes up his throat at Hannibal’s intuitive participation in his fantasy and the indescribable pleasure of the simple, gentle touch.

“Hannibal…” The syllables spill off his tongue, breathless and precarious with pleading.

“Take your time,” Hannibal says softly.

Will squeezes his eyes tight. His cock is throbbing, and he wants to fumble with the button and zipper. His unoccupied hand grips his thigh, fingers digging into fat and muscle, as he grapples with how good it would feel to free and stroke himself.

“Will,” Hannibal murmurs above him, and Will feels him bend closer, fingers gently curling around strands of hair.

“Yeah?” Will grits out, feeling his face flushing. He’s barely done anything but lay his hand on Hannibal’s Oxford, and he is so unbearably hard that he feels like that teenage boy again, unable to resist touching himself.

“You are still repressing yourself,” Hannibal points out, his thumb petting at Will’s pulsing temple. “I can feel your desire, yet I see no action.”

“You want me to just do whatever comes into my head?”

“Ideally without self-loathing ruminations.”

“Even if it’s jerking off on your fancy shoes?” Will asks with a choked laugh. “What’d they cost you, doctor? A solid 1k, I bet. Maybe two.”

Hannibal doesn’t reply, but Will feels his reaction in the stilling of his hand and the almost indiscernible tightening of his fingers. His hasty, sardonic delivery of the demand echoes weakly in his ears as the extent of Hannibal’s commitment to this impromptu therapy session settles into his stomach, smothering any chance at humor that may have remained along with the air in his lungs. This isn’t just going to be a kiss or a long lick to the top of Hannibal’s foot.

Will cracks his eyes open, breathless and exhilarated to a terrifying degree at the possibility of Hannibal being as aroused as he is, that he wishes to dash away the boundaries between doctor and patient until there is no question that his foot filling the shoe is integral to Will’s pleasure. Will tilts his head just enough to peer up at Hannibal’s face, finding his expression masked in the same immovable darkness as before.

“I wanted you to imagine a partner who indulged you fully, did I not?” Hannibal says, at last, his head tilting. His eyes are reflective, black discs in the firelight, hungry and hypnotic. Will stares at him, certain that at some point, his heart will simply stop.

“Are you serious?” he whispers.

“I am serious about seeing to your comfort.” Hannibal’s voice is even and calm, professional, like he hasn’t just implied that Will should masturbate in front of him. On him. Will can’t speak watching Hannibal sit back in the chair.

“First, I’d like you to continue with what you fantasized. You may touch yourself but do not orgasm until you’ve done all that you desired.”

Will’s head swims again in the current of arousal at Hannibal’s sudden, blatant instruction of his sexual pleasure, the way it flows from his lips without hesitation or shame. He’s aware that his palm is already sweating against Hannibal’s shoe, and he feels his lips tremble open to speak without the sound arriving. The ridiculous impulse to say ‘yes, sir’ flirts with his tongue, but he swallows it and manages a rough, “Okay.”

Hannibal’s rigid, authoritarian countenance eases again. A curl at the corner of his mouth breaks through with suffusing warmth, reassuring Will with another measure of relief. Will’s mouth twitches weakly, and Hannibal seems pleased by that. “Good,” he murmurs and gestures towards his feet and Will’s lower body. “Please, go on.”

Will can’t reply verbally again. He can only nod.

His hands tremble as he peels his palm away from Hannibal’s shoe in order to open his belt buckle. Fiery heat swallows him as he tugs it open with his head bent sharply. The idea of Hannibal watching him touch himself while he salivates over a shoe no less drives the humiliation deeper inside him, yet the longing, nursed by Hannibal’s approval, threatens to overshadow it, incentivizing him to unbutton and unzip his pants in harried tugs until he can push his hand beneath the waistband of his boxers.

He hesitates for a single moment before he wraps his fingers around his hot, pulsating cock. Immediate pleasure scores the length of his flesh, and he moans, rocking into Hannibal’s knee again. The elastic strains around his knuckles as he gives himself a jagged stroke, and the head pops out, swollen, flushed, and gleaming.

“Fuck…” he pants quietly, battling the urge to rub himself off quick and desperate. He squeezes at the base of his cock and coaxes himself away from the crazed lapse of impulse control that would’ve had him spilling over his fist in moments. Hannibal didn’t say it outright, but Will is viscerally aware that if he cums now, the session will be over. He will have failed to complete the exercise and accomplished little besides revealing just how deeply buried and severe this obsession truly is – to Hannibal and to himself.

Biting at his lip, he eases his touch and reaches out his opposite hand to touch Hannibal’s Oxford again with his eyes tightly shut. He strokes the sides, rubbing his thumb into the warm dip of the welting at the inside of Hannibal’s foot, and hesitantly follows the stitching of the throat with a quivering middle finger. A whine presses against his teeth, and he pushes his face into the inside of Hannibal’s thigh as he fondles the tip of his cock in the palm of his hand, smearing pre-cum from the leaking slit. Trying to keep a light hand, he draws his way to the heel of the shoe, letting the pad of his finger drift upwards to the topline and the tension of Hannibal’s Achilles tendon. At the touch to his skin, Hannibal does not flinch or move or scold him, and Will exhales another quiet sound of need, dragging his index along the mouth of the shoe again to find the teasing jut of the tongue.

He caresses his thumb over the facings and straight lacing, marveling at the feather softness against the stiff bands pulled taut through the tiny, smooth eyelets. He wants to tug them open and splay the lips apart to rub his fingers over the tongue of the shoe that is tucked away and hidden, nestled tight against Hannibal’s body heat, but the damned, expensive style thwarts him with the closed lacing system. He’s forced to settle with grinding his thumb against the impeccable, tight line of the facings kissing one another – a pleasure he can only bear for so long before his mouth aches and waters for a chance to explore and taste.

Dragging his forehead down against Hannibal’s leg, he opens his eyes to stare at Hannibal’s foot, his lips shivering at the thought of bending himself down to kiss the glossy toe.

“No ruminations,” Hannibal murmurs from above. He was so quiet and still while Will momentarily lost himself that the sound of his voice again makes Will’s breath catch with a start.

“Yes–” He cuts himself off just before ‘sir’ comes off his tongue. The result is a choked, stilted agreement that is very obviously missing its honorary, and Will blushes again.

He pets the facings and the toe cap again in longer strokes to allay Hannibal’s reprimand and his own humiliation while he gathers the courage and confidence to bend himself to the floor. Palming his cock and loosely circling his throbbing flesh, he jerks himself a few easy times in tandem with his hand on Hannibal’s shoe. The rush of pleasure soothes the burn of humiliation and eats away at his inhibitions just as he hoped it would, and he shivers as the future climax tightens in his belly.

With a low moan, he opens his eyes again and gazes down at the Oxford gleaming in the firelight, the elegant, sleek shape, the finish darkened to smooth chocolate at the stitches and the tip of the toe. Longing gathers on his tongue, and he lets out another unsteady breath. He allows himself only a few more strokes to his dick before he releases himself and presses his perspiring palms to the floor.

Rising on his hands and knees, he shifts back, his lungs pressed taut against his chest wall as he positions himself to bring his mouth directly to the shoe when he bends again. The movement makes his pants slip lower around his hips, and the straining of his bobbing cock bunches his boxers at the base. When he glances down, he can see the tip glowing red in the firelight, a translucent string of pre-cum clinging to his flesh.

“Fuck… What if I–” he begins to ask, having forgotten his embarrassment again in favor of the lust gripping his body, but the sound of his own rough voice brings him back.

“Yes?” Hannibal prods, his tone as cool as when they’d begun.

“I mean…” Will chokes out, pressing his eyes shut. “If I can’t… hold on.”

Hannibal is quiet for a moment, and Will’s heart rushes into a shallow sprint with the fear that Hannibal did not understand his meaning and that he might have to repeat himself more clearly – in more detail. Then, the chair creaks softly as Hannibal sits forward again, and Will feels his hand dip down beneath his jaw a second time.

“Open your eyes,” Hannibal orders.

“Hannibal…” Will barely whispers out the protest – the plea.

“Open them now, please.”

Stifling a curse, Will submits, sitting back on his heels and forcing his eyes open, his cheeks flaring bright. Hannibal is sitting forward, and his face is still relatively placid, but Will can see the desire stirring in his gaze. He recognizes it only because he has never seen it before, and he cannot explain the look with anything but his own position at Hannibal’s feet. A flash of heat grips his whole body, and he strains to hold Hannibal’s gaze as Hannibal strokes his chin.

“You will,” Hannibal says, as confident and autocratic as he was when he first began to direct Will’s pleasure. Between his thighs, Will’s half-clothed cock pulses, prepared to betray him even as Hannibal looks him in the eye and forbids it.

“I just…” Will’s eyes dart away in embarrassment.

“You can,” Hannibal repeats more firmly, tugging at Will’s chin into place again. “You will.”

Will looks back at him helplessly. “It hurts,” he admits, his voice strangled by humiliation and arousal.

Hannibal's gaze softens and darkens at once, and Will sees his nostrils flare. “I’m aware of the state of your erection, Will,” he says finally, enviously composed. “But why are you at my feet? To simply have an orgasm as you could do any night or to allow yourself to explore a previously repressed desire?”

Will swallows roughly. “The last one.”

Hannibal nods and passes his thumb over the stubble on Will’s chin again, his eyes falling lower towards Will’s mouth. “Good,” he murmurs. “Now, please proceed.”

