Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Professor Hannibal Lecter, head of the Classics department, had never once had an incident with a student. Aside from a few complaints about his grading standards, he was widely thought of as a model instructor. Young people, even not-so-young people, listed his tutelage as one of the strongest draws to the university. He was attentive, knowledgeable, polite, and skilled at engaging even the least enthusiastic minds into conversation.

What he did on his personal time, with regards to the culinary arts, was his own business.

In some other world, perhaps Hannibal would have maintained his comfortable life. Remained unbothered and slept soundly. Kept on teaching without distraction. That was the plan, and it was a good plan, until Will Graham walked into his classroom and ruined everything.

It was the way he stared that ruined everything. Dark, wild curls hung lazily over eyes bluer than blue, piercing him from the fifth row. Too-soft sweaters over wrinkled plaids that begged for touch. Heavy black boots scuffed from a life uncoddled. Leaning back in his chair, thumb grazing his plush pink lower lip idly when he wasn't absorbed in his notes, he was temptation itself. Worst of all, he seemed to know it.

There were no words for how deeply the fixation took root, or how quickly. One day, Hannibal was as he'd always been-his own top priority. The next, all he could think of was the boy in the fifth row.

It wasn't that Professor Lecter had never been approached, or even propositioned by a student. It was that he'd never even thought to return the gesture. Several times each semester was tasked with dissuading the eager young things that hovered after class to bat their lashes and pout, hoping to be the first black mark on his record. He may have be a cruel man in many ways, but not that one. In manners of the heart, he liked to think of himself as exceptionally courteous.

Will was… different.

He didn't need to be taking Greek Literature in Translation. His pursuit was forensics and criminology. Most of the rest of Lecter's pupils were devotees of the classics department, working towards English or History degrees and all the wealth and fame those typically entailed. As far as Hannibal could tell, Will was doing it for fun. Something to entertain himself with between lab reports and dissections.

From his first paper, Hannibal knew Will was exceptional. His arguments were not only well-researched but terribly clever. He understood the texts as if he'd spent years considering them. Maybe he had. The nuances of language were a playground for him to explore. In the few lines that felt almost conversational, asides to a fellow scholar rather than attempts to curry favor, Professor Lecter found himself smirking into his end-of-day glass of wine. 

Thinking back, he should have seen the snare.

He handed the paper back with the same typical, detached pleasantness he offered the rest of the class, despite the nagging urge at the back of his mind to tell Will how drastically he'd outshone his peers. It was early yet to pick favorites, barely two weeks into the semester. Too soon to show his hand. He wanted to keep everyone on their toes, vying for his approval.

But Will, insatiable Will, hadn't let him off that easy. He'd glanced down at the perfect grade, quirked up one corner of his mouth, and flicked his dazzling baby blues to Hannibal's in a quiet, nearly-undetectable gesture of understanding.

I see you.

Professor Lecter hadn't been ready. He'd swallowed, licked his lower lip, and forced himself onward to deliver the rest of the papers with Will's devilish expression burned into the back of his mind.

In the dark of his office later that night, Hannibal interrogated himself over a fine Chablis. He was too perceptive to have imagined the look. It hadn't been accidental. Will had stared right through him, to his core. Flayed him open and been curious about what he saw.

His usual approach, when catching wind of a student's interest, was to give them absolutely nothing to misinterpret. Politeness and indifference. If that didn't do the trick, he would wait for a moment so overt on their part that his compassionate let-down speech remained bulletproof.

Will wasn't overt. He was careful. For the three classes following that unsettling moment of connection, he kept his eyes on the screen, on his notes. Hannibal searched him in private moments, when he was hidden by shadow as he dimmed the lights for the projector. He saw nothing. No nervous twitching, no furtive glances his way.

As if nothing had happened. As if what had happened meant nothing.

He wanted to take it as a sign. Truly, he did. Either Will was using his own technique against him or that knowing look had been a momentary lapse, quickly forgotten. Maybe Hannibal had read into something that was never there to begin with. Maybe Will was a flirt by nature and simply hadn't meant to act the way he did.

Maybe, maybe.

Then his next paper came in, and the maybes kept Hannibal up all night.

