status: having fun

“You like being told what to do,” Hannibal observes one night, voice rough and grating. The slick sounds of his hand moving over his cock are so loud Will can hear them through the phone, and it only arouses him more, his own cock leaking profusely as his hips piston desperately into his hand. “You like it when I make you do what I want even if I’m not there.”

“Ah,” is all Will can manage in reply, eyes screwed shut, mouth open and rapidly drying up as he drags in lungful after lungful of air. His hand works faster, hips thrusting upward into his fist and grinding downward into the two fingers slicked copiously with lube he’s stuffed inside himself, chasing the dual sensations of filling and being filled.

Will is well aware of the nature of these services, knows that the grunts and gasps and moans he hears on the other end of the phone are just as much a transaction as the money Will wires Hannibal after every call. He knows better than to think that this is anything but a transaction to Hannibal, to believe that he doesn’t mean all those lovely, ruthless words, that he doesn’t really make the delicious sounds he makes.

But there’s something about the particular nature of him, the shape of his words and the way he says them, that tells Will that none of this is a pretense. Buried somewhere beneath the dispassionate nature of this arrangement is a kernel of truth, of something almost genuine. He believes it when Hannibal gasps out his name, when he tells Will the sounds he makes are like the sweetest music to his ears.

“Add another finger,” Hannibal murmurs, his voice like a dagger wrapped in silk. “And don’t you dare come.”

“God,” Will chokes out, forcing a third finger in beside the first two, blunt nails grazing his prostate. “Oh God, please.”

“God?” Hannibal sounds amused, laughter richening his cruel voice. “God isn’t here, William. It is only me.”

“Hann—” He presses his forehead into the mattress, his breath rattling in his lungs. “Hannibal, please.”

“Please what, darling?”

“Please let me—” Will swallows hard, his throat impossibly dry. “Let me come.”

“Hmm.” He sounds contemplative, teasingly musing. “And what have you done to earn that, sweet Will? What will you do?”

“Anything.” His hips grind into the darts of sensation that travel from his prostate like licks of fire sliding up his spine. “Anything you want.”

“Allow me to come to see you,” Hannibal says. “Let me look at you like this.”

Will hesitates, then. He thinks of what he had promised himself about attachment, and then he thinks of how Hannibal’s voice stays in his ear long after he puts the phone down, how he wakes most mornings with his cock achingly hard in his boxers and his dreams filled with that voice still fresh in his mind. How he spends most days thinking about him, about when he will hear from him next, about what he will make Will do.

“Fine,” he grits out. “Fine, you can come over, just let me fucking come, Hannibal.”

“Excellent,” Hannibal purrs, and Will’s dick twitches. “Say my name, darling Will.”

And all the breath leaving him in a sob as his back arches off the bed, Will does.

~

The doorbell rings, and Will’s heart skips a beat. He smooths the front of his shirt down in an almost unconscious gesture as he walks quickly towards the door, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to get there. There’s only one person it can be on the other end, and he would be lying if he said he hasn’t been counting down every second that had come before this.

He opens the door, and he sees an angel.

The boy is—young. Younger than Will had thought; he can’t possibly be a day over twenty, with smooth, unmarked honey-gold skin and chestnut hair that falls in a glossy curtain over his eyes, his face composed of impossibly sharp angles, all cheekbones and jawline with the striking exception of his plump, pouting mouth.

His tall lithe frame is entirely encased in tight, black leather that leaves nothing to the imagination, clinging to the swell of his biceps and thighs, outlining the sizable bulge between them. His legs look endless, wrapped in thigh-high black boots with stiletto heels that are at least seven inches high.

He’s beautiful, and he looks as though he would taste like pure sin. Will could glut himself on the mere sight of him.

“Hello, Will,” he says. Will has heard that voice purr and whisper and moan, has heard it curled seductively around his name too many times to count. He wants to hear that voice break, tonight.

“Hannibal,” he says, his voice gruff, and he steps aside, pulling the door open wider. “Come in.”

He does, his heels clacking loudly on the floors as Will shuts the door behind him, giving the lock a sharp tug for good measure. It slides home with a conspicuous click, and Hannibal turns to him with an enigmatic smile.

“Not an exhibitionist, then,” he says. “Noted.”