He lets go of Will’s face and gives an encouraging dip of his chin towards the floor. Will nods wordlessly, and his crown bumps up against Hannibal’s knee as he stares at Hannibal’s shoe again. He feels Hannibal gently touch the back of his head, and a groan swells in his throat. He goes to his elbows, dragging his face down Hannibal’s pant leg until he’s nosing his ankle. He can already smell the earthy, thick scent of the leather, along with the faint, clean smell of Hannibal’s laundry detergent.

Cupping the quarter of Hannibal’s shoe, he lustfully strokes Hannibal’s Achilles tendon again with his thumb. He can hear himself breathing heavily, fairly steaming up the leather as he leans closer. The anticipation nearly throttles him as he closes his eyes and eliminates the final distance between Hannibal’s shoe and his mouth.

The first contact is barely a brush of his skin against the left facing of the shoe, the stitching grazing his lower lip, but it is enough to burst fresh urgency in his stomach with a harsh clench of arousal. With a quiet groan, he presses in, crushing his mouth to the shoe in the shade of a kiss. He grips Hannibal’s ankle harder while his opposite hand curls against the rug, nails digging into fibers. Desire pounds through him, tightening his balls, and he clenches his thighs together again, rocking slightly on his hands and knees.

He’s aware of what he must look like, bent down on the floor with his ass in the air, his pants and underwear bunched around his hips like an imprudent teenager. He’s aware of what he must look like at Hannibal’s feet, kissing his shoe, but for the first time since Hannibal began to question him, he feels the humiliation slipping away. The image in his mind is prurient and brazen, and a tremble rushes through him because he knows – he knows – that Hannibal is pleased. Hannibal wants him like this – unashamed and gorging himself on his own desires, his reckless release bound inextricably to Hannibal’s flawless guidance.

With a whimper, he lays his forehead against the top of Hannibal’s foot and lets his spine fall supine, pushing his ass higher for Hannibal’s viewing. Retracting his nails from the rug, he gropes at the waistband of his underwear; his hand shakes with anticipation as he wrangles them down, taking his pants with them and baring himself to Hannibal’s gaze. The exposure punches arousal into his stomach, and he grabs his cock with a harsh tug, filling his throat with a moan. He broadens the stance of his knees enough to strain the waistbands of his boxers and turn the position from sensual into downright lewd.

Hannibal doesn’t speak, but Will can feel the heat radiating from him. He wonders if Hannibal is hard, if he’ll touch himself too –  suave and patient but determined, hardly a hair out of place afterwards – but the possibility carries with it too much obscene arousal to continue pondering if he wishes to make it through his fantasy without cumming. And he does. He does because Hannibal wants it, and he wants Hannibal’s approval now more than the orgasm – or rather, he wants the orgasm when Hannibal approves of it.

Trying to temper his breathing, Will exhales deeply and opens his eyes to look at Hannibal’s Oxford. The seam of the facings makes him shiver, and he cups his hand over the back of the other palm that already cradles the quarter. He tugs gently, the way he might to a lover’s head to pull them into a kiss, and angles his mouth against the straight laces. Parting his lips wider, he closes them around the facings and his tongue presses fully against the leather for the first time. The texture is soft and immediately slick with his saliva, the flavor sharp and oaky like an aged whiskey or a good scotch, layering delightfully over the bourbon aftertaste.

A breath huffs out through his nose with arousal, and he rocks again, suckling at the portion of leather. He doesn’t let go until the taste has filled his whole mouth and the animal scent has crowded his nostrils and only then to prod into the spaces between the laces. He wriggles the tip of his tongue against the stitching and the tight slit of the facings, climbing each bar until he finds the the lip. With a sigh, he laves his tongue flat against it, uncaring that he catches a few fibers from Hannibal’s sock. The curve of it is smooth and warm, and he teases at the edge of the facings, almost getting underneath the topline where the heat of Hannibal’s skin is the strongest. He wants inside, but the need to worship the rest of Hannibal’s shoe still pulls at him, urging him to find unmarked leather.

Moaning quietly, he smears his spit-slick lips back down the facings towards the vamp and the toe cap, inhaling the waxy scent of the polish. He licks at the stitching of the toe cap, a tremble shuddering through him with a twitch of his dick when his lips meet the point. He hovers for a moment, sinking back on his heels as he resists the temptation to touch himself again. Although Hannibal allowed it, he fears that a few strokes now will send him over the edge, and he isn’t ready for the session to end.

Drawing an uneven breath, he nudges his lips against the toe, a simple caress of the velveteen against his mouth. When he finds the very tip, he kisses open-mouthed, shivers tingling the length of his body repeatedly, dragging his hips into tiny grinding motions. His cock chafes against his underwear tangled across his thighs, the head prodding towards the rug, and he moans louder with the rougher friction to his tender glans. His body cries for him to keep rutting, and he struggles to squeeze his thighs together and shift back up onto his knees.

“Stop,” Hannibal says suddenly from above him, jerking Will’s heart up into his throat.

“What?” he pants, lifting his dizzy head and craning his neck to look up at him with dread gripping his stomach.

Hannibal sits forwards and takes him by the chin again, gentle but firm. “You’re focusing on climaxing again.”

The frantic pace of Will’s heart calms marginally. Hannibal isn’t telling him to stop entirely; he’s only taking him in hand again. He flushes, his lashes fluttering shut for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he whispers roughly.

“Do not apologize to me. You are not doing this for me… Are you?”

In the short pause before the probing question, Will’s belly flips. He isn’t necessarily doing it for Hannibal’s pleasure, but he can’t deny any longer that he wants his approval, and he doesn’t think Hannibal could deny that he wants Will to want his approval either.

“Are you?” Hannibal repeats.

“No,” Will whispers weakly.

“Good. Then do not apologize to me. Take control of yourself and take what you want.”

“But I—” The protest leaps from Will’s mouth, and he tries to grab it back, pressing his lips together hard.

Silence crackles between them for a moment. “But what?”

Will swallows jaggedly. “Nothing.”

“I do not want apologies, Will, but therapy is always more effective when you are honest. I would like your honesty.”

Will opens his eyes slowly, but his gaze darts away from Hannibal almost immediately. “I just… I want you to…” He stops again, frustration tightening his jaw. “I want you to be happy with me…”

“Will,” Hannibal murmurs.

Will looks back at him, his eyes stinging with mortifying tears. He blinks quickly, hoping to dispel them without Hannibal’s notice, but Hannibal is looking at him kindly, stroking his jaw, and the warmth of his regard only inspires them to swell.

“I am more than happy with you.” Hannibal smiles gently.

Will’s throat feels tight, and he nods in a short motion, trying to lower his jaw. What a pitiful mess he is, he thinks, half-dressed and desperate, dissolving into a puddle of arousal and humiliated tears, like he is a child again, searching for his father’s approval.

“Look at yourself,” Hannibal directs softly, and Will lets out a watery scoff. He’s already too aware of what he looks like. “Not an hour ago you were sitting in that chair too terrified to move or even speak your desires,” Hannibal continues. “Now, here you are, acting on what you have been too fearful to express for two decades. You have always exceeded my expectations, Will. It is your own that causes you pain.”

Will can’t scrounge up an answer, but Hannibal doesn’t seem to need one. He caresses Will’s chin, and leans in to lay a chaste but lingering kiss against Will’s forehead, bringing with him the spice and sweetness of his cologne and shaving cream. The gentility and intimacy nearly make Will crumble, and an unsteady sigh filters through his lips.

“Now,” Hannibal murmurs, his lips brushing Will’s flesh. “Tell me what you want before I let you cum.”

The sigh quickly turns into a whine in Will’s throat as Hannibal’s low, erotic utterance burns up the brief rise of tears, so quickly that Will wonders how he cried when there is so little room for anything but the desire raging in his body. He reaches up, clutching Hannibal’s wrist with a trembling hand, wanting to keep him close.

“I want…” Arousal thickens his tongue into an uncoordinated muscle, resistant to articulation. He reaches for the easiest and most consistent longing. “I want… t-to unlace them.”

He feels Hannibal’s mouth curl softly. “What else?”

Will shudders, gripping Hannibal’s wrist harder. “I want to lick i-inside and—” He squeezes his shut. “I want you t-to… to make me worship them for as long as you want.”

Hannibal’s inhale is quiet but sharp, his fingers tightening at Will’s jaw. When he speaks, his voice holds the smallest rasp, the first true fissure of arousal that Will has seen. “How would you like to cum for me?”

Will groans, pressing his forehead into Hannibal’s mouth and chin again, the scratch of Hannibal’s short stubble sending a chill back down his body. “O-on them,” he confesses in almost a whimper, then clarifies, “Between them. I-I want to fuck them.”

Hannibal’s breath billows hot against his forehead before he ducks his head, connecting their gazes again. His eyes are so close to Will’s, close enough for Will to see the pulse of his pupils and the glittering amber of his irises, sparking like embers in the fireplace.

“After you’ve properly spent yourself, you will clean every last drop with your mouth,” Hannibal orders, tugging Will’s chin in firmly, and Will’s stomach twirls and plunges from the height of arousal.

“Yes, sir.” The words quake from his lips, driven beyond his restraint by Hannibal’s command that leaves no room for argument.

Hannibal doesn’t move for another short moment, but it’s just long enough for Will to discern Hannibal’s efforts at self-control where once they’d been so seamless as to be undetectable. The fantasy of Hannibal touching himself crashes through Will’s mind again, and he shakes at the thought that seems so much more plausible now.  

Directing Will back by the chin to make space between them, Hannibal reaches down to slip the knot of the laces out from where they hid under the shoe at the inside of Hannibal’s feet, and Will watches, impatient and breathless. If he’d known it’s that easy, he would’ve already done it, but his upbringing and lifestyle have never exactly called for something as frivolous and tedious as straight lacing shoes. Rugged practicality and utilitarianism, however, have no place here in this brilliant, illustrious fantasy, and Will's body sings with enamored delight at the hidden workings of Hannibal’s immaculate elegance.

