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Will finds himself standing outside of a familiar door. Yet again. He is quickly made aware that he is wringing his hands, a bid to squeeze out all of his nervous energy. He halts and shakes his wrists out, straightening his posture and smoothing the fabric buttoned around his torso.
It’s odd, how exposed he feels, given that he is wearing several more layers than he normally would. The maroon button-up is typical. The color isn’t one that he would typically opt for, it sends the phantom scent of blood, sharp and metallic, shooting up his nose at a glance… but he has noticed the way that Doctor Lecter’s gaze lingers around his neckline where fabric often lies loose enough to expose his collarbone. Those amber eyes broil him alive when he dresses in anything close to crimson, as if desiring an opportunity to sink sharp teeth in deep, an attempt at staining the cloth an admittedly far-too-similar hue.
Will clears his throat, correcting his necktie with a grimace of discomfort. The Quantico professor rarely wears one while away from his teaching post, and right now, it feels much like the reins that he is so often hitched by. The tie is difficult to adjust, though, with the way it is tucked neatly within the confines of a black waistcoat, which hugs his frame with well-tailored, restrictive delicacy. His mind compares the tightness to a corset—a bitter musing, but one that he gladly welcomes for the chance of seeing Doctor Lecter’s reaction. To bring everything together, his whole frame is draped in a black wool overcoat, intricate red roses hand-embroidered into each lapel, which sit smooth and crisp atop his chest. His black chinos, comparatively, are nothing noteworthy, but Hannibal never needed much convincing to check out that part of him.
One sharp knock later and the door swings open, as if his psychiatrist had been waiting, just beyond the threshold, for his arrival.
“Will. Please—“ Doctor Hannibal Lecter steps back with a welcoming gesture. Will catches the way those amber eyes quickly size him up, drinking in every detail like a parched man in a desert. “—have you come from some FBI gala?”
Will scoffs. “If there had been a gala, I trust that you know you would have been invited long before me.” His voice comes out gruffer than he means for it to. In any case, Hannibal doesn’t seem to mind, closing the door behind him with a breezy smile.
“Do not sell yourself short, Will. You can be marvelous company… when you set your mind to it.”
Will flashes a warning glare over his shoulder as he wanders the room with an ease and grace attributed only to familiarity, running daring hands over the books, furniture, sculptures, walls.
Hannibal merely watches with a slight tilt of his head. They both know that this sort of intrusive behavior would not fly with anyone… anyone but Will, that is. “What shall be our topic of discussion today?”
Will glances over absently. “What do you think?”
“As far as I am concerned, this hour belongs solely to you, Will,” Hannibal’s eyes glint with something unknown in the low light of his office. “I am at the mercy of your whims.”
Will puffs out a breath of annoyance as he shucks off his coat, lazily tossing it over the back of the chaise while hiding his glee as Hannibal’s brows tighten with momentary displeasure. Whether that concern is for his furniture or the wellbeing of Will’s tailored coat is unclear, but it hardly matters to Will, the younger man is thankful just to be able to provoke any semblance of emotion in his otherwise placid psychiatrist.
Hannibal seats himself calmly, crossing his legs with an eloquence that makes Will’s skin feel a bit too tight on his body. Those copper eyes burn the FBI profiler as they track him to the opposing seat, which he takes quickly and with far less grace, slumping down with a low grunt. It doesn’t escape Will’s notice that the sound perks Hannibal ever-so-slightly.
“Now,” Hannibal clears his throat, a deep, rough noise, and Will feels perked in turn. “You are sure that there is nothing specific you wish to discuss, Will?”
Will stares.
“Very well,” Hannibal clasps his hands in his lap as his gaze remains unwavering even in the face of Will’s chilly silence. “Let us begin with your choice in clothing today, then.”
“What of it?” Will growls.
Hannibal merely smiles.
Will looks away. “…I thought it looked nice.”
“Yes?”
“What are you getting at?” The profiler snaps in response.
“It is quite different from your usual fashion…” Atrocities. “…decisions.”
“Figured you’d appreciate it, at least.” Comes a reluctant grumble.
Hannibal only smiles brighter. “I do.”