It wasn't merely clever; it was brilliant. Insightful beyond most anything he'd read from his peers, prosaic and academic in masterful turn. He drew parallels that had Hannibal desperate to draw him into conversation about not just Aristophanes but everything—music, art, food, any and everything else he liked or hated or had scathing, whip-smart opinions on.

Hannibal told himself he was overworked. That it had simply been awhile since any of his students had challenged him, so naturally he was becoming unduly attached to the first one who did. He said this, out loud, to his second glass of red before going back to Will's essay one last time. 

When sleep finally found him, it settled in around the image of wayward curls and too-sharp ocean eyes.

Will's paper was returned without incident, if only because Professor Lecter kept his eyes on the boy's desk and moved on in haste. He offered neither of them the chance to re-offend.

Simple, efficient.

Twenty minutes later, he was speaking on vengeance in Medea when his breath caught in his throat. Try as he might have been to avoid acknowledging the fifth row, Will drew him like a song, like a whisper in the dark. The rest of the class faded to an indistinct hum as Will Graham slowly, intentionally wet his lower lip, one eyebrow raised in challenge.

Hannibal swallowed, realizing with a horrible flush of heat that he'd paused mid-sentence. Will sat back with unbearable smugness tucked into a lopsided, private grin. A steel cord pulled taut between them from thirty feet apart. When Will grinned down at his desk, fanning his lashes over faintly pink cheeks, it snapped.

Realistically, the exchange had taken a fraction of a second. To Hannibal, it was a lifetime. No one seemed the wiser. How strange, to be so oblivious to a seismic shift.

Professor Lecter didn't look to the fifth row again until near the end of the hour. He allowed himself one glance. Will's head was down, reading. Notating. Buried in his curls.

For the best, he told himself. He nearly believed it.

Will was meticulous. He kept Hannibal guessing for weeks. Each time the professor would start to convince himself he'd imagined a connection, the boy would throw him a burning glance or catch his lower lip between his teeth and slowly, so slowly, let it slip free.

It would have been easier if not for Will's impossible beauty. Hannibal had no particular attraction to most people Will's age—21, he had discovered through entirely ethical means—for reasons beyond his own continuing employment. Will's peers were children to his eyes, still stumbling blind and wet into the world, all sharp angles and bad decisions.

Will was… different.

It wasn't just his eyes, or his curls. Will was the Platonic ideal of a muse, a lithe and captivating creature whose features melded masculine lines and feminine curves. Striking from every angle. He moved with grace one moment and blunt strength the next. There was violence there, a quiet rage just below the surface, that thrilled Hannibal to imagine nurturing into the light.

It was difficult to tell what Will might look like beneath his baggy flannels, thrifted t-shirts and torn jeans, but Hannibal suspected the rest of him was just as magnificent. The sort of form that would drive the ancient masters to take up marble and oils in hopeless attempts to capture it. Lean, smooth, dangerous. Supple in all the right places.

And… scarred.

There were no bright, recognizable pins or identifiers on his jacket. If Hannibal hadn't been paying such close attention, he may never have noticed. But he was. He'd also been a surgeon before he was a teacher, and certain signs were impossible to miss.

One auspicious Tuesday morning, Hannibal had just so happened to be looking Will's way when a ripped window in the fabric of his shirt drifted low to enough to expose the pale pink edge of a shape that could not have been anything else.

Double incision bilateral mastectomy.

Hannibal had looked away, but the damage was done. Had he been a moral man, he would've felt guilt for the way the sudden knowledge sent his pulse fluttering. He knew, objectively, it was inappropriate to fixate on Will over such a personal truth. By contrast, he was also intimately aware of certain outcomes of testosterone therapy. Outcomes which, in each subsequent class, he could not quite stop himself from picturing.

What would it look like? How would it taste?

He hadn't asked for those associations. Hannibal did not want to think of his student this way. It was… inconvenient.

Despite knowing it was wildly inappropriate of him, Hannibal began to listen more carefully. Will didn't speak often in class, but when he did, his voice gave nothing away save for a newly smothered accent. No nasal pitch or awkward, broken tones. It was low and smooth like warm, wet earth. This confirmed to Hannibal that he'd likely been taking hormone therapy for years. Other typical signs of early use—excessive sweat, primarily—were absent. To Hannibal's delight, he generally smelled of a tantalizing blend of pine and lemongrass.