His eyes slide down the length of Will’s body, his gaze as slow and sweet as molasses. Will feels suddenly self-conscious in his flannel shirt and jeans, two days unshaved with uncombed hair and tired eyes. Hannibal’s little smile widens, his pupils swelling in the dimness.

“You are a beautiful man, Will,” he says softly. “Truly.”

“Would you like something to drink?” Will asks abruptly, moving towards the liquor cabinet. He tosses Hannibal a scathing look over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “Are you even legal?”

Hannibal’s face twitches minutely, an expression almost like hurt flitting through his eyes before it vanishes. It makes something ugly inside Will rear up and writhe in pleasure, coarse satisfaction spreading its festering feelers outward in his chest.

“I am,” Hannibal says. “I turned twenty-one earlier this year.”

“Wonderful,” Will says sardonically, pouring out a few fingers of whiskey into two glasses. “I guess I can add ‘fucking a boy young enough to be my son’ to the list of things I’ve done that are technically crimes.”

“And what other technical crimes are on that list?” Hannibal accepts the glass of whiskey without comment, scenting it before taking a delicate sip.

“Shooting a man ten times in the chest at point-blank range.” He turns to Hannibal, whose face is curiously blank. “It would have been a crime if he hadn’t been a killer.”

“A police officer?” Hannibal takes a step towards him, eyes bright and alight with intrigue. “No, not an officer. Not anymore, I think. I can see from your gait and the way you carry yourself that you worked in law enforcement at some point in your youth, but got injured—you favor your left shoulder. You also mirror speech patterns, body language, posture, and avoid eye contact. I would say you may be on the spectrum, or perhaps have trouble with empathy. A cocktail of factors that, coupled with your technical crime and the fact that I remember reading about a similar case in the papers, leads me to believe you lend your services to the FBI.”

Will huffs out a laugh. “You’ve got a keen eye. What are you studying to be, a shrink?”

“A surgeon, actually.” Hannibal knocks back the rest of the whiskey, cheeks already flushed. “I found myself quite short on funding.”

“Evidently.” He drains his own glass. “Why are you here, Hannibal?”

For a brief second, Hannibal looks thrown. He regains his composure remarkably quickly, his countenance smoothing out once more into that mask of teasing curiosity. “I am here for the same reason you first picked up the phone, Will.”

“No, you’re not. Try again.”

Hannibal stares at him, seeming almost confused. Then he says, “I am here to see you. I wanted to see you.”

“And now you’ve seen me.” He gestures down at himself, the words almost a sneer. “You can be on your merry way now.”

“I—”

“My turn,” Will says, interrupting him coldly. “You’re obsessed with power, with the idea of what you hold over your clients. You make them do whatever you want and you get off on it, and so do they. You were always a little different, a little strange. You were born just a little wrong, weren’t you? Just enough to alienate you from everyone you’ve ever met. The way you see the world, the way you see people, nobody sees them that way but you. You’re so above it all, and yet you crave being seen as better, as more than the paltry sum of your parts.”

Surprise fills Hannibal’s pretty face, and this time it has nowhere to go. It remains there, widening his eyes and parting his lips. Will wants to bite him till he bleeds.

“Get on your knees,” Will tells him.

Still staring at him with that stunned expression, Hannibal obeys. Will steps forward, gripping the hair at the back of his head with one hand. He yanks the zip of his jeans down with the other, managing to fumble at the button till it pops open. Hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers he shoves them down his thighs along with his jeans, freeing his already half-hard cock.

Then, without preamble or giving Hannibal any time to react, he shoves it into Hannibal’s open mouth.

Hannibal chokes almost immediately, hands scrabbling uselessly at Will’s legs as his mouth opens wider to take in the sudden intrusion, eyes welling up. Will doesn’t slow or stop until the head of his cock hits the back of Hannibal’s throat—and he’s only halfway inside.

“You’re a fucking brat,” Will says, voice rough. “You’re too used to getting what you want, Hannibal. It’s time you learned some fucking humility.”

He grabs Hannibal’s hair tighter and forces his cock the rest of the way down his throat and the tears in Hannibal’s eyes finally spill over his long lashes, sliding down his cheeks. He’s well and truly choking now, making pitiful little sounds as what little air he is fighting to gasp in is denied to him. He grabs the backs of Will’s thighs, squeezing his eyes shut.

Will lets him take a moment to adjust, for his throat to expand to accommodate the girth of his cock jammed inside it, for him to pull in a single breath through his nose. Then he pulls out of Hannibal’s mouth almost all the way and slams his way back inside in a single, brutal thrust.