Will blinks, his dark lashes flitting up once more. Cold, but warming. He shifts in his chair, legs spreading further in their already wide-set stance.
Hannibal watches his every movement with calculating intensity, reading into every twitch of Will’s eyes, every clench of his jaw. “Is that the only reason?”
The psychiatrist sounds so disgustingly smug that Will can’t stifle the growl that escapes his throat. “I hardly took it into consideration.”
“Naturally. You are not the self-conscious type, Will,” Hannibal sits back, uncrossing his own legs. “It does not suit you.”
“The outfit, or the awareness?”
Hannibal’s eyes squint up in amusement.
Will finds himself getting real sick of those armor-piercing eyes. “Do you have a bathroom?” He surprises himself with the knowledge that he’s never asked this question before, despite the amount of times he’s come in fevered and dripping with sweat.
Hannibal gestures to a dark wooden door at the far corner of the office. “May I ask what for?”
“You may not.”
“You seek to change.”
“Stop fucking doing that.”
“I am your psychiatrist, Will, it is my job to understand you.”
“I was under the impression that we were just ‘having conversations’.”
Hannibal grins and, God, the glint of those teeth seems more wicked than usual. “Do you have something to change into?”
“I’m wearing clothes beneath.”
“One of your white undershirts, I presume?”
Will looks a bit startled by this before furrowing his brows. “Oh.. oh, of course you’ve been snooping around my fucking house.”
“That’s a quick leap to make.”
Will notices how Hannibal does not attempt to deny it. “Whatever. Give me five minutes… and, Hannibal?”
“Yes, Will?”
“God, I cannot believe I’m saying this to my fucking shrink—We’re gonna have a serious talk about boundaries when I come out.”
“As you wish.”
Will grunts as he stands, ignoring the way Hannibal’s tongue glosses his lips at the sight of the younger man’s figure, cinched tight by the pitch black waistcoat.
The profiler makes his way to the bathroom, quickly closing the door behind him with a deep exhale. Finally. Peace and solitude. He sets to work removing the far-too-many layers, unbuttoning the waist coat, lowering the suspenders, loosening his tie. He braces himself over the sink on rough hands, closing his eyes in relief as the pressure against his skin lessens. He takes a moment to decompress in the silence, but the silence, itself, is short lived.
“Will?”
Will grits his teeth. Before he can part his lips to reply, he is shocked to hear the doorhandle jiggle. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised as it opens, given that he’s just been made more than aware of his psychiatrist’s nosy and intrusive behavior. “Doctor...” He growls in warning.
“You said you were only removing layers, I knew you would not be in an inappropriate state of undress.” Hannibal clarifies.
“Still doesn’t explain why you’re barging in.”
“I would hardly call this ‘barging’.”
“It’s rude, Hannibal,” Will grits in exasperation. “Shockingly rude.”
Will had been expecting Hannibal’s sensibilities to make the older man flinch at the accusation, but (this time, at least) Hannibal hardly seems affected at all. He feels those warm eyes drag down his body and it feels as if they are tearing open the fabric, seeking to both witness and broil the skin hidden beneath. “I was making certain that you did not require assistance…” that low voice trails off and Will knows exactly why. He can feel where that heated gaze has landed. He beams inwardly, knowing that wearing his normal chinos was, in fact, a good idea.
“Does it look like I need help?”
Hannibal doesn’t reply.
Will stares forward through his brows, watching through the mirror as Hannibal approaches behind him. “Doctor…” he warns lowly once more.
“Will…”
Will flinches when he feels strong hands run over his hips. “Fuck!” He pulls back sharply, only to feel five fingers suddenly leap to find purchase in his hair, shoving his face up against his chilly reflection with impressive force.
Hannibal’s breathing is quickening. Will knows by now that this bodily reaction isn’t due to stress or fear. No, it’s excitement. ’A low heart rate is a true indicator of one's capacity for violence’, after all. Will is surprised to find that his own heart is not thundering from any sort of panic, either. Fuck it, maybe he is ‘predisposed’.
“What… do you...” Will clears his sandpaper throat. “What are you doing, Hannibal?”
“You wore this for me.” Will’s head is shoved harder into the mirror as a rough punctuation of the words.