At five weeks into the semester, Professor Lecter had resigned himself to his frustrations. He lived for Will's moments of daring, but did not expect them to escalate. Will kept to himself at all times he wasn't shooting Hannibal dangerous, curious looks.

Looks that said, I know you.

I know what you are.

As such, Hannibal wasn't at all prepared for the day Will decided to linger as he collected his books and belongings, draped against the doorframe in repose. It took the rest of the students leaving for him to realize he wasn't alone, pine and lemongrass floating toward him the way disaster beckons.

He wanted to be the one to speak first. Now was his perfect opportunity to do what he always did; give Will nothing and wait to see what he would do. See if he warranted being let down easy.

What he did instead was swallow thickly, wet his upper lip, and turn to face the boy as if it were his first day on earth.

"Not interrupting, am I?"

Days had passed since Will last contributed to a discussion. He spoke through his work. Hannibal mourned every discussion he hung back from, wishing to hear just a little more of that smothered twang.

"Of course not," he replied, straightening so that his height advantage over the boy lent him strength. "What might I do for you, Mr. Graham?"

Will watched him with hawklike interest, his eyes shining. He kicked himself forward lazily, rising off the frame in an arch. The momentum led him closer to Hannibal's desk.

Rugged boots stained with mud left a mark on the wood. His dark, ripped jeans bore the signature hairs of a dog he most certainly should not have had on campus. A faded shirt with a logo on it Hannibal assumed he was too old to recognize clung to his lithe frame. Over it, a thicker flannel in tones of red-orange and brown shrouded him, appropriate for the cooling October weather.

Unkempt. Gorgeous.

"Now that, certainly, is a question worth considering," Will grinned as he arrived at the flickering edge of Professor Lecter's personal space. "What would you like to do for me?"

Hannibal fought down the rise of color that rushed for his cheeks. It was more difficult than usual to summon that same practiced control he'd developed to avoid suspicion for his many atypical hobbies over the years, but he managed. Rather than stuttering or turning pink, he blinked once.

He had the unsettling, deeply enticing suspicion that Will saw through it with ease.

"I can't imagine you have need of my advice or critique," Hannibal deferred. "Your work is exemplary."

Will's head tilted. His smile, which had been little more than a slight crinkling of amusement, sharpened. Hannibal felt his blood heat beneath his skin.

"Well don't that beat all," Will replied. He let more of his drawl slip than he ever had in Hannibal's presence, seemingly just to watch the man's lower lip twitch in response. "Actually, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. If you have a minute."

He did. Hannibal had several minutes. A lifetime, if Will desired it.

"Care to elaborate?"

Something in Will's eyes flashed right before he turned to his bag and retrieved a hard folder tucked carefully inside. Hannibal watched with barely-restrained fascination as Will plucked out—

Ah.

"I've been curious about something, Doctor Lecter."

Hannibal blinked again, gaze stuck to the thin stack of sheets that he couldn't help noticing were rather crinkled. Had they always been?

"Please, Will," he said, unexpectedly hoarse. He cleared his throat quietly. "That was a lifetime ago. Professor is fine."

Will paused, holding the paper just out of reach. His gaze narrowed with recognition, like Hannibal had just said exactly what he'd expected. Like his plan had come together.

"But you were, weren't you?" Will countered. "A doctor. A surgeon, even."

True. "I was, though I'm not sure how relevant my career history is to your schoolwork."

Still watching, still seeing, Will let out a small, open-mouthed puff of laughter.

"Men with honorifics rarely let them slide once they've got them. You choose to. It's curious."

"I'm afraid I have little with which to satisfy your curiosity. My doctorate is not relevant to what I teach here. I decided some years ago to forego it on campus."

"How humble of you," Will grinned.

Hannibal was so unused to feeling taken aback by anyone that he found himself fumbling, if only internally. Will's mind was clearly whirring behind those disarmingly bright irises. He itched to take it apart and learn how it ticked.

"Was there anything else," he asked in as flat a tone as he could muster, inclining his head towards the folder in Will's hand, "or did you merely stop by to antagonize me?"