“Go on,” Hannibal murmurs, leaving the laces exposed but still knotted for Will’s pleasure of pulling them open.

As soon as his hand slips from Will’s chin, Will sinks down, going to his elbows once more. The urgency rushing through him to get his tongue into the hot lips of the facings collides with the trembling of his hands, and instead of using his fingers, he bares his teeth and snags the end of the lace. With a quick jerk of his head, he tugs it free and bites at the last loop to drag it open. The tail end slips between his jaws, vibrating a pleasant sensation along his enamel.

With the more delicate work done, Will employs his fingers, rough and quick, yanking at the bars so that the laces snap through the eyelets and the ends tap dance against the leather. He leaves the last bar, too desperate to remove it entirely with his access secured. Gripping Hannibal’s heel with one hand, he plunges his index and middle fingers into the split slit of the facings. The tongue is hot, the polish making it almost slick, and the most uninhibited moan that Will has voiced the entire evening slips from his throat. He spreads his fingers open, and licks hard into the space between his knuckles, savoring the burst of musk and hide.

A mottled sound echoes against his palate, and he licks deeper into the facings, leaning awkwardly on the same arm of the hand he’s using to pry Hannibal’s shoe open in order to shove his other hand downwards. Panting and messily pushing his tongue into the little crevices, he grasps his cock again. He rocks into his fist as he suctions his mouth against the tongue, his thighs shivering as the smallest friction tightens the loaded climax awaiting release in his groin. He squeezes his eyes shut with a muffled groan, sparks flying behind his lids. His mouth comes loose, and he breathes out a curse, slowing the pace of his hips to draw his thumb over the head and tease at the responsive nerve endings just underneath.

“Oh, fuck,” he whispers, his voice high-pitched and unsteady before he smashes his mouth back down against Hannibal’s shoe. Smearing his cheek and lips against the facings and the vamp, he thrusts into his fist again until he’s resisting each building throb of climax. The orgasm is near enough to touch, to be his if he relaxes and strokes himself a few more times, but he tears his hand away and comes up red-faced and panting.

His head tilts off balance with desire as he shifts towards Hannibal’s opposite foot and tears at the laces with his teeth. Using both sets of hands, he yanks them out of the eyelets and successfully frees one Oxford entirely of its shoelace. Leaning on his elbows, he spreads the facings open with his index and middle finger on either side and sinks in with sigh. He buries his mouth and nose there, inhaling the mixture of polish, leather, detergent, and the slightest hint of musty odor.

He exhales a husky moan of contentment and lays long licks under the left facing, finding the rounded edge of the tongue underneath and tracing the fine stitching. His spit gathers thick on the leather, and he sucks some of it back up with an open-mouthed kiss. The taste of himself and Hannibal’s shoe mingled together makes a little writhe work down his spine, makes him go down on his heels again. Clinging to Hannibal’s shoe and pressing his crown against Hannibal’s shin, he bites down on his lip, fighting the urge to touch himself. He grasps for the control over himself that Hannibal commanded him to take for a few taut, stressed seconds before reaching with one trembling hand to push at his pants and boxers, removing the friction that the cotton might bring. He shuffles his knees until the tangled fabric gathers around his calves, and he can concentrate on bringing his mouth back to the Oxfords.

 When he moves again, he breathes shakily against the tongue before kissing it. He wants to apply himself and demonstrate to Hannibal that he can indulge himself without rushing to finish; so he mouths slow and wet downwards, purposefully letting his lips smack with the release so that Hannibal can hear his dedication. Nosing the smooth, unblemished leather of the vamp, he lingers over the toe, swirling his tongue around the round tip, then pressing flat in a slow, grinding circle. He rubs his thumbs over the quarters and sucks at leftover saliva, moaning quietly and swaying.  

Once he’s left the toe with a sheen of his spit, he dips his head between Hannibal’s feet to angle his mouth against the inside of the shoe. A shudder grips him as his lips trail over Hannibal’s ankle bone down to the smooth curve where his cock will fit once Hannibal is satisfied with him. He clutches the quarter tighter in one hand and marries his mouth more fully to the side of the vamp, kissing and licking into the soft valley of leather and the stiff welting. Instead of eagerly slurping his saliva back up, he gathers excess spit on his tongue and laves it into the Oxford’s hidden, inner cleft to leave it slick for the frottage of his flesh into it.

He hears himself breathing heavily as he returns to the first shoe, mashing his flushed, reddened mouth into the opposite divot. He moans quietly, his thighs squeezing and squirming as another pulse of arousal grips his dick, tempting him to touch. He licks harder, drawing his tongue along the seam towards the convex rise of the quarter. Snarling desire and sexual vexation itch at his teeth, and he wants to bite into the bulge with all the instinct of a trapped, wounded animal.

With a whine, he turns his face into the rug, digging his forehead against the fibers. His fingers shiver around Hannibal’s heel as he squashes the sudden impulse to sink his canines into the leather. He can only imagine Hannibal’s displeasure if he damages the gift that Hannibal has generously offered to him, and his stomach dips and clenches at the thought of punishment rather than reward. Denied release and disappointment shadowing the warm affection in Hannibal’s eyes to cooled, dying embers.

“Will,” Hannibal murmurs above him.

Will presses his eyes shut, swallowing to make his mouth work. “Yeah?”

“Did I tell you that you could stop?” Hannibal asks, the question gentle and calm.

“No, sir.”

“Then what is the issue?”

Will tucks his face closer to Hannibal’s foot, his cheekbone grazing the dampened leather. “I’m… trying to t-take control. Like you wanted… sir.”

He thinks vaguely that Hannibal didn’t command him to address him in this manner, but now he can’t stop saying it. The honorific rests heavily on the tip of his tongue, falling out by compulsion and regenerating again for the next opportunity of his open mouth.

“This is what you asked for.”

“I know,” Will whispers jaggedly.

Hannibal pauses. “Sit up for a moment.”

Fuck. Will swallows the curse and uncurls his fingers from Hannibal’s shoe. He feels weak and shaky with desire, and he presses both his palms to the floor to straighten. When he comes up, he can feel the blood pulsing faintly in his face, redistributing from the gravity of being bent over.

“Let me see,” Hannibal says softly, leaning forward. He plucks away the hem of Will’s shirt, tugging it above his quivering stomach to take in the sight of Will’s cock, throbbing and leaking and flushed to a purpled, dark red.

Will looks away from him, grappling with humiliation again. Rather than feeling ashamed of his desire over the shoes, however, he feels terribly childish and ridiculous for having suppressed such a silly thing to the point of absolute, sexual desperation. Now, he can’t even follow the very simple requests that Hannibal has made at Will’s own behest. Tears sting at his lids again, and he lifts a shaking hand to quickly grind his fingertips over his tightly closed eyes. “I’m sorry,” he repeats in a ragged whisper.

“Come here,” Hannibal orders briskly, ignoring Will’s apology as though he had not even spoken, and drops the hem of his shirt.

“Wh-what?” Will’s head swivels, his glistening lashes fluttering open.

Hannibal is looking at him, the irises of his eyes darkened to ebony with desire rather than disappointment, and Will feels his head rush.

“I’m satisfied with your worship,” Hannibal says, his voice low and certain. “Now, I want you to come here and take your pleasure.”

Will stares at him, the world spinning around him with Hannibal at the axis. For a moment, he can’t move until Hannibal orders, “Now, Will,” and then moving is the only thing he can do.

At Hannibal’s command, he stumbles forward, clumsy with his ankles bound by a tangle of clothing, burning his kneecaps on the rug. Hannibal’s gaze flashes with simmering desire, and he grabs Will by the back of the neck with a hand that is strong and warm, strong enough to make demands without words. A cry staggers from Will’s mouth. His pulse hammers against his throat, and he feels dizzy, like he can’t control his limbs, as though he’s truly scruffed and helpless. In it, he finds a terrible sense of gratefulness that his own strength is no longer of any concern. 

Hannibal pulls him in until Will’s chest hits his knees, nearly knocking the wind out of him. Another whimper starts up his throat when his cock drags against Hannibal’s pant leg on his way to sinking gracelessly onto the seat of the Oxfords, turning into a full-bodied, orgasmic moan as the tops of the shoes press against the sensitive flesh of his inner thighs. He collapses inelegantly, knees splaying wide, and he tries to press his lips shut over a string of pathetic noises. His fingernails snare in the soft wool fabric of Hannibal’s pants and bite into the firm muscle underneath, but Hannibal doesn’t flinch; he only squeezes Will’s neck hard in encouragement, his gaze hot and endless. 

Clinging to Hannibal’s thigh, Will reaches down with an uncoordinated hand to wedge his cock into the soft relief of the leather’s embrace. He’s barely holding Hannibal’s gaze with the pleasurable sensations erupting through his body, and a sob lurches past the frail barrier of his lips at the first touch of the velvety shoes against his tortured flesh. He curls into Hannibal’s legs, and his thighs clench around Hannibal’s ankles, drawing his feet tight to squeeze Will’s cock between them. Grabbing at the arm of Hannibal’s chair with his free hand, he bends his head, his whole body shivering. The leather creaks softly under his weight at the tiniest movement from his hips, and he digs his forehead into Hannibal’s leg. His breathing is out of control, and he feels a tear slip down his nose. 