Will gives a breathy chuckle, strained, splintered, and indignant where it leaves his lips.
“Which means…” the hand that is not currently pinning Will’s cheek to the glass moves to grip the unbuttoned waistcoat in a balled fist. “This… all of this… is mine.”
Will can’t help it: he shivers. HARD. A full body tremble that shocks him like an earthquake. He’s still unsteady on his feet when he feels Hannibal’s deft hands continue what he, himself, had started. “Hannibal—fuck—wait…!” He reaches back to slap those hands away only for his legs to buckle and nearly send him crumpling to the floor as Hannibal’s hips rock forward against him.
“Look at yourself…” comes a low grunt of approval. A soft whine parts Will’s lips as his head is tugged back by his curls, forcing him to meet his own half-lidded gaze. “I said LOOK.” Hannibal snarls, his upper lip curling as he thrusts forward again, sending Will’s forehead thudding into the mirror.
The profiler groans softly, his skull pounding from the force of the impact.
Hannibal, for all of his unadulterated malevolence, slows his advances. “Will…” the older man’s breathing is still ragged, but it is thinned with caution.. and a twinge of concern.
Will finds it within himself to belt out a sharp laugh of disdain at the psychiatrist’s apprehension. “Why did you stop?”
The way that Hannibal’s eyes light up in the mirror is nothing short of maddening. They don’t glow, they burn. The flames lick at Will’s skin, equal parts metaphorical and literal, as, the second his waistcoat and shirt hit the floor, Hannibal is tasting the sweat pooling along the dip in the younger man’s spine.
“Fuck, Hanni—Doctor Lecter—just—“
“Human connection knows no boundaries, Will,” Hannibal’s voice rumbles right next to Will’s ear, close enough to feel the heat of his breath. “We engage in acts of intimacy for many reasons, not the least of which being the endless pursuit of ‘pleasure’.”
Will chuckles breathlessly. “How hedonistic of you, Doctor.”
“I consider myself to be far more aligned with utilitarianism.”
“You do not care about the wellbeing of humanity. You could use your mind to topple dictators if you wanted to. You don’t,” Will points out. “So, you are ‘utilitarian‘ toward what end?”
Hannibal smiles.
Will falters for a brief moment. “Toward… my end?”
“The wolf is forever doomed to consume the lamb… I aim to convince you to shed the wool coat that you hide beneath.” Hannibal’s eyes are no longer meeting Will’s in the mirror, they are instead raking over every facet of his body as though the psychiatrist was starving and the profiler was a five course meal.
“I do not hide.”
Hannibal arches a brow. “Then disrobe.”
“Metaphorically, or—“
“You know what I am asking, Will.”
Will swallows. It does nothing to ease the lump in his throat, but he pushes off of the counter obediently as soon as Hannibal releases his skull. One deep breath and nervous shake-out of his hands later, he begins working on his belt with all of the fumbling nervousness of an overly-excited teenager. “Never done this before…” he winces at how abnormally apologetic his voice sounds.
Hannibal, who is standing as pin-straight and forboding as ever, tilts his head inquisitively. “Had intercourse with a man?”
“…had intercourse.” Will corrects abruptly, hating the sharp flood of heat to his cheeks. Frankly, he’s a little surprised he has blood left enough to spare for matters of visible embarrassment.
Hannibal is stunned into silence for a moment, which Will wishes he could savor, but he’s rendered too busy stumbling to free his foot from the prison of his pant leg to be smug. “You sought to seduce me in order to change that?”
Will sighs, tossing his pants aside. “You don’t need to make it sound so pathetic, you already won…”
“There is no winning in matters relating to the heart, Will.”
“You make what we’re about to do sound almost romantic.” Will chuffs bitterly.
“Isn’t it?”
Will looks up, confusion contorting his pouting features. “…Is it?”
“It does not have to be.” Hannibal sounds ever-so-slightly resigned.
Oh, a wound. Will presses his finger in. “You want it to be.”
Hannibal glowers. “I did not say as much.”
“You didn’t need to…” Will pauses, staring at Hannibal through the mirror. “Are you… in love with me?”
The silence that follows is answer enough.