"Ah," Will smiled softly, "well. This was my primary curiosity, one that perhaps you can satisfy."

He handed the paper to Hannibal, who took it with hands that didn't tremble at all, thank you very much. It was, as he had suspected, the first one Will had turned in. His throat worked slowly, focus slanting from the wicked tilt of Will's lips to the words he couldn't quite focus enough to read.

Hannibal's brow arched thinly. The pages were soft and crinkled as if they'd been thumbed over and over. So few red marks of his pen that weren't effusive praise.

"An exemplary offering," he mused. "You can't be here to contest the grade."

Will's tongue ran the length of his lower teeth as if testing their sharpness. Hannibal imagined them tightening around his neck.

"Of course not. You were more than fair. Complementary, even."

"Exceptional work begets exceptional praise."

Will gave that a few seconds to simmer before returning to his pursuit.

"The thing is, Doctor," he taunted, enunciating every curve and edge of the word, "I know you liked it. I know this, because I saw the other papers. And they, for some reason, did not seem quite so thoroughly handled."

Hannibal felt something swell in his chest, pressing up against his ribs.

"There's a spot on page three," Will pointed out, "that caught my attention in particular. You covered it with correction tape, but that isn't difficult to remove."

The older man's mouth went dry as he met Will's expectant gaze. He flipped carefully to the offending mark. He found it, and the air leached from the room.

"Malbec?" Will asked, "or something darker? I couldn't quite tell."

Hannibal traced the small red dot, faded brown by oxygen and time, with one cautious fingertip. Now was his chance, he thought, his obligation, to deploy his usual speech. To tell Will this was inappropriate, that he was flattered but—

"Cabernet Sauvignon," he said instead, voice rough as he recalled the sharp acidity and rich blackcurrent that had danced across his tongue as he read and re-read each paragraph. "Bordeaux. Not a blend I reach for often."

Will inhaled slowly, perhaps not expecting his teacher to be so forthcoming.

"A special occasion?"

Hannibal kept his eyes on the page. Will's focus scorched him. The wise, cautious part of him urged him to withdraw. The reckless, alive need to give Will what he was digging for bled through the cracks, carrying with it the euphoric desire to confess.

"It isn't every day I find myself enjoying a student's work the way I enjoy yours. You have a… particular talent with words."

A strangled, darkly pleased hum drew Professor Lecter's attention back to Will's mouth. The boy was poised to strike, eyes wide and blue-flame bright. He seemed to be barely holding himself back from sinking his claws into his instructor.

Hannibal wanted him to. He wanted it so much it made him dizzy.

"You should be careful, Doctor Lecter," Will warned, plucking the paper back and sealing it in the folder in one smooth motion. "Someone might get the wrong impression."

Alarms in Hannibal's mind rang out, quickly ignored. Will was putting himself back together, tucking his bag over his shoulder, and that was a far more urgent concern.

"That I grade under the influence? I'll admit, I'd prefer not to earn that reputation."

The boy glared up at him from under curls that had tumbled free over his temples, a fresh smirk breaking loose.

"No," he replied, shifting as he considered how far to take this confrontation. "Not that. I'm sure you were sober as a judge."

Hannibal clung to the rhythm of his own shallow breath, hoping Will would betray his own sense of self-preservation. He tucked his hands neatly behind his back, affecting a pose of obedience that came far too naturally. Leaning back against his desk, he reduced himself to Will's height by jutting his feet out at an angle. He did not do any of this consciously; it happened all on its own. Something in the lupine tilt of Will's head drew it from him like water from a well.

"Are you here to blackmail me, Will?"

Will sucked air between his teeth, his shoulders twitching. Hannibal's gesture of deference had taken him by surprise.

"No," Will said again, but his confidence was shaken by his appetite. "I just wanted to confirm a theory."

It send a thrill rippling through Hannibal to see that his decision had landed. That Will's pupils dilated at his Professor's mildest act of submission. More thrilling, still, was how unusual it was for Hannibal to lower himself for anyone. This boy was less than half his age. Handing him this much power was unthinkable, but so was taking it back.

"And have you? Confirmed it?"

For a moment, Will froze, all-seeing eyes fixed on his professor's. Calculating. Severe. And then, with a step forward, he gave in to the same magnetic pull that had Hannibal sitting on his hands.