He almost wants to say that he can’t, that it’s too much, that he won’t be able to resist the orgasm coiled in his groin for more than a few seconds… that afterwards, he will not know how to get up and carry on with his life. That Hannibal has unearthed something from inside him that was so deeply buried that he will never be able to hide it again without the dirt falling back down on him and suffocating him in the process. That he doesn’t want to bury it again — not if Hannibal’s shoes are the ones he worships at. 

Then, Hannibal strokes the back of his neck, and Will feels him bend to lay a kiss on the back of his head. “Take it,” Hannibal whispers against his hair, and he can’t disobey. 

With a muffled cry, he exchanges the arm of the chair for a grasp at Hannibal’s hip. His fingers curl around the waistband of his pants, and he crushes his face into Hannibal’s thigh as he angles his hips down and thrusts. Immediately, a louder, devastated sound wails up from his burning chest. 

The leather stroking the tender flesh of his cock is unlike anything he’s ever felt or thinks he will ever feel in future. It is singular and utterly euphoric and Hannibal has made it perfect just for him. His shoes are warm and sun-kissed by the fire, smooth and soft, and ideally rigid, the strokes eased by the damp of spit and the trailing slick of pre-cum with every slide for a friction that makes Will quake with his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth stretched open. Sobs and saliva spill from lips, soaking up in the fine fabric, his teeth inadvertently digging in. 

With his nose smashed in equal measure, he can hardly draw an effective breath, but it doesn’t matter anyways. Any thought of lasting has slipped from his grip. The curves and planes hold him tight as though the shoes were made not only for Hannibal’s feet but for Will cock too, and he can’t resist chasing the sensation that comes with each desperate roll of his hips. Every departing drag compels him to thrust in again so that he can feel the leather tugging his flesh back tight along his hardened length then pulling it down toward the tender, weeping head.

He can feel both of Hannibal’s hands on him – one still steadily stroking his hair and his sweating neck while the other circles his shoulder blade in soothing caresses that only serves to jam the emotion and desperation deeper into his chest. He whimpers a mangled version of Hannibal’s name, and Hannibal hushes him in a low timbre, speaking reassurances that Will can barely process into words. He squeezes his eyes shut hard, and tears pearl from beneath his lashes, wrenched out by the intensity of the pleasure and the enormity of the desire and torment that Hannibal has eased with such careful attention and confidence.

The pulses of pleasure compound on top of one another with every thrust of his cock into the glorious grasp of the leather, and he fists the material of Hannibal’s pants harder, rutting faster against his feet. He can feel himself shaking all over, muscles aching with tension and exertion. Under the heat of the fire, he’s burning up, and his breaths break off as the friction builds towards unbearable intensity. He chokes on a cry as the orgasm swells, his motions faltering, his cock jamming deep into the shoes’ embrace.

“On them,” Hannibal orders against his temple, his voice gravelly, his fingers roughly stroking Will’s hair and curling deep against his scalp. “Not the floor.”

Will can’t make an affirmative noise beyond the staggered, broken sounds already flowing from his lips as his balls seize. With a gasp, he rocks his hips back and grabs his cock which has already begun to spasm. He jerks himself, and a sharp spasm shoots through him from his cock to his sternum as release pulses from the inflamed tip. Crying out, he lurches, unintentionally slamming his forehead against Hannibal’s knee. The pain and reverberations barely register.

Hannibal is massaging his neck and murmuring, “That’s it, Will. Just like that,” and he sounds exhilarated. His voice is all that Will can focus on outside of the orgasm ravaging him, and he opens his eyes with a moan. He wants to see what Hannibal sees, to see himself the way Hannibal is seeing him that makes his breath uncharacteristically husky and each utterance rich with dark satisfaction.

 Will’s vision is dazed and full of stars, and he can feel Hannibal’s temple against his own, the graze of his cheekbone against his cheekbone as they both gaze down at Hannibal’s shoes decorated in glistening, pearly pools and slow, thick streams of cum. In the foreground, Will’s trembling fist strokes his dribbling dick, dusky red and raw, framed by his quivering, pale thighs.

“That’s it,” Hannibal repeats softly. “As much as you can give me.”

Will shudders, a high-pitched sound of sensitivity forming at the back of his throat. He leans his throbbing forehead against Hannibal’s knee, still clutching a fistful of Hannibal’s pants as he squeezes himself hard from base to tip, milking out every drop from his urethra. The sensations make him flinch and whimper as he strokes himself into overstimulation until there’s nothing left, and it hurts too much to continue. 

Shaking and weak, he slumps against Hannibal’s lap, his cheek pressed to his thigh. He feels overwhelmed in the wake of the climax and Hannibal’s satisfaction with it. Grasping at Hannibal’s calf, he holds tight as fresh tears bloom at his lashes, pooling at the bridge of his nose and slipping over. 

Hannibal’s grip on his hair eases to a gentle caress, combing through his disheveled curls. He presses a kiss to Will’s temple with lips that are warm and soft. “You did very well, Will. I knew my faith in you was not misplaced,” he murmurs and kisses him again. The praise makes Will’s chest flutter all over again. He feels so close to him, so small and exposed and vulnerable. So safe. 

His breath shudders when Hannibal’s thumb swipes gently beneath his eye, wiping away his tears, and he tilts his face up, his lips coming open with a quiet sound of need. He almost isn’t even sure what he’s asking for until he feels Hannibal’s exhale swell slow and hot against his mouth, then he’s straining into it, lifting his cheek from Hannibal’s leg to reach. Their lips nearly brush, but Hannibal’s hand catches his jaw, stymying Will’s effort to close the last inches between them. Will whimpers, his eyes darting over Hannibal’s face. Hannibal’s eyes are dark and heavy-lidded, color deepening the tone of his cheekbones. He gazes down at Will’s mouth, then smears his thumb up over his lips, dragging them open so that he can trace the bottom row of Will’s teeth. 

“You still have quite the mess to clean,” Hannibal murmurs, his thumb catching on Will’s canine. 

Will was so focused on cumming and attempting to kiss him that he nearly forgot Hannibal’s command that he must clean up every drop with his mouth. He blinks, his throat bobbing jaggedly with his jaw held open, eliciting a rough, wet click of saliva. At the recognition on Will’s face, Hannibal’s thumb slips away, his eyes rising to Will’s again, intent and demanding. Calm and calculating, even in his desire.

“Don’t you?” he prods softly, almost like an accusation – the sort of degradation that twists arousal in his Will’s stomach rather than genuine shame. 

“Yes, sir,” Will whispers, roughly, heat braising his cheeks anew. 

He begins to shift back to immediately bend himself to the floor again, but Hannibal holds him in place by the nape. “Not down there. I’d like to see you.”

Will nods, wordless and breathless again. Hannibal sits back in his chair, releasing Will’s neck and leaving the skin there to prickle with a cool rush of air and the drying of both their perspiration. Hannibal rests his elbows in casual elegance against the arms, and one hand drifts to his mouth, a vague tease at his lower lip that causes Will’s nostrils to flare over an inhale. 

He can barely find solid ground as he takes in Hannibal’s body – his suit jacket hanging open in two flawless curtains, his waistcoat taut across his chest and stomach, and just beneath the material that Will had wrinkled in his fist, Hannibal’s cock jutting against the fitted cut of his pants. Will’s eyes fly to Hannibal’s again, his pulse thrusting up in his throat to choke him, but Hannibal’s composure is as refined as ever. 

For a moment, Will wades through the quicksand pit of desire before the thought that his complete obedience might finally draw out Hannibal’s pleasure pushes him to reach for Hannibal’s ankle. His heart races shallowly against his ribs as he grips Hannibal’s ankle in one hand and cradles the smooth sole at the ball of Hannibal’s foot with the other to lift the Oxford slowly towards his mouth. Recurrent heat washes over him as he shifts and angles himself to properly attend to the shoe. Inhaling unsteadily, he stares at his cum which is slowly drying on the toe cap and vamp. A few drops have marred the facings as well, and he imagines licking into the seam of them again, tasting real release in the lips of the hot leather. He decides to save it for last and begins at the toe. 

He glances at Hannibal out of the corner of his eye as he parts his lips and brings his tongue to the Oxford again. He traces the welting before swirling up over the toe cap, encountering a drop of sticky fluid. The sharp salt and musk hit his taste buds, and his eyes clench shut again, a moan forming readily in his chest. His grip on Hannibal’s ankle tightens, and he licks into a thicker patch that is still just warm and feels it gather thick on his quivering tongue.

“Swallow.”

Will’s lashes startle open at the command, and he finds Hannibal above him. Hannibal’s chest rises and falls in a concentrated breath, nostrils flaring behind the obstruction of his fingers still curled into a loose fist in front of his face. With his head lowered, the shadows of the fire cast his eyes into a black shade beneath the carved structure of his brows, and two, tiny  pinpricks of yellow fire dance in the dark.

Will retracts his tongue back into the heat and slickness of his mouth that easily allows the little portion of himself to slide down his throat with the smallest undulation of his throat. The pungent aftertaste settles on Will’s tongue, the scent filling his nostrils.

“Good,” Hannibal murmurs. “Slowly. Be thorough.”

“Yes, sir,” Will whispers, barely finding enough oxygen to speak the words yet feeling the undeniable impulse to say it all the same. His hands tremble and clench around Hannibal’s foot and ankle, and he locks his line of sight on the twin flames in Hannibal’s eyes as he extends his tongue again and drags the tip of his tongue in a lazy circle through the mess. He lets his tongue loll out for a moment so that Hannibal can view the creamy release diffusing with the heat of his mouth before he swallows again, slowly with a soft sigh of pleasure. 