Will grunts softly, lowering his torso back over the counter. “‘No winning in matters of the heart’, right? But it seems you have a prize waiting to be accepted, regardless,” he looks back over shoulder with the coyest expression he can muster. “Aren’t you going to take it?”
Hannibal is not a man that needs to be told twice. He is behind Will again in an instant, but he seems somewhat nervous… for Hannibal’s standards, at least. “You are aware of what I wish to do?”
“I can feel it well enough to know, Doctor.”
“Do I need to prep you?”
Will raises a brow and they make eye contact through the mirror.
Hannibal scowls in the silence Will leaves. “Must you make me say it?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Will knows. They both do. But why ruin the fun? “Please, Doctor, proceed.”
Hannibal clears his throat to mask a low growl, his fingers hooking over Will’s waistband. “I am going to insert my fingers inside of you, Will.”
Will’s body reacts more than he wants. Hannibal’s voice affects him far more than he’d ever admit to. This may be a lesson in relenting to intemperance for both of them.
A hand traces Will’s spine. Fuck, Hannibal definitely notices the goosebumps. “I am going to stretch you on my fingers,” he sounds predictably more shit-eating this time. “And you will take it, mylimasis. Without complaint.”
“—Like I do with everything else relating to you.”
“I seem to remember quite a lot of complaint in that regard.”
“Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, Doctor.”
“Do I look so starved?”
Will looks over his shoulder, eyes dark and lidded, as Hannibal’s impatient hands begin to tug down the last of Will’s clothing. “Yes.”
Hannibal’s gaze is pulled away from Will’s the second the younger man’s briefs hit the floor. “I am going to take you within an inch of your life…” those breathy words sound like they escape accidentally.
Will shivers anyways.
“You like my voice.” Hannibal comments.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Do you prefer it to my hands?” The strong fingers upon Will’s hip squeeze a moan past his lips.
“You askin’ if I can get my rocks off just by havin’ you talk dirty to me?”
Hannibal’s eyes narrow at the crude language. “Not quite how I would phrase it.”
“…Maybe. You wanna find out?”
Hannibal stiffens in more than one way.
“You like my voice, too, don’t you, Doctor?”
“Do not mock me, Will.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it…” Will smiles, mostly to himself. “Fuck me.”
The sound that exits Hannibal’s chest is nothing short of animal.
The minx that sits caged inside of Will’s chest is clawing at his ribcage. It desires freedom. Will is inclined to provide it. “Hannibal… I need you… want to feel you inside of me… fuck, I can feel your cock against me…”
The grip the older man has on his hips increases to the point of bruising—as if Will minds being marked by Hannibal. As if it is even possible for him to be marked more than he already is. Well, they’re certainly on track for finding out, aren’t they?
“I’m going to fuck you,” Will jolts as that heady swear escapes Hannibal’s decorous lips in such an effortless way that it feels unwitting. Will, however, knows better than to believe that. No, Hannibal is as placid as ever, that word choice was deliberate. “I am going to make you mine, and you’re going to beg for me to cum inside of you. Am I clear?”
Will’s head lolls against the mirror as Hannibal’s words pull a shuddering moan past his lips.
If the sharp slap against Will’s cheek is anything to go by, Hannibal is displeased by the lack of a verbal response. “Am I clear, Will?”
Will nods quickly. “Yes..! Fuck, yes, crystal!” He gasps out as Hannibal’s fingers find his jaw, turning his face back towards the mirror.
“Good. I aim to change you, tonight, Will,” the profiler feels saliva drip down his ass as Hannibal pauses. “Keep your eyes forward. I want you to watch what I can force out of you… And, Will?”
Will blinks blearily.
“…If I catch you looking at anything else,” Hannibal’s voice drops an octave. “Mark my words: I will restrain you, nude and blindfolded, beneath my desk for the forseeable future, keeping good ol’ Jack wondering just what has become of his prized little teacup.”
That is the last of the verbal warmups that Will receives before the pressure of a finger against his hole pushes a strangled groan from his lips. The burn is unavoidable, he knows that. He just has to grin and bear it, but that still doesn’t stop the involuntary attempt at escapism conducted by his hips.