Will's lips parted before he spoke. Giving himself one last chance, perhaps, to leave things unsaid.

"I thought I was imagining it," he began, exhuming the words from someplace wisely buried. "At first, anyway. Everyone talks about you like you're the school's shining example of propriety. Not one rumor of misconduct, despite how many pretty young things have tried to catch your attention."

He slunk closer. A few feet away, one hip cocked as his fingers danced along the strap of his bag. Blood pounded in Hannibal's ears.

"Then I read your notes. Saw you watching me, working so hard to hide it. I realized," here he paused for effect, raking his gaze up Hannibal's torso until their eyes met once more, "that perhaps your tastes were simply more… exotic."

Hannibal balked internally. "I assure you, Will, I am not—"

"Oh, don't worry," Will blinked, suddenly coy. "I know it's not just that. You'd never be so vulgar. But it does excite you, doesn't it? Doctor?"

Ah. There it was. Hannibal's jaw worked back and forth once, chin jerking in response to the accusation as if he could sweep it away.

"Your anatomical uniqueness has no bearing on my respect for your mind, Will."

Will laughed like he couldn't help himself. A beautiful sound Hannibal immediately craved more of, craved to be the cause of.

"Anatomical uniqueness. That's cute. So… clinical," Will decided. His smile honed to a more dangerous shape. "Do you always get so verbose when you're flustered?"

The older man's expression pinched. "Do I seem flustered to you?"

Will's right canine caught the skin inside his lower lip for a moment before he replied. "You seem unnerved. People don't notice you for what you really are very often, do they?"

Hannibal paused. He refused to be whittled down to some exploitative lech, rather than an admirer of beauty in all forms.

"I am not a chaser, Will."

Will's eyes sparkled with delight. He hadn't expected someone of his professor's age to know the term, apparently.

"No," he conceded, "you're something much darker." He let that hang in the air for a moment, searching Hannibal's face for further insight. "You're used to getting away with it."

Hannibal blinked twice. Surely, he didn't mean—but then Will crossed the slim gap between them, too close to be proper from any angle. He set two fingers on the lapel of Hannibal's jacket, tracing the buttonhole with his middle finger in a manner that could only be suggestive. He glanced up from under those dark, tangled lashes, striking blue nearly eclipsed by black. He was close enough that Hannibal could taste his breath below his usual scent, cheap coffee and artificial sweetener.

"You know what happens to a body on T, don't you?"

Trying to prevent the shallow, staggered inhale was beyond Hannibal's control. Will's lids fluttered as it registered. A sinister, pleased smile rose and fell like the tide under Professor Lecter's moon.

"Of course you do," Will grinned, stepping one foot on each side of Hannibal's. His scent curled its way into Hannibal's lungs and made a home for itself there, rearranging everything. "It's not just the sweat and muscle mass, or all the unpleasant side effects. There's also the thing you're not supposed to think about."

"Will—" his eyes darted toward the door, realizing only now that it was slightly ajar. Anyone could stop by, at any moment, and he would be ruined.

It sent his pulse racing. He thought to say something, but Will tucked one long finger under his chin to pull his attention back where it belonged. The contact burned and soothed all at once.

"You wonder, don't you?" Will continued, mercilessly aware of the low-level panic in his… what was Hannibal in this moment? Prey? It was not a role he had much experience playing, and Will was clearly savoring the discomfort. "You know you shouldn't, but you can't help it. It's so different for everyone. I've been on it for years, you know. Long before the surgery."

Hannibal opened his mouth to assert himself, but the finger under his chin traced down along the line of his jaw until the boy's palm spread around his throat. Not squeezing, but pressing. Inferring. The other hand dropped to his chest, where his waistcoat met his tie, right over his heart. It incensed Hannibal that he was letting this happen. No one had ever been allowed this much control over him, even in play. It excited him beyond reason.

"Long enough," Will murmured, leaning in close enough to speak into one ear, "that you didn't clock me until I let you."

The shudder that ripped through Hannibal was barely contained. So, that glimpse was not an accident after all, but a lure tailored just to him. Will hummed with satisfaction, drunk on the response. He inched his hips nearer. His strong, lean legs bracketed Hannibal's lower thighs.