Though it is so subtle that Will could not define it, Hannibal’s expression changes, the strength of his desire floating closer to the surface of his poised demeanor. His fist tightens almost indiscernibly in front of his face, and a thrill overtakes Will’s body with the possibility of shattering Hannibal’s unflappable facade. 

He curls his tongue out again, licking in a harder, longer swatch, catching up a thick serving that he savors on his palate with another deliberate moan. He lets his eyes slip closed, lets his breathing go, as he swallows and laves the leather hungrily, filling his mouth with the flavor of his own indulgent release and the underlying delicacy of the leather. The combination is heady, better than the taste of the Oxford with his saliva alone. 

He finds his way to the facings and plunges his tongue inside again, groaning with his mouth smashed hard and open and his nose buried in Hannibal’s pant leg. If not for the overstimulation he’d already caused himself, he thought he might touch himself again. Instead, he worms his tongue into every crevice until he’s coming up empty and all he tastes again is leather. 

He draws back, his lips gleaming with saliva and traces of cum, to stare at his handiwork on the shoe, spit-shined clean. Pride grips his chest, a tremulous smile passing over his lips. He caresses the side of the toe cap possessively and leans in to kiss softly down the facings again. Nuzzling his cheek against the vamp and toe, he opens his eyes slowly and casts a heavy-lidded glance up the length of Hannibal’s leg. “Is that thorough enough?” he whispers, his voice roughened with shameless desire and flirtation.

Hannibal hasn’t moved an inch, quiet and regal and demanding in the shifting shadows and flicker of flames as though he were a painting of some dark prince or lord of old. His nostrils flare at Will’s suggestive inquiry, and he gives a short nod. “Now, the other one, please.”

The sound of his voice again, so calm and commanding, tightens the follicles on Will’s neck and spine again, and he licks his lips, tasting the lingering sharpness of his cum that is soon to be renewed. 

“Yes, sir,” he murmurs, lifting his head to reverently settle Hannibal’s foot on the floor again. He gives the slick toe a stroke of his thumb and angles his body towards Hannibal’s opposite leg. He feels Hannibal watching him as he prepares to service the shoe that is still stained, and his spent cock weakly pulses. He cups the back of Hannibal’s calf, glancing compulsively upwards only to be seared again by the burnt onyx of Hannibal’s eyes. Breathlessly, he smooths his palm downwards in a worshipful caress to the quarters and lifts, his arm visibly trembling and the Oxford with it. 

His cum drools down the side, towards the curve of the vamp that had caused him such a powerful orgasm, and a whine presses at his throat. He greets the leather with his tongue already out, catching up the rivulet of release in a long, slow lick, and the act of putting his mouth to the shoe pulls him under again like the hypnosis of a fever dream.

He chases every drop just as Hannibal ordered, purposeful and passionate, with the respect that he feels it deserves. He presses his face to the top again when it’s done and exhales, relieved and comforted by the sensation of the leather against his skin, and still, still , so unbearably aroused by it. He wonders if he would ever get used to it though a second iteration seems unlikely – ill-advised, at the very least. This could be the last moment that he ever touches Hannibal’s shoe.

“Thank you,” he whispers. He kisses Hannibal’s foot softly and feels Hannibal’s leg tighten against his hold, his Achilles tendon standing up against the cradle of Will’s fingers. The reaction blooms fresh heat in Will’s stomach and evaporates the air from the lungs. 

He lifts his head, panting shallowly. He wants to see all the dark desire trapped in Hannibal’s eyes unleashed, yanked free by Will’s dedication like he’d torn the laces open with his teeth, and he is both terrified and thrilled when their gazes meet again. Hannibal sits still, his burning eyes hardly blinking, but Will knows just as he had when he’d first begun to tell the story that Hannibal’s silence is not his disregard. He’s only planning what to do next – what to do with Will. 

A moment passes in which Will feels himself begin to tremble again, trembling because he senses the exact second when Hannibal decides to move. He lets go of Hannibal’s foot just before Hannibal straightens in the chair, and both Oxfords plant themselves on either side of him again. Hannibal leans forward and takes him by the face – firm and desirous. “Say it again,” Hannibal orders, his tone absent of gentility, the gravelly words ushered from his lips only by a desire that threatens to ruin. His thumb methodically caresses Will’s jaw, strumming over stubble, sending shivers down Will’s body. He doesn’t need to ask after what Hannibal wants from him. 

Eager and desperate to undo him, Will grasps Hannibal’s knees, rising up on his heels with his toes braced against the floor to bring their mouths closer. 

“Thank you, sir,” he whispers, sliding his right hand higher along Hannibal’s thigh, his thumb grazing the inseam. When his fingers draw close enough to feel the exorbitant heat radiating from beneath the layers of clothing, euphoria washes over him. Pressing closer against the muzzle of Hannibal’s hand, he breathes out, “Hannibal…”

Hannibal’s fingers tighten at his jaw with calculated force and the slightest pinch of exquisite pain. His pupils pulse to golden-rimmed, pitch black spheres, a solar eclipse of desire, and Will can almost see himself reflected in darkness which bears the awful power blind him.

With a surge of exhilaration and impudent confidence, he pushes his hand between Hannibal’s legs, filling his palm with Hannibal’s restrained erection. The marvelous hardness and heat winds another moan from Will’s mouth, and he tightens his grip. The material is already strained, but he wraps his fingers around him as best can and watches with breathless delight as Hannibal’s visage finally cracks in the form of a flinch along the left side of his mouth, nose, and brow. 

For a moment, they balance there at the fissure on the verge of collapse, one second short of Will losing what control and good sense remains in his head. Then, Hannibal moves him bodily by the jaw, forcing him back to make room, and stands abruptly from the chair, leaving  Will to tumble back on his ass, panting and light-headed. He sinks back, his mouth agape at the sight of Hannibal looming over him. 

Watching Hannibal undress is almost surreal, like learning the steps to a magic trick that he was certain is impossible. He follows Hannibal’s hands, his breaths loud in the echo chamber of his skull, as Hannibal removes his suit jacket and tie in swift, precise movements that imply anything but what Will knows is going to happen. He can’t help pressing his hand between his legs again and circling his cock which wants illogically to flush, stroking despite the sensitivity that makes his bare thighs tremble, as Hannibal opens the little, hidden button beneath the smooth lip of his waistband and unzips. 

Hannibal’s pants slip down, and he releases the stays at the front and back of his shirttails, letting the bands bungee free. The glittering, silver clips swing from the attached garters around each thigh, already forgotten as Hannibal opens the last two buttons of his shirt to remove the obstruction from the obscene straining of his cock. 

At the sight of Hannibal’s underwear barely containing him, Will starts to push himself back up on his knees as Hannibal tucks aside his shirt tails and hooks his thumbs under the waistband. In one suave motion, the briefs are around his thighs along with the stays, and Will wonders if he might send himself into hyperventilation. Hannibal is a beautiful length, so hard that he twitches towards his stomach with the central vein pulsing to the gleaming, crimson head which prods past the veneer of foreskin. 

Hannibal catches his eye, and Will inches closer, reaching out one hesitant hand towards Hannibal’s bared thigh. He isn’t sure when his desire to watch Hannibal masturbate mutated into wanting to touch for himself, but it feels ineluctable. Hannibal’s fingers extend towards Will’s head in a mirror of a gesture, and Will’s heart leaps at the reciprocation. He leans into Hannibal’s touch, buttoning his mouth over pleas as Hannibal’s fingers slip deeper then pull tight in a fist around a thick lock. The firm grip tilts Will’s head back further and pulls his mouth open, freeing pants and whines. His lips are a few mere inches from Hannibal’s cock, near enough that he can smell the heady arousal clinging to the tip, and his throat nearly closes over with longing and desperation. 

 That Hannibal would want to be touched by him even after Will has told him every ugly and lascivious thing that hides in the dark, shameful corners of his mind seems impossible still, but Hannibal is here, staring down at Will, stroking his hair with nothing in his eyes but want, and Will thinks he might despair if Hannibal does not let him touch – if Hannibal does not use him as he allowed Will to use his beautiful, expensive, glamorous shoes. 

“Please…” he implores, grasping Hannibal’s warm thigh and the solid, toned muscle underneath. “Anything…” The single word serves as a blanket offering of himself, and the hope that Hannibal will understand stings his tear ducts.

Hannibal gazes down at him, dark desire roiling in his eyes like thunderstorm clouds, and takes himself in hand. The motion is unfaltering and determined, and for a brief moment, Will thinks Hannibal might deny him and jerk off on his face instead, but then Hannibal sits, and all doubt flies away from Will’s mind with the spreading of Hannibal’s thighs and the sharp pull to his hair. At the command issued by the fist at his scalp, Will rushes to prostrate himself between Hannibal’s thighs with his head spinning.

“Yes, yes,” he chants breathlessly, grabbing at Hannibal’s shirt tails to shove them out of the way as Hannibal directs himself towards Will's mouth. Hannibal leads his parted lips to his cock, and Will’s words choke off, his lids squeezing shut. The slick head prods against Will’s upper lip, gliding towards the corner under Hannibal’s guidance, then smearing along the bottom. Will pushes his tongue out with a moan, pressing it flat to the drizzling tip for the first taste of him that is lighter, yet more complex than his own. Shivers run down his body at the sensation of Hannibal’s nails scratching his scalp as his fingers curl tight, forming a fist that pulls Will’s head down, piercing his mouth. 

Will sinks against his lap with a muffled cry, his fists quaking around fistfuls of Hannibal’s shirttails as Hannibal’s cock plunders to the back of his throat. Tears immediately rush to his eyes, and his body lurches between Hannibal’s thighs, his gag reflex instinctively activating to the relentless invasion. Hannibal presses his head down, swift and steady, and he has no choice but to take it. Before he can think, the thick tip pushes past his uvula, causing his tongue to convulse uselessly underneath the rigid length, and shifts deep. He can’t breathe as his mouth and nose meet the thick, dark curls at the base of Hannibal’s cock, but he can’t find the desire within himself to resist either. 

