Milla

Within the first hour of your departure, Hannibal was in your closet. His fingers ghosted over your jackets like a priest thumbing rosary beads, desperate for salvation. Every stitch, every crease, smelled like you. When he pressed your favorite sweater to his face, the sigh that escaped him was almost obscene in its hunger.

He did not eat dinner that night.

Of course, he prepared it—he still had his rituals. A perfect cut of lamb, rosemary crushed slowly between thumb and forefinger, wine decanted and left to breathe. But it was a hollow performance, a stage set with no actor, no audience. He plated two servings by habit, then stared at the second one like it was a tombstone.

You weren’t there. So Hannibal didn’t eat.

Instead, he sat in your chair by the fire, wearing your old university sweatshirt—the one with sleeves too long, the fabric faded from years of devotion. It clashed horrendously with his pressed trousers and house slippers, but he wore it like armor. Or mourning garb. He curled into it, burying his nose in the collar like a creature trying to remember spring.

Time passed, but it no longer had meaning.

He watched the clock more than he read. Each second ticked like a needle stitching your absence deeper into his chest. It was grotesque, this longing—an ache so profound it made him nauseous. He, who had once held human hearts in his palms with surgical precision, found himself unraveling over the shape of your absence.

By the second night, Hannibal had abandoned even pretense.

He moved your pillow to his side of the bed, curled around it like a beast mourning a lost mate. One of your hoodies joined the growing collection of garments strewn across his lap and shoulders like sacred relics. He tucked your scarf into his collar and dabbed your cologne beneath his ears.

It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. Only your return could reanimate him.

And you were due back tonight.

Hannibal had tracked your itinerary to the second—your flight, your drive from the airport, the weather conditions that might delay you. So when your car finally turned onto the long driveway and the lock clicked in the door, he was already there.

No warning. No restraint.

He collided with you like a tidal wave breaking against rock—desperate, powerful, breathless. His arms wrapped around you tightly, face pressed into the crook of your neck as though trying to merge into your skin. The inhale he took was ragged, the exhale like the gasp of a drowning man finding shore.

“You’re here,” he murmured, voice wet with relief. “You’re here.”

You set your bag down, causing Hannibal to cling to you tighter, the fine bones of his hands shaking slightly against your back.

“I wore your clothes,” he confessed into your skin, the words shamefully intimate. “I steeped your tea too long. I slept on your side of the bed. I didn’t eat. I—” he paused, almost wincing— “I wore your bathrobe to the mailbox. The neighbors saw.”

You pulled back, startled. “You what?”

“Your scent,” he said in a hushed, reverent voice. “It lives in the seams. I needed to feel you. You left me to rot in a mausoleum of silence. And for what? Business meetings?”

You exhaled an incredulous laugh. “It was a medical conference, Hannibal.”

“Worse.”

His hands slid down to your waist, refusing to let go. He was actually trembling a little. You’d seen Hannibal after surgeries, after murders, after long opera nights—never shaken. Never soft like this. “I’ve decided,” he said gravely. “You are no longer allowed to work.”

“Excuse me?”

“You will stay home. With me. I will provide for us. For the rest of our lives.”

“Hannibal—”

“I refuse to go another night without the sound of your breathing beside me. I couldn’t even sleep.” He pulled back slightly, eyes gleaming, a faint flush of something almost boyish in his cheeks. “I was like Orpheus in the underworld, except you didn’t look back.”

You laughed, incredulous. “You’re comparing a medical conference in Chicago to the descent into the underworld?”

“Yes,” he said, without hesitation.

And you kissed him—because how could you not? Because there was something unhinged and heartbreaking and utterly beautiful in the way he grieved you as if you’d died. The way your absence had peeled back his polished veneer and revealed a man undone.

He melted into the kiss like a starving thing, a low sound escaping his throat, hands tangling in your coat as if anchoring himself to life. You pulled back only slightly, brushing his hair behind one ear.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” You almost laughed, staring down at Will. He looked back up with hooded eyes, face pushed against your bulge, knees spread. You two stood in a classroom— one you were rather sure had security cameras in it, but that was a problem to address later on.

Will only closed his eyes, pushing his nose further into your work pants, hands twitching where they rested against his legs. He was such a good boy, already knowing not to lift them.

You stroked those pretty brown curls, pulling your fingers to the end until they started wrapping around your figure. They’d you’d close your hand around them, to pull him closer to your throbbing cock.

“come on, who taught you self dignity? Lick.” You laughed, and Will went straight for it, sucking and licking through your pants, letting out soft pants at the knowledge your dick was right there. You grinned, both pleased with the sensation, and the fact Will would end up letting that know-it-all psychologist you have no fondness toward.

If you tilted your head just right, you could see the rock hard bulge in his pants, almost pathetic in the way his hands twitched toward it, before stiffening back. In a moment of kindness, you tugged your belt off- something which made Will immediately straighten up-, and pulled your zip down, sliding a hand down your pants to pull out your dick.

He zeroed in almost immediately. You could tell by the way his eyes almost rolled back. Part of you wondered if it was a Pavlovian reaction, but you shook that away, knowing damn well that Psychologist Will had grown fond of would think the same thing.

There was no words as you grabbed Wills hair with one hand, the other guiding your base. You slapped it against the edge of his lips, just to watch him tilt his head to chase it, before finally sliding in with a sigh.

Will went limp immediately; fully trained, you expected. You used your fist of hair to tug him back and forth in a brutal pace, until drool was running down his chin and his eyes were struggling not to roll back. Part of you itched to grab your phone, and snap a photo of such an angel in a holy moment. But your other hand gravitated to stroke his jaw and stubble instead.

It only took a few minutes of ravaging Will’s mouth for the urge to finally tighten. You were sure his throat was hurting by now, but you didn’t exactly concern yourself. You pulled your length out- Wills jaw remained loose and open-, sliding your hand up your length and aiming in the general direction of his face.

And Will took all of it. Pretty smears of your waste running up his face to hang suspended in his curls, closing his mouth to savour drops that lovingly landed in his mouth.

You almost offered to help with his problem, until you looked down and noticed the wet patch forming on his pants. You stroked his hair, giving his crotch a nudge with your shoe— just to see him jump.

“You’ll clean yourself up, right, love?” You asked loosely, knowing damn well you wouldn’t get a response. Will only looked up at you with soft tired eyes, leaning a head against your thought as you cleaned yourself back up. You almost sighed at the wet patch on your pants from Will licking, but figured holding your jacket infront of you till you reached your back would go just fine.