"I wondered if you could smell it," Will breathed against his throat. "I spoke with one of your former TAs, you know. Alana. Terribly bright, that one. A little naive, maybe. Thinks the world of you."

Will's right hand crept its way up around the knot of an ostentatious tie. A spider's climb, each fingertip connecting on its path. His left held that proud, tense jaw, thumbing at the tendon idly. So many points of contact, of command. Hannibal wanted to protest, to lambast him for approaching Ms. Bloom. He could only tremble and wait for more.

"She told me you have exceptional olfactory talents. Bragged about it. Got a little starry-eyed when she mentioned you'd been able to name her perfume, then told me about how you'd let her down easy. A true gentleman, she said."

Hannibal should have defended her. He felt a rush of possessiveness, a gnashing of teeth lying in wait, then watched it dissolve under Will's wicked smirk. How long had it been since he'd spoken? Where was his wit now?

"I was curious," Will continued, "what about my particular blend had you itching to breaking your own rules."

"Will—"

"How does testosterone cyprionate smell, Doctor? Does it have its own signature notes, or is it distributed into the body's natural bouquet?"

Professor Lecter wanted to be ashamed of the arousal he knew was visible through his suit pants. An ordinary man would have been. Yet, at this distance, Will's own desire had grown so thick in the air it settled on the back of Hannibal's tongue.

"Go on. Tell me. I know you want to."

A thin, helpless groan slipped from the hollow of Hannibal's throat. Yes. Permission. An exhale, first, to cleanse the palate. Eyes closed to prevent distraction. A swallow he felt stick lightly to a calloused palm as his Adam's apple bobbed.

"That's it. Deeper."

He breathed Will in as deeply as he could. His nostrils flared as he drank every molecule down. Hannibal wanted to trap the air in his lungs and keep it there, forgoing all other fragrances until Will decided otherwise.

"Well?"

"Your breath tastes of cheap coffee and sweetener," Hannibal said, voice weaker than he'd ever heard it. Will's hold on his vocal cords tightened so that every syllable reminded him of its presence. "Your aftershave is atrocious, yet your curls smell of lemongrass and mint. Below that, I suspect an antiperspirant, something in artificial pine advertised for men. You've been wearing it long enough that it lingers in your clothes."

His mouth watered as he spoke. He'd never been hungrier in his life. The boy's breath, hot against his neck, lulled him into a state of helpless confession. He hadn't been told not to move. He didn't need to be.

"Go on. You won't offend me."

Will was so close to him now that the heat between their bodies was its own creature. The strain at his zipper ached. Wetness was forming there, an offering to this strange and cruel god. Every inch of him wanted to grab Will by the slim waist and drag their hips together.

But he obeyed.

"Sweat," Hannibal said with a hitch. Will had begun threading his fingers into his fine, graying hair. "That's where it lives. What it changes."

This was foreign territory now, knowledge he'd been taught to keep to himself for fear of insult. Propriety dictated one should not point out the subtle differences unless medically necessary. It was discourteous. Potentially triggering to one's gender dysphoria. He was sensitive to that in the way he was sensitive to all social mores he deemed relevant.

But Will had asked for it. Demanded.

"Tell me."

So he did.

"Most men," Hannibal forced out, "smell of musk and earth, sour where it's strongest. Heady with pheromones. Yours has a… vanilla-honey sweetness. A result of the shots. It's stronger in the days after injection. You're due."

Will shuddered. His hands fell back to Hannibal's chest. He placed them, suggestively, on the swell of his pecs, thick and firm even through the waistcoat. With his eyes still closed, Hannibal could only groan as Will finally inched forward enough to grind the small bulge of his jeans against the hot, damp swell of Hannibal's. He nearly slipped off the desk with want as the boy drew his hips back.

"And?" Will whispered, voice rough with gravel next to Hannibal's ear. "What about now?"

Shameless desire engulfed him. The scent had been strong before, but the friction filled Hannibal's every sense with it. Even blinded by choice, visions bloomed behind his eyelids of terrible, gorgeous things.

"It's…" he struggled to find words to do it justice. "Utterly unique. Masculine and overpowering, yet…"

His lip trembled faintly as he reached for poetry, convinced that earthly terms would fall short, or cross a line and cause the boy to retreat.