He clings to Hannibal’s clothes and thighs as Hannibal takes his head in both hands and rolls his hips up against Will’s face. He thrusts into the tight passage of Will’s seizing throat, but Will’s shock only makes him pliant for a handful of seconds before wet, strangled noises accompany each bob of his head and his hands push instinctively against Hannibal’s thighs.

Hannibal pulls him up and off, and Will comes up choking and gagging as soon as his throat and mouth are clear, thick strings of saliva dampening his chin and dangling between his lips and Hannibal’s cock. He gasps for air, his eyes screwed shut, squeezing out tears. He wants to apologize again, but words are impossible. He feels Hannibal stroke his face with one hand, smoothing his hair back and swiping up tears, a moment of gentility before he pulls him in again, and Will’s heart jumps. Panting jaggedly and relieved for another chance, Will opens, submitting to the forceful tug of Hannibal’s fist in his hair. 

The head prods between his swollen, slick lips and plunges inside, riding up against his palate. Will is prepared for it to fuck straight into his throat again, but Hannibal orders, “Suck.” His voice is husky and strained, and Will’s face crumbles with arousal. Arousal flares into action, and he tightens his lips as Hannibal encourages his mouth into motion. Will struggles to assist, moving one shaking, sweat-damp hand to the base of Hannibal’s cock to hold him steady and stroke him as Hannibal pumps his mouth up and down. He sucks, inelegant and loud, moaning against the leaking, spongy head, and Hannibal strokes his cheek again, his thumb rubbing into the soft, hollowing of flesh through which he can likely feel his own cock pulsing inside. 

Will’s wet lashes flutter, and a stray tear slips down his cheek, a watery whimper coming out through his nose. Crystals frame Hannibal above him, painted the color of lust, wine-stained, wanton lips parted. His lids are heavy, his waistcoat taut across his chest with the rise and fall of labored breaths, and he’s gazing back at Will with every bit of desire that Will had longed for. Will blinks, chasing more tears down his cheeks, and sucks harder, nostrils flaring in a display of eager lust to demonstrate to Hannibal some measure of his enthusiasm – no, his need – to participate in Hannibal’s pleasure. The flames in Hannibal’s eyes flicker higher in response, and he snares both hands in Will’s hair again. 

Will’s eyes slam shut, and he tries to relax this time as Hannibal’s cock tunnels to his throat. A wet gag still squelches from him, and a fresh rush of tears fill his eyes. He lets go of Hannibal’s cock to grope at Hannibal’s hips, fingers sliding over the smooth material of the waistcoat in his search for a stronghold. Hannibal makes a low, gravelly sound of pleasure when Will’s mouth meets the base again, stroking and pushing his head down a little further until Will’s flushing face is buried in his stomach. Will shudders between his legs, battling the instinctive urges to fight or tear himself away.

 Hannibal’s hips grind up, and he tries to be still, but he barely endures two or three more thrusts before an involuntary writhe of suffocation and choking stutters down his body, ending with a dig of his toes into the carpet. He twists upright, and Hannibal lets him, a gentle hand remaining at Will’s cheek and neck. Gripping Hannibal’s hips, Will gulps in halting breaths of air with his head bent, his eyes pressed shut. His lungs and stomach are still hiccuping, threatening nausea that could in no way overpower his longing to have Hannibal in his mouth again.

“‘M sorry,” he rasps.

“Breathe,” Hannibal murmurs, huskily. “Relax… Be good for me.”

Tears that are unassociated with the abuse to his esophagus rise in his eyes, and he leans into Hannibal’s touch, lids fluttering over the hot emotion.

“Wanna be good…” he whispers, his voice ragged from taking Hannibal’s cock.

“You are,” Hannibal says as though it is a fact rather than an earned state of being, and Will has to curb a whimper because he feels Hannibal’s slick cockhead tap against his lips again. “Open.”

Swallowing roughly and trembling, Will parts his lips, feels Hannibal fill him up tight, hot and pulsating. His tongue shudders under the weight, anticipatory of the next step. He holds tight to Hannibal, and Hannibal pets his neck, guiding him down, murmuring, “I know you can take it.”

Will’s throat works against the incursion of Hannibal’s cock, a gurgling moan bubbling up in response to Hannibal’s praise before it’s quashed by the slide of Hannibal’s glans past the opening of his throat. Foreskin stretches back to the tight squeeze, riding the head tender and hot and slick into the trembling passage. 

A shiver chases down Will’s back after the flinching of his muscles with the feeling of Hannibal inside him again, his fingers at Will’s nape, skimming the tiny, erect follicles. Hannibal’s drifting hand traces beneath his ear, following the curve of his jaw before his fingertips caress the soft underside and cup tightly. Will clings to him against the urge to gag as Hannibal presses deep again, filling out the lower half of his palm with the bulge of Will’s throat. He twines his opposite set of fingers in Will’s crown to pull Will’s face tight to his groin again, and Will gives a gagged groan, his nostrils flaring uselessly where they’re buried in the thicket of Hannibal’s pubic hair. 

Hannibal grinds up, a slow, gentle start, and Will feels his balls drawing up tighter against his lower lip. The sensation momentarily distracts from the dick in his throat, weakening him with the sudden, visceral fantasy of Hannibal cumming in his throat. He sags in Hannibal's hold, shivering and pliant, as Hannibal’s cock repeatedly fucks into his throat, swelling his palm again and again. The thick, wet plunges evolve gradually into longer, faster thrusts until Will feels saliva pouring from the spout of his lower lip, making a mess of Hannibal’s balls and thighs, and the rougher treatment strains his submission. 

He grips Hannibal’s sides, striving to overcome the instinctive rejection of his throat to the invading force of Hannibal’s flesh, the tickle and scrape of each slide. His lungs ache, and the opening of his esophagus quivers, working up towards a total regurgitation. He grabs at Hannibal’s chest, fingers catching the neckline of his waistcoat and yanking in an attempt at begging for a moment of relief.

Hannibal seats his cock hard and deep in his throat with a satisfied exhale, and Will bucks between his legs, his stomach seizing, his face twisting and flushing. Fresh tears swell, and briefly, he thinks Hannibal might force him to vomit and lick it up the way he’d done with Will’s cum, but then, mercifully, Hannibal pulls him up, fast enough to spin his head. Will coughs and chokes, his inhales stumbling over the sudden rush of air into his lungs, his stomach wobbling on the verge of heaving for a terrifying moment of uncertainty in which Will thinks Hannibal’s delicious dinner and his fine bourbon will come back up. Relief, nearly strong enough to bring true emotion to his eyes, grips his quavering frame when his body settles just enough to avert the possibility. 

Hannibal is breathing heavily, his touch heavier as he strokes Will’s cheek. “Almost there, darling,” he murmurs, swiping his thumb over Will’s chin to clean away a bit of the saliva. “Next time… if you can take it long enough.”

Will pants, sinking into Hannibal’s hand again. “Yes, sir,” he whispers, shakily, despite lacking the true confidence that he will be able to endure until Hannibal’s cums. He only knows that he wants nothing else.

Hannibal smiles, the image of him glittery through Will’s lashes. He flexes his fingers in Will’s hair, and Will surrenders to the pull, his head lolling in Hannibal’s grasp. His cheek comes to rest against Hannibal’s thigh, his mouth close to Hannibal’s balls and the arch of his glistening cock.

His stomach has barely settled, but he relaxes for only a few moments before a shudder of need goes through him as he takes in the tortured length and straining sacs with a sense of satisfaction that he has played some small part in bringing him to this state. He takes in a watery, halting inhale, uncurling his trembling fingers from Hannibal’s waistcoat to bring his hand to Hannibal’s cock in an exploratory touch, skimming down the shaft and running his thumb along the underside. It twitches to his touch, balls tightening up, and he shifts closer, exhilaration shrouding the nausea. 

His lashes flutter shut as he encases the tip of Hannibal’s cock in his palm and fingers and noses beneath to mouth at the full bundle of need swollen at the base of Hannibal’s cock. Hannibal’s fist tightens in his hair, but his legs slip open further to allow Will’s tongue to lap up the seam and his lips to part around one taut testicle. Will moans softly as he curls his tongue underneath and sucks it in to roll the plush globe of heat and trapped release against his palate. It fills his mouth, and the thought of every drop contained within gushing into his throat pushes a groan up against the tender flesh. 

He opens his eyes in slits, his fingers tightening around Hannibal’s cockhead. He strokes with a hand made gentle by well-fucked weakness, mesmerized by the glide of Hannibal’s foreskin pulling back to fully reveal the glistening, crimson glans. He imagines that Hannibal is more sensitive there than himself without the soft, protective hood. 

 His nostrils flare, his mouth making a wet click around the testicle that wants to clench up, and he curves his thumb up to rub at the slick frenulum. Hannibal’s fist burns his scalp, and delight bursts through Will’s midsection at the tremble he elicits from Hannibal’s thighs around him. He draws his thumb in a wider, firmer circle, and Hannibal seizes his wrist with a sharp inhale and a flinch of his hips, jolting fear and arousal through Will at once as his gaze rolls up towards Hannibal. Hannibal’s thumb digs into the inside of his wrist, and Will is certain by the way Hannibal looks at him with such destructive lust that the only reason Hannibal’s cock is not in his throat again is because a delicate piece of him is caught between Will’s teeth. 