Hannibal makes a low, keening sound, his throat convulsing as Will fucks into it again and again and again, not giving him time to do anything but open himself up and take it. And take it he does, his jaw relaxing and loosening, his tongue dragging up and down the underside of his shaft with every thrust. When Will pulls him forward by the hair to meet his next thrust halfway, he hears Hannibal moan.

“Yeah,” Will pants, tightening his hold in Hannibal’s hair. “You like that, don’t you? When I treat you rough, when I fuck your tight little mouth and you’re choking on my dick? You take it so fucking well, baby.”

Hannibal whines, fresh tears spilling down his cheeks as Will rams his cock down his throat, half-blind with desire and power and the sight of Hannibal on his knees, that pretty mouth slick with saliva stretched open wide around him. He could come like this—he wants to come like this. Wants to keep Hannibal here and make him swallow every last drop.

It takes every bit of his willpower to pull out of Hannibal’s mouth, squeezing the base of his own cock hard to stave off his cresting orgasm. Hannibal stumbles backward on his hands and knees, gasping and coughing. His face is flushed, his eyes streaming, spit and precome smeared around his mouth. He looks so beautiful like this, broken open so perfectly for Will to reach right into the heart of him and take what he wants.

“Get on the bed,” Will says, and his voice is rough. “Clothes off.”

The vulnerable line of Hannibal’s throat moves as he swallows hard. He starts to strip with shaking hands, fingers finding clasps and hooks that come apart easily and allow him to shed his leather ensemble within seconds. Less than a minute later he’s perched on the edge of the bed in nothing but his boots, leaning down and pinching the zipper between his fingers as he makes to drag it downward.

“Keep the shoes on,” Will says, stepping forward. Hannibal obeys, silently scooting backward on the bed and laying half-ruined and ripe and ready for him.

Will strips quickly, kicking his discarded clothes aside without so much as a second glance and getting on the bed with his knees on either side of Hannibal’s slim hips.

“You’re gorgeous.” He drags a hand down the downy expanse of Hannibal’s bare chest, pleased that he hadn’t shaved. Hannibal moans when he wraps a hand around his cock, giving him a rough stroke. He’s dripping, flushed and hard and fitting perfectly into the cage of Will’s fingers. His eyes are glassy, his cheeks pink.

“You want me to fuck you?” Will asks, already reaching for the bedside table. He throws the drawer open, drawing out the bottle of lube and a packet of condoms.

Hannibal nods, his breaths still coming hard and fast. “Yes,” he says, and his voice is pitifully small, hoarse and wrecked almost beyond recognition.

“What was that?” Will gives his cock another brutal jerk and Hannibal cries out, his voice scraping past his bruised throat. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

“Yes,” Hannibal says breathlessly, louder this time.

“Yes what?”

Hannibal struggles beneath him, clearly unwilling to be cowed. Will squeezes the base of his cock and he winces, gasping in a breath. “Yes, what?”

“I want you to fuck me,” Hannibal nearly spits, glaring at him through eyes swimming with tears of pleasure-pain. His pupils are blown open wide, dark and endless and swallowing up every bit of light in the room.

“I might,” Will says, “if you ask nicely.”

“You—” Hannibal snarls. “You’re being—”

“Cruel?” Will rolls his hips into Hannibal’s, their cocks dragging against each other with torturous friction. Hannibal makes a punched-out sound, back arching off the mattress. “That’s what you get, Hannibal. This is what it’s like.”

He grinds his hips into Hannibal’s again, then again and again until Hannibal is writhing underneath him, the tendons in his neck standing out stark and pronounced as he throws his head back, eyes falling shut. He starts to tense beneath him and Will grabs the base of his cock, stilling and pulling away.

Hannibal’s eyes fly open, a low keen escaping his mouth. His chest is rising and falling erratically, face flushed and eyes wild. “Will—”

“Not until you beg for it.” Will leans down, biting at his throat. He moans, his cock jumping in Will’s fingers.

“Please,” Hannibal says, the word half a sob as it finally bursts out of him. “Please fuck me, Will.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He slicks himself up, tearing open a condom with his teeth and rolling it on. Hannibal spreads his legs still encased in those leather boots that seem painted to his skin open wider, knees bent up to present himself to Will.