Then he heard rustling, a soft grunt, the unmistakable shlck of wetness muffled by clothes. He forgot how to breathe, stock still in anticipation. His cock twitched. It was the only part of him that could recall how to move.

Musky, sinful sweetness crashed over him. A soft whine escaped his parted lips as the scent of Will's unfiltered arousal reached his palate. Two slick fingers took advantage of the opening, stroking their way from the tip of Hannibal's tongue to the swell of his taste buds. They circled there, pressing as they went. Suggesting. Building associations. Hannibal locked his jaw in place, obedient to Will's intrusion without thought to any alternative even as saliva gathered and threatened to drip free.

"Suck," Will instructed, and it took everything Hannibal had not to sob with relief. "Then tell me. Show me how refined that palate is, Doctor."

He lavished Will's fingers with attention instantly, greedy for every drop. His tongue worked over and around each groove. His cheeks hollowed with effort. It was lust. A test he needed to pass. To show Will how good he could be with his mouth. To earn, perhaps, the privilege to demonstrate further.

Enthusiasm came without effort. Will was impossibly delicious.

His taste was earthy, yes, manly in a way drew an automatic response—but it was also so sweet, ambrosia made real, with a hint of bitterness from a poor diet he yearned to correct. He imagined feeding the boy, nourishing him, testing him like a new recipe every night to see how different ingredients affected his flavor—he groaned as the fingers, now clean of any trace, were pulled from his lips. Bereft yet behaved, Hannibal recalled what Will had asked of him before the question bore repeating.

"Singular," he rasped. He opened his eyes slowly, unsure if sight was yet permitted. When Will's darkened pupils widened and no measure was taken to correct him, he went on. "Honeysuckle and peat. Desire as ripest fruit before it turns. Nectar of the gods, Will."

Will was breathless, too. Sweat had gathered at his temples, darkening the roots of his curls. He slipped his own fingers into his mouth, suckling at them for a moment as if sampling for himself. Hannibal watched with a desperation he hadn't known he could feel.

"See, to me," he grinned softly, gaze slanting up pointedly to meet his professor's, "it just tastes like a needy cunt."

Hannibal felt his gut twist like he'd been struck. The wind was knocked from him in a harsh exhale that sounded like Will's name. It was worsened when his tormentor backed away three steps, taking his heat and the electric current singing between them with him.

"Something to think about 'til next class," Will offered as he hiked his bag onto his shoulder, casual as anything. "Thanks for the chat, Professor Lecter. I knew you wouldn't disappoint."

And then, with a wink that might as well have been a blade in the dark, he slipped out the door. It closed behind him with a neat, final click.

The air swept back into the room so quickly Hannibal lost his balance. The position he'd been holding collapsed like castles do, shoulders crumbling, knees weak. Will was gone, Will knew—knew something, knew too much—and Will now had Hannibal wrapped around his all-powerful fingers in every possible way.

Fingers he could still taste. A taste he needed more of and could not, in any respectable way, procure.

Hannibal stumbled his way to his desk chair and stared at the wood grain for a minute like a seer might look to tea leaves for answers. All that had happened needed filing away. Sorting through. Dissecting and reviewing, so he might know what the hell to do next.

He was still hard, pathetically so. Wet through his boxer-briefs. Wet like Will might be, honeysuckle and peat, pine and lemongrass, earth and musk, demands with an iron fist and a devilish, blue-eyed smirk.

Hannibal could've counted on one hand the number of times he'd been left speechless, if only that hand wasn't immediately put to work.

For two weeks after, Will gave him nothing. Not a hint of what transpired. No lingering glances from the fifth row. A picture-perfect student, seemingly untouched by what transpired.

Hannibal considered flaying him alive.

He convinced himself he was being subtle. Checked his reflection in the mirror each morning and told himself that this time, he wouldn't look. That he wasn't trying to dress his best for the days Will had class in hopes it might bypass this feigned ignorance.

It didn't work.

Still, it felt more like a test than a punishment. He wasn't sure how he knew it, but he did, right to his bones. Will wasn't being rude or forcing distance. He was waiting. Watching Hannibal wind himself up to see if he'd break.