A sharp slap against his ass is a quick solution to this particular problem. “Do. Not. Move.” Hannibal seethes through gritted teeth.
Will jolts as a second finger joins the fray, scissoring him open with practiced ease. “Done this before?” He just barely manages to rasp out.
A soft hum is all he gets in reply.
Will tries again. “To someone else..? Or yourself?”
Hannibal cocks a brow in the mirror. “You’ll find out after I’m done with you. Not before.”
“Then stop stalling and—oughhh…” Will flushes beet red as an unrestrained moan effectively silences his chastisement.
“There?”
“Oh, fuck, yes, there, right there..! Oh, god—“
“That’s it… let go for me, mylimasis…”
Will whimpers as those fingers leave him empty and trembling. “Wait, don’t—oh—“
Hannibal had somehow found enough time to fish his cock out, stroke it to full hardness, and position it against Will’s (now more or less) virgin hole. “Deep breath.” The doctor commands firmly, gripping one side of Will’s ass as he pushes forward. “Relax, Will…”
“Hannibal, wait, please, I think—“
“No.”
“What—“ Will’s eyes bulge as the head of Hannibal’s cock finds the force it needs to pop past his reddened rim. “FUCK!”
“Mio Dio, mio angelo, ti senti così bene, così bene per me,” Hannibal groans, his worths slurring together with nearly indecipherable speed. “Puoi prenderlo, būk už mane geras…”
Will can barely think with the way Hannibal’s voice slithers into his skull and squeezes his brain to a pulp. He doesn’t understand most of these words. ‘My God’ and ‘Angel’ are difficult to miss, but the profiler’s Italian is far from decent. Then, there’s the last statement. Will doesn’t even recognize the phonetics of that language.
“Tu es si bon…”
“English, Hannibal, please—“ Will would wince at the pitchiness of his own voice if he had it in him to focus on anything other than the continuous sheathing of Hannibal’s cock. However, he does notice when Hannibal leans over him, mainly because he is helpless to look anywhere but the mirror.
“…You feel so fucking good.”
That translation is spoken directly in Will’s ear and he belts out a sharp cry as his release paints the front of the cabinet. His legs shake something fierce, threatening to drop him to the floor at any moment, but that is a potential occurrence that Hannibal is seemingly not keen on permitting. A strong arm hugs beneath the juncture of Will’s hips, merely keeping him steady to begin with and then lifting him entirely, his feet barely brushing the floor.
“Nous n'avons pas fini,” Hannibal growls as Will begins to whine from overstimulation. “Rimanere fermo.”
It occurs to Will in that moment, as Hannibal’s hips come to rest against his rear, that the older man hasn’t even truly started.
“Ar tu pasiruošęs?” Hannibal pants, as if enough blood had left his brain to force his speech to default back into his native tongue. He quickly corrects himself. “Are you ready, Will?”
Will can barely nod, his jaw going slack as he stares into the mirror. Hannibal looks a right mess: eyes dark and lidded, hair tousled and falling into his eyes, lips peeled back to reveal those nearly inhuman fangs. It should probably be daunting, but it’s a relief, really, since Will has been the only one left bare (both literally and metaphorically) through this encounter so far. It’s nice to see Hannibal as something almost imperfect for once.
But even as pain rockets up Will’s spine from the slow backward drag of the other man’s cock, he realizes that, even here, even now, grunting and coated with a sheen of sweat, Hannibal is still fucking perfect. Will tries to think—and fuck, it’s difficult—but he searches his mind desperately. Creole won’t work, he needs something more formal. God, he’s useless, why can’t he remember a lick of French from highschool?
And then it hits him. And so he speaks:
“Je t'aime.”
Hannibal freezes the second those words are given life outside of Will’s mind. Will watches the older man process the sudden declaration in the mirror, watches him look down in what can only be described as utter shock.
“Je t'aime, Hannibal.” Will repeats, unsure if Hannibal had even heard him properly.
“Tu… tu m'aimes ? Will, toi… encore. S'il te plaît, répète-le.” Hannibal’s arm rises around Will’s chest, lifting him up from the counter and turning him around to meet his gaze.