The hot, liquid desire to submit spills through Will’s stomach again with Hannibal’s domineering hands on him and the longing to see him come undone. He has no motivation to withhold himself or do anything but what Hannibal wishes for, and he doesn’t need Hannibal to voice it to let his jaw tremulously go slack. 

As soon as his teeth are clear, Hannibal pulls him upright, and Will’s breaths quicken, his heart kicking against his ribs for what he anticipated so quickly coming to fruition. He tries to hoard what oxygen he can while his airways are still open, but he can hardly control himself when Hannibal is controlling him so impeccably. 

Hannibal’s cock jabs his upper lip, and Will shakes, as he pierces him, direct and deep. The smallest resistance at the aperture of his esophagus gives to the firm guidance of Hannibal’s hand, and the slide is swift, shocking Will with the way that Hannibal has made his throat so pliant and accommodating already. He gropes for Hannibal’s hips again, scraping underneath his shirttails to find the rigidity of bone, the two protrusions of his pelvis fitting into Will’s palms like perfect handholds on a cliff’s edge. 

Both sets of Hannibal’s fingers knit into his hair, holding him still, powerful thighs flexing around him with the first thrust that gluts him with hot, aching force. Will gives a wet gasp when Hannibal’s cock comes free only to punch in again while his vocal cords still vibrate with the shocked sound.

 He couldn’t resist even if he wanted to. Hannibal draws his head into a bobbing motion, rocking up to meet each kiss of Will’s quivering lips against base, pushing Will to tears and slobbering helplessness in a matter of moments. Rough, squelching plunges resonate in Will’s ears, and he can only hold on as Hannibal fucks his throat past each point he thought he might not endure, pausing in intervals only long enough for a gag or heave to pass before driving into the spasming passage all over again.

Will’s face reddens, the air depleting from his lungs, and he feels hazy and sore, his stomach swimming with lust and use, by the time Hannibal crushes his face into the hot, musky copse of his groin; but the shudder that grips Hannibal’s body squeezes Will’s own loins, wrenching his expression into one of pleasure alongside the agony, lashes fluttering erratically over his rolling eyeballs. Hannibal makes a low, gritted sound of pleasure, and cum rushes into Will’s throat. Instinctively, he jerks, caught between swallowing or coughing in reaction to the drowning sensation, but Hannibal’s grip is unrelenting. He drags Will’s head up and back down again, pulsing into the heat of his own release, causing a mix of saliva and semen to splash back up against Will’s palate. A gag seizes Will’s entire frame, loud and jagged, brushing him up against the possibility of emptying his stomach again, and Hannibal — at last, merciful — pulls him off. 

Will hunches over his lap, his eyes squeezed shut as he coughs and pants, spit and release dripping and flinging from his swollen lips. His face is a mess, and his midsection is on the verge of upsetting itself, but the nausea is only partly responsible for his trembling. He opens his eyes, his chest rising and falling with halting, watery gasps, to gaze at Hannibal cock dribbling in the cajoling squeeze of his fingers. He’s stroking firm and slow, coaxing the last drops from the red slit to drizzle down his glans and knuckles, and a whine pushes up Will’s raw throat. He sinks closer again, wrapping an unsteady hand over Hannibal’s in the hopes of tasting him one more time.

“Mm,” Hannibal grunts a quiet hum of satisfaction, his free hand petting Will’s head to accept and direct him again. Will sighs at the touch and lets Hannibal rub the slick, leaking tip over his lips, painting his mouth in leftover cum, before he pushes in again, shallow and lazy – not a hint of the savagery that brought them to this moment. Will moans through his nose, swirling his tongue around the head, catching up the pleasant tang of cum that he’d barely been able to savor before, and weakly sucks for the last remnants of pleasure before Hannibal softens against his palate. Despite all that Hannibal has done to him, he feels hungry, compelled to gorge himself before the experience ends and all he has again are memories.

“Good,” Hannibal murmurs, his voice husky. He caresses the hollowing of Will’s cheeks again, and Will whimpers at the praise and the soft affection after the harsh use of his mouth – at the acceptance that continues long after Hannibal could have thrown him off his lap.

“Good,” Hannibal repeats, and Will’s brow furrows against the sting of tears. 

Hannibal allows him a few more moments of languid sucking, and Will tries to luxuriate in each one before Hannibal breaks the seal of his mouth with a prod of his thumb. Softly, without reprimand, Hannibal whispers that that’s enough. Will wishes for a few more minutes, but he is tired and coming down and Hannibal is spent and sensitive. 

At Hannibal’s command, he settles down with his cheek against Hannibal’s thigh again, his eyes closed, and tells himself that Hannibal has given him more than he should’ve ever asked for, that he should be grateful for this alone. Hannibal fingers slip through his hair, soothing him and encouraging the slow flow of a tear over the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do now; he only wants to remain here in the warm glow of Hannibal’s attention. 

He’s uncertain of how much time has passed when Hannibal leans over him and kisses his temple. “Sit up. I’ll be back shortly.”

Will’s eyes flicker open, and he wants to protest, but he feels too pliant and hungry for Hannibal’s approval to do anything but obey. His head sways like driftwood in a current when he straightens, and he rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes, groping for clear vision and steadiness. He feels Hannibal stand, followed by the shuffle of his clothing, and Will peers up at him, wanting to see him bare one last time. 

He swallows, his throat sore, as he watches Hannibal tuck himself back into his underwear and reattach the shirt stays. The performance of dressing is as riveting as the inverse was, perhaps more so now that Will has seen and touched what lies underneath. 

When Hannibal’s pants are buttoned, he looks flawless again, Will thinks. The only hint on his body of what occurred is a slight flush on his cheeks and throat that is already fading. Meanwhile, Will remains a debauched mess at his feet with his pants and boxers around his ankles, his cock half-flushed, his hair disheveled and his face bearing every mark of sex — gleaming with sweat, tears, and saliva, bright pink and swollen. 

Hannibal touches his head as he slips around him, his palm warm and reassuring at Will’s crown, and Will struggles against tears again. He feels unbearably fragile without him, fearful of entertaining such dependency, yet drawn to it all the same. He watches Hannibal leave the room and worries at his lower lip with his teeth as he glances around the empty room that regards him with stately, enigmatic silence. Without Hannibal, the vulnerability of his naked, private parts is cold and unappealing. Sniffing, he awkwardly sets about pulling his pants and underwear up, his fingers unwieldy with the buttons and buckle of his belt. 

When he’s clothed, he looks at Hannibal’s chair again in front of him, and overwhelmed by exhaustion and emotion too difficult to parse, lies his forehead down against the seat where the leather is warm from Hannibal’s body. 

He remains prone there, vaguely listening to Hannibal enter and leave the room a second time, until Hannibal returns to him and squeezes the back of his neck gently, stirring Will from his half-dozing repose that Will didn’t realize he fell into.

 Will lifts his head and rubs at his eyes again. “Sorry,” he murmurs, his voice raspy.

“No need to apologize. You will need your rest. You exerted yourself very thoroughly.” Hannibal sits again and cradles Will’s jaw in one hand. With the other, he begins to apply a warm, wet washcloth to Will’s mouth, cheeks, and chin. “And very beautifully,” Hannibal adds in a murmur, smiling softly. “Your passion is much to be admired in its raw, unfiltered state, Will.”

A tremulous smile flits over Will’s lips even as the praise and attentive care usher a new rush of tears to his eyes. Hannibal’s attention so quickly washes away his doubt, undoes his shame with such ease. He doesn’t know what to say so he says nothing and lets his lids shut over the escaping emotion. Hannibal gives no comment on his crying either. He simply dabs away the tears along with the spit and semen, then moves on to Will’s hand with meticulous care. His expression remains focused yet placid, until Will’s face and hands are drying under the warmth of the fire. 

Releasing his chin, Hannibal sets aside the cloth and takes a cup from the side table. “Drink some water,” he directs. “All of it.”

Will takes the glass with weak hands, cupping it in both his palms to lift it to his lips. His stomach is still queasy and emptying the cup takes several small sips, but Hannibal doesn’t rush him. The cool liquid soothes his throat and settles his nausea, and when he drains the last of the water, he feels calmer and clearer. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, handing the glass back. 

“You’re most welcome.” Hannibal brushes his knuckles along Will’s cheekbone with a warm smile as he takes the glass, and Will’s chest rises with a shuddering inhale. The small gesture makes him want to fall into Hannibal’s lap again, but he keeps himself upright. 

“Now,” Hannibal says, turning to the side table again to leave the cup with the washcloth and pick up a wooden box that Will hasn’t noticed until now. The finish on the fine-grained mahogany gleams like all of Hannibal’s costly belongings, bearing little gold latches that Will has no doubt are authentic. A pedal in the shape of a shoe sole sits atop, made of the same buttery wood and raised at a small fifteen degree angle. Will takes it in with a pulse of heat to his flagging erection; a keen twist in his gut tells him exactly what the little box is for.

“If we are to do this properly,” Hannibal says, opening the box to retrieve several items from within, “you must also respect the quality and craftsmanship of the shoe. Genuine leather requires dutiful maintenance, especially if you intend to soil them frequently.”

The instruction is given with a hint of playful amusement, and Will feels nervous but aroused laughter quelling in his raw throat. 

“Have you ever shined a shoe before?” Hannibal asks, laying out a tin, two small, glass jars, two white cloths, and a handheld brush.

“Never,” Will says with a shake of his head, another anxious laugh bolting out of him. “Never owned shoes this expensive before.”

“The only true requirements are dedication and persistence which you are in no short supply of.” Hannibal settles the box down on the floor, and Will shifts back to allow room, almost too distracted by what is about to happen to relish in Hannibal’s praise again as Hannibal settles his foot in the pedal. 