“Do you need me to prep you?” he asks, and Hannibal gives a quick shake of his head.

“Good.” He runs a hand up Hannibal’s thigh, fingernails dragging down the unmarked skin. “Legs up, baby.”

Hannibal obediently locks his ankles around the small of Will’s back, exhaling roughly as the head of Will’s cock presses against his hole. His fingers twist into the sheets beside Hannibal’s head, his other hand sliding to the crook of his knee to keep him in place. Knowing neither of them have the patience for restraint he pushes into Hannibal in a single hard thrust, their hips slamming against each other hard enough to send a jolt up his spine.

He can’t help the groan it punches out of him as his cock is suddenly engulfed in Hannibal’s tight, perfect heat, tugging at him like a silken fist. He feels incredible, and coupled with the sight of Hannibal spread underneath him sweat-slicked and split open around him and gasping it’s enough to make him squeeze his eyes shut and grip the sheets hard to keep from falling apart.

“God, you feel so fucking good, Hannibal.” His voice is harsh, scraping past his throat. “So fucking tight, you take me so well.”

Hannibal makes a strangled sound, eyes locking onto Will’s. The flush in his cheeks goes all the way down his chest and down even further, thighs lifted up around Will’s waist and his cock curving upward towards his stomach and dripping steadily onto the flat expanse of skin there. He looks gorgeous, pornographic, debauched and utterly Will’s for the taking.

“Do it rough,” Hannibal says, breathing hard. “I want to feel you for days.”

The words free a growl from somewhere deep in his chest and then he’s grabbing hold of Hannibal’s hips, bracing himself with both knees planted firmly into the mattress. He draws back, pulling out until only the very tip of his cock is inside Hannibal, then slams back in, hands angling Hannibal’s hips up to hit his prostate.

Hannibal cries out, back arching, nails scrabbling for purchase on the mattress. His knees tighten around Will’s hips, urging him closer as he fucks him hard, every brutal thrust of his hips pushing him backward an inch. His hands come up, sinking into Will’s hair. He pulls him towards him, drawing him down, their mouths crashing together.

He tastes like whiskey and bitter ambrosia, sweet and heady and so good Will could get drunk on him, draw on his mouth forever and never get his fill. He parts his lips and allows Will’s tongue to stroke into his mouth, licking into the heat of him and curling between his teeth. He moans into Will’s mouth, nails scratching over his scalp.

He fits perfectly into the cradle of Hannibal’s hips, his muscled, leather-covered thighs spread open shamelessly wide to accommodate for the girth of his cock between them. The loud, wet sounds of their coupling and their harsh ragged breathing become all he can hear, Hannibal’s keening moans and the low groans coming from his own mouth filling his ears along with the roar of his own pulse.

“Harder,” Hannibal snarls, the flat of his stilettos pressing into Will’s back. “I will not break, Will.”

Will curses, palms pressing to the backs of Hannibal’s thighs and pushing them upward to stretch him open wider, slamming into him with renewed force. Hannibal’s eyes are hazed through with shadows, glassy and dark as pleasure fills his face, unrestrained and entire. His ankles hook over Will’s shoulders as Will bears down on him, nearly folding him in half as he fucks into his molten heat.

He slides a hand down Hannibal’s chest, fingers still sticky with lube wrapping around his dick—and Hannibal comes on the spot.

His back curves off the mattress, mouth open and soundlessly shaping Will’s name as he shakes apart beneath him, spilling into Will’s hand and all over his own stomach in forceful spurts. Will goes still just to watch him break, enthralled by the sight of him; he’s breathtaking caught in the throes of pleasure, a fallen angel pierced and martyred and laid out like a feast.

His hips stutter into Hannibal’s as he tightens impossibly around Will’s cock, drawing him close and closer still. He moans, managing to thrust into him once, twice, thrice more before it all overwhelms him and he overflows, his vision going white for a split second.

When he returns to his body he’s lying sprawled on top of Hannibal, both of them breathing hard. He can feel Hannibal’s heart hammering underneath his own, feel the sweat-slicked slide of their skin as he shifts, pulling out of him and rolling onto the bed beside him.

Hannibal turns immediately into the circle of his arms, supine, arching up to kiss him. Will melts into the touch for a split second before reality bleeds suddenly through the haze of pleasure and endorphins in his brain, making him pull back with a jerk.