Will forces a nervous laugh. “My French isn’t that good, Doctor…”
Hannibal’s strong hands find Will’s face and keep it steady. “Again.”
Will takes a shaky breath, forcing himself to maintain eye contact. “I love you, Hannibal.”
And then Hannibal’s lips are crashing into his, forcing himself back into the counter in a way that would certainly hurt more if it weren’t for the flood of oxytocin currently pickling his brain. “Je t'aime, ti amo, aš tave myliu,” the psychiatrist breathes through bruising kisses. “I love you.”
Will can’t help it, he laughs. It’s real this time, though. He can’t remember the last time he’d laughed in a way that wasn’t all breath and unease. This chuckle bubbles from the pit of his chest, effortless and giddy.
Hannibal lifts him onto the counter, shoving his legs apart in a way that is equal parts desperate and unceremonious. Will can’t even bring himself to mind.
“O-oh, fuck, Hannibal—“ Will shifts his hips to allow better access, a gesture that the psychiatrist accept with gusto, yanking him back onto his cock in one, swift movement. Will slumps back against the mirror, staring deep into Hannibal’s eyes as he takes him. Raw, rough, but no less loving. Will knows that, now. He’s reminded of a quote from a show he used to watch in order to cope with the hardships of his job: ’People improve when they are given external love and support, so how can we hold it against them when they don't?’ Hard times breed strong men. Pain is all that Hannibal has ever known, it makes sense that it should also be the only way he knows how to love. No matter. Now that Will knows that the feeling is mutual, he can work with whatever the older man is willing to give him. “Fuck, more, please…”
“Sì? Ti fa sentire bene? Clever boy, guarda cosa mi stai facendo,” Hannibal laughs to himself before the thrusts of his hips suddenly increase in speed. “Qualsiasi cosa per te...”
Will is really going to need to take some Italian lessons. They’ll have time for that. More than enough money, too. “We could disappear...” Will pants softly as Hannibal’s movements slow to a slow grind. “Tonight. I-I’ll feed my dogs... I’ll leave a note for Alana, she’ll take care of them, I know she will. I’ll never... f-fuck, ngh, right there… hah... I’ll never have to see Jack again…” his excitement is palpable. Finally, a future that looks something other than bleak.
Hannibal’s hips stutter. “You would stay with me?”
Will chuckles, raising a white-knuckled hand to cradle Hannibal’s cheek. “Where else would I go?”
“We are… conjoined.”
“Never took you as an avid enjoyer of euphemisms, Doctor.”
Hannibal is the one who laughs this time and Will can’t help but find the sound more beautiful than jarring, despite its scarcity. “Merely curious to see if either of us could survive separation.”
“I don’t think I ever want to learn the answer to that question.”
“Nor I.”
Will hums softly. “You feel good… sorry for, uh…” he gestures down at the front of the cabinets with an embarrassed chuff.
“Would…” Hannibal clears his throat, his jaw straining. “You want for me to do the same?”
Will’s lashes flutter. “Wha… no. Oh, God, Hannibal, no,” he pants, his legs wrapping tight around the psychiatrist’s hips. “Don’t you even think about it.”
“Will—”
“Cum inside of me, Hannibal.”
Those words are the final push Hannibal needs. Will can feel the release of the coil in the other man’s abdomen. He can feel the throb that courses deep inside of him. He can feel the heat that fills him to the brim with more than one kind of warmth.
Hannibal collapses over him and, again, Will is reminded of just how profoundly human Hannibal really is. Will’s fingers find their way to the older man’s hair, carding through the strands and raking down his neck and shoulders. Hannibal trembles at the gesture.
Hannibal, in turn, holds Will like Atlas cradles the earth, as if his are the arms that the whole world is in. “We cannot control with respect to whom we fall in love.. but even so, I am sure that I would choose you in every lifetime, Will.”
Will chuckles. “We have the rest of this life, at the very least.”
“I could—I will, if you’ll have me,“ Hannibal corrects quickly, uncharacteristically stumbling over his words. “See you every day, forever, Will… and, still, I will always remember this time.”
Will merely smiles. He can’t even begin to picture a world in which things turn out differently than this…
not that he’d ever want to.