“First things first,” Hannibal says, taking the tin from the table. “Clean the mess you’ve made.”

Will flushes as he hesitantly takes the tin from Hannibal’s hand. The label reads “saddle soap,” and when he opens the lid, he finds a small, round sponge inside, nestled atop the solid, creamy substance. 

“Light, circular motions will do. Give them as much attention as you did with your mouth, and you will not go wrong.” Hannibal smiles as he sits back, propping his elbow on the arm again. 

With his posture relaxed, his foot raised on the pedal, and his knees ajar, he looks much less severe than when the evening had begun, yet no less powerful. His casual elegance and commanding presence that Will has never seen in this light before stirs his stomach, and he wonders again how he will go from here, how he will even begin to make himself leave. For the moment, he decides to let the next task that Hannibal has assigned him envelope him fully.

He nods and shifts closer with his knees framing the box as he rubs the sponge into the soap and sets the tin aside. His initial efforts are halting and uncertain, guided by a latent fear that he will make a mistake despite Hannibal’s reassurances, but each circle of the pad over the leather becomes easier. His touch glides over the soft sheen of soap and suds, painting whorls of cream on the canvas of chestnut. 

If he is honest, the task calms the anxiety fighting to engulf his nerves. He feels like less of a child, less of a burden with the responsibility of restoring Hannibal’s shoes in his hands. At least, in this he is not asking for more of Hannibal’s effort and attention. He lets the rhythm, the scent of the soap, and the sound and sensation of the pad against the leather lull him into a single-minded concentration.

He pays special attention to the insides of the shoes and the facings which took the most abuse and finishes off with a circle around the toe cap. He bites nervously at his lip as Hannibal leans forward to inspect the work. He gives only a short nod before replacing his soapy, left shoe with his stained, right one, and relieved by Hannibal’s apparent satisfaction, Will eagerly starts again. 

When both shoes have been scrubbed down, Hannibal hands him one of the cloths from the side table. “Give them a wipedown, wait five minutes, and then we may begin conditioning.”

Will nods, and quickly does as he’s told, swiping away the saddle soap gently. He prods under the facings and swallows at the memory of licking them with animalistic fervor and lust.

Hannibal touches his head as he finishes wiping down the shoes, and Will leans into him, a tremor passing through him. He rests his cheek against Hannibal’s leg and grips his pant leg, tries to ground himself in the petting of Hannibal’s fingers through his hair. 

He wants to continue accepting Hannibal’s touch, but the uncertainty of its presence in the future tightens his throat simultaneously. Hannibal is still his psychiatrist, and if this was meant as a purely therapeutic exercise, the objective will be met as soon as he is finished shining Hannibal’s shoes. They will be required to return to their former roles, complete with the typical boundaries of a professional relationship. 

“That’s long enough,” Hannibal says, patting his head, and Will ducks his head, blinking away any expression of distress. Grateful for the next task with which to distract himself, he sits back to accept the next jar of product. 

“This is natural, so you may apply it with your fingers,” Hannibal says as he unscrews the lid and sets it aside. Taking Will’s right hand, he directs his first two fingers to dip into the conditioner with his grip closed gently over Will’s. The conditioner is silky and smooth under Will’s fingers, sending a soft shiver of pleasure up his arm. 

“This is how you get them so soft,” he murmurs, his voice husky in his own ears 

Hannibal’s mouth is bent near his temple again, and Will feels him smile. “Yes. You must respect the artistry as much as you allow it to command your pleasure.”

Despite his ruminations, Will’s chest flutters as Hannibal sets the jar aside and presses his fingers to the toe cap. “Light to medium pressure,” he whispers in Will’s ear, guiding Will’s fingers into a slow, firm circle that is too reminiscent of his tongue’s same circuit. 

He nods, struck mute by the warmth of Hannibal’s hand over his own and wet smear of the conditioner over the leather. He’s disappointed when Hannibal releases him to allow him independent motion, but he swallows it back, reminding himself that Hannibal has done enough. He tries to focus himself on the details of the conditioning, ensuring that each centimeter of leather receives the proper care. In the firelight, the places that he massages begin to gleam brightly again, glowing almost golden, and Will inhales shakily as he recognizes the desire to drop down to face again. 

Your therapy is too good, Dr. Lecter , he thinks, frowning against frustration and helpless laughter at the ridiculous situation. 

“What is it?” Hannibal asks from above him.

Will grimaces. Whatever barriers he’s managed to erect between himself and the world no longer exist at Hannibal’s feet. He’s let Hannibal strip him bare and see him beyond the faulty veil of respectability that he has shrouded himself with since those painful, awakening moments of maturity in which he saw with absolute understanding his lack of belonging; and he still cannot quite embrace the acceptance — towards himself or from Hannibal — for fear that it is only one of life’s great, cosmic jokes against him. It already feels like a joke that he’s been allowed such great pleasure and may never feel it again. 

“You didn’t have to… do this for me,” he finally manages to say.

“Was it only for you?” Hannibal teases softly, a smile playing at his lips. 

Will glances up at him. It’s quid pro quo after all then , he thinks, more resigned to the clarification that he knows he should be. He should be grateful for anything at all.

“Yeah, you’re right.” He utters a short, choked laugh on a sore throat, flashing hot at the memory of choking on Hannibal’s cock. Ducking his head, he dips into the conditioner again and circles the toe of Hannibal’s shoe, slow and firm, his throat quivering. 

Hannibal lets him work for a moment before he says in a quieter, sober tone, “I know what it is to feel a little relief when it comes to your darker urges, Will.”

 Will looks up at him again, his hand going still, that fluttering warmth filling his chest again, the stupid hopeful bird of his heart fighting at the cage of his ribs. Hannibal stares back at him intently, the smallest tension in his brow above the molten darkness of his eyes which seek to penetrate Will’s skin to his bone and brain matter. 

“Why would I deny you that?” Hannibal murmurs, reaching out a hand to briefly stroke Will’s cheekbone.  

Will’s lashes flicker against a fresh sting at his lids, and he dips his chin towards his chest. He latches his gaze back on the shoe and the task at hand, looking for a place between the terrifying vulnerability and the warm urge to throw himself into the safety of Hannibal’s lap again.

“A little?” He finally manages a joke, casting Hannibal a wry smile. 

“Or,” Hannibal murmurs, “however much you may need.”

Will stares at him, anxiety and relief clashing at once. If Hannibal is offering himself for further sessions, then Will thinks he has everything he has ever wanted — and anything he’s ever feared. The safety of his desires being hidden and the lack of expectation that anyone will ever be able to satisfy them will be gone. He won’t be able to go back; but maybe he already threw himself past the point of no return when he opened his mouth and decided to tell Hannibal his secret.

“Wasn’t once bad enough?” he asks, his tone coming off more caustic than he had intended as he shines the toe cap, more vigorously than before. “For our patient/therapist relationship, I mean. We keep doing this, and that’s… pretty much done for.”

Hannibal’s hand intrudes into his line of vision, catching his frantic fingers and bringing them to halt. “Are you my patient, Will?” Hannibal asks.

“Isn’t that why you made me tell you this in the first place?”

“I told you from the very beginning that therapy with me is whatever you need it to be.”

Will swallows roughly, staring at Hannibal's intent expression for a moment before he looks away and scrapes his teeth over his lower lip. “A support group is a lot different then…ah, friends with benefits.”

“Would you prefer to continue as a support group?”

Will shakes his head, slipping his hand out of Hannibal's grasp as he tries to laugh again. “I’m just saying… There won’t be any more boundaries.”

“At times, boundaries may be limiting to growth. While they protect you from the unsafe influences beyond them, they can also stand guard against positive, transformative experiences. This evening, for example. 

“Some people could say this is unsafe.”

“Do you feel unsafe with me?”

Will stares down at his hands in his lap, rubbing his thumb over his fingers that are stained with shoe conditioner. He feels helpless and hopeful all at once, trapped by the small taste of pleasure and wanting so terribly to feel it again — plagued by the knowledge that no matter his fear, Hannibal is the only person with whom he ever has felt entirely safe. 

“No,” he finally says with an exhale. “I feel… Seen… Understood.”

Hannibal is quiet for a moment before he touches under Will’s chin to guide Will’s eyes towards him again. 

“There,” he murmurs, a smile tilting the corners of his mouth as he swipes away a stray tear from Will’s cheek. His expression holds no expectation or judgment, only satisfaction that he knows Will more intimately than anyone, and that makes Will’s breath shake too because he thinks he could walk away now if only Hannibal did not want him this way, and Will did not want to be wanted. 

“Do you?” Will finally asks, his voice stiff and brittle, underlaid by a fragile hopefulness.

“Yes,” Hannibal says simply, the affirmative unemotional but honest. He seems unbothered by the concept while Will feels the relief like a tidal wave. He tries to contain it as Hannibal looks over his face and fixes a curl that is askew at his forehead. 

 “It’s far too late and the weather too treacherous for travel tonight,” Hannibal says. “You will stay in the guest room and get the proper rest that you deserve.”

Will nods, weak all over again with Hannibal’s steady direction and the relief that he can luxuriate in it a bit longer. “Yes, sir,” he whispers, the words slipping off his tongue before he can tell himself that it’s no longer appropriate.

Hannibal’s eyes meet his own again, a warm smile spreading across his face. “Good. Then we had better finish this up so you can get the proper rest that you deserve.”

Hannibal sits back, taking the handheld brush from the table, and when Will accepts it into his hand, he feels the weight of it like a promise. This won’t be the last time.