“Will?” Hannibal blinks out at him slowly, still half-unspooled and lax, soft and disheveled in the semidarkness. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” he mutters, sitting up. He runs his hands through his hair, feeling something almost like panic clawing its way up his spine. What the fuck had he just done?

“Will.” Hannibal sits up as well, pausing only to finally rid himself of his boots before turning towards him, putting a hand on Will’s face to force him to meet his gaze. “Tell me what happened.”

“This—you—we weren’t supposed to.” He wants to pull himself away from the gentle touch on his face, wants to shove Hannibal away and tell him to get the fuck out of his house, but he can’t bring himself to. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“What wasn’t supposed to happen?”

“This,” Will snaps. “What we just did. I can’t… I can’t get—” Attached, he wants to say. But it’s too late now; what he had allowed to happen had broken something inside him, something he had built up and guarded fiercely for so long. Something that with each and every phone call with Hannibal had eroded slow but sure, crumbling like the sand before the sea.

“Will,” Hannibal says softly. “Tell me.”

He shuts his eyes, a hand dragging down the side of his face. There’s a long, stilted silence, pregnant with expectation. Finally Will says, “We can’t do this again. We can’t see each other, or even talk on the phone.”

“What?” Hannibal’s hand stills on his face, hurt coloring his voice. This time there’s no dark satisfaction, only a sharp painful ache somewhere between his ribs. “Why?”

“Because I’ll fall in love with you,” he says.

Hannibal goes still.

“I’ll fall in love with you,” Will says again, “and I can’t let that happen. Not after everything I’ve done to try and keep myself away from people. Especially people like you.”

“‘People like me’?” Hannibal’s hand falls away from his face, his voice growing cold. “I assure you, Will, there is far more dignity in what I do than in what you do. At least I am aware of whom I sell my body to. Can you say the same, working for a government that cares so little for the lives of those who die to protect it? I chose this life; I feel no shame in it.”

“I don’t mean that you’re a prostitute,” Will says. “I mean that you’re a killer.”

He opens his eyes and Hannibal is staring back at him, the anger slipping from his face and leaving behind a sort of blank shock.

“You know,” he says finally. It isn’t a question.

“You’re less subtle than you think,” Will says. “But not everybody knows what to look for.”

“Yes, I know.” He sighs. “I’ve known ever since the third time I called you.”

“That…” Hannibal seems to be struggling to say the words. “That was weeks ago. Almost a month.”

“Are you going to arrest me?” Hannibal asks. “Turn me in?”

“Based on what? Intuition? Gut instinct?” Will huffs out a laugh. “No, Hannibal, I’m not going to arrest you. But I can’t see you again. You have to leave.”

“I don’t want to,” Hannibal says. “I want to stay.”

I want you to stay, too. “No,” he says instead. “It’s not safe, Hannibal.”

“Are you truly so afraid to fall in love with me?” Hannibal’s eyes are wide and dark, black moons that reflect a distorted suggestion of his own face back to him. “I assure you I had no such qualms.”

“God, Hannibal.” He exhales a shaky breath, his heart stuttering in his chest. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” He looks guileless, cherubic and devastatingly beautiful, and something in his chest twists excruciatingly. “You are the only one who has ever seen me, Will. All of me. I would be a fool to let you go now.”

Will squeezes his eyes shut, thinks helplessly, wildly, Please, God, don’t let me fuck this up. Then he opens his eyes, takes a deep breath, and says, “Okay.”

Hannibal looks up at him sharply, eyes shining. “Really?”

“Really. This—I hadn’t wanted to admit it to myself, but you—you’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time, Hannibal. And as much as I know this is a bad idea, I don’t want to lose that. I don’t… I don’t want to lose you.”

“Will,” Hannibal breathes, hands coming up to take hold of his face, and then he’s pulling Will forward and he’s kissing him.

It’s warm and sweet and careful, something warm blooming outward in his chest like the red fingers of the dawn kissing the sky after an endless night. Hannibal’s lips are chapped and soft, molding to his own yieldingly. He smells like sweat and sex and blood, and Will doesn’t think he’s ever smelled anything sweeter.

They break apart slowly, foreheads leaning together and breath mingling, warmth blooming beneath fingers lingering on skin. They stay like that for a long, long while, eyes closed and breaths slowly falling into sync, simply basking in the simple fact that in this moment, they are simply, purely together.

It’s something he can get used to.