He didn't want to break until Will broke him.

At the end of the second week, on the Friday before a long weekend where plenty of students are heading out of town, the weight of waiting grew unbearable. Sitting in his office with a glass of red—Malbec, in Will's honor—Hannibal tried his best to focus on a book he couldn't remember the title of. He was making very little progress.

Normally, a Friday like that one might have seen him entertaining his colleagues with dinner, or out to some social event or other. Hannibal loved to swan with the ducklings, loved any excuse to dress up and be seen. With the school half-abandoned, it would've been the perfect opportunity to indulge in some public vanity.

He didn't feel like it.

He wasn't sulking, per se. Hannibal Lecter didn't sulk. Doctor Lecter, he thought, a sour taste creeping up like bile. Abandoning the title as a teacher had been an act of false humility. It had the added bonus of keeping the student body from trying to bleed him for medical knowledge, connections or insight.

None of that had mattered to Will, who found out all on his own.

He'd talked to Alana. That thought had him wincing. Alana had been top of his class the year before, his right hand. She had also maintained an unsubtle crush that he had nipped in the bud early like he should've done with Will. He was doing research, which meant he'd been planning this for some time.

What else had Will gleaned about his professor? Surely he had no inkling about Hannibal's connection to the Biochemistry adjunct that had gone missing two years prior? The few, carefully spaced disappearances one state over?

No. He saw a darkness in his teacher, yes, but it was merely a sexual fixation.

Wasn't it?

The knock at the door startled him from his self-excavation. His office hours were long over, but perhaps a colleague needed something.

"Come in," he answered, tucking his wine glass into a nook in his desk next to the bottle just in case.

His heart tumbled into his stomach at what he saw.

"Evening, Doctor Lecter."

Will slunk in casually, glancing from Hannibal's quietly petrified form to the shelves around him with equal interest. He absorbed all the details of the office as if committing them to memory. Perhaps he was. He looked quietly pleased by what he saw.

"Evening, Will," was all his professor could manage. "What brings you by?"

The question was weak to his own ears. Will's amused flash of teeth told him it had landed similarly. There was a pause as he was taken in, his flashy plaid suit judged against Will's own casual dress. He did look a bit more put-together than usual—dark corduroy slacks with a heavy blue button-up to stave off the chill, his hair almost styled—but still young and lax.

Too young, too beautiful.

In answer to Hannibal's question, Will quietly clicked the door shut behind him. The air grew still as they both heard the deadbolt join it. Will turned to him with wild, thrumming danger in his eyes. Hannibal's entire body tensed as if on command.

Honey-vanilla sweetness.

He waited for Will to speak. For his reckless wit to begin its work peeling his teacher apart, or for the killing blow; at this point, he wasn't sure he cared.

After another moment of observation, Will set his bag down and slipped into the chair that faced Hannibal's desk. He drummed his fingers along the armrest, gaze darkening the longer the older man stayed unmoving and poised.

"How are you feeling tonight, Doctor?"

Ruined. "I am… managing."

Delight danced in Will's eyes at that. Hannibal felt himself swallow, grimacing at what must have been a stone in his throat for how sharply it stung.

"So I see," Will nodded, gesturing towards the wooden coaster Hannibal had not thought to hide when he stowed his wine. A stray drop gave him away, still shining wet in the golden lamplight. He cursed himself for the lack of forethought. His neck grew hot at Will's attentiveness. "And how is it? The managing? Is it… satisfactory?"

The boy's confidence should have inflamed him. On anyone else, he would have found it unseemly, worthy of punishment. On Will, it was a crown wreathed in flame. It brought him low, and he liked the view.

"I suspect you know the answer to that," Hannibal replied, straightening his tie one-handed. Smoothing his waistcoat. "May I ask…"

"If you did something wrong?" Will prompted, lazy grin widening at Hannibal's nod. "No. Not in the least."

"Then… why?"

Will watched him for a moment before crossing one knee over the other. His shirt was unbuttoned far enough that the shift in position exposed the edge of a collarbone. The scent of him grew thicker in the air. Hannibal's teeth itched with a desire to leave worshipful bruises there for everyone to see.

"I was curious," the boy shrugged, "how you'd react. If you'd pretend it never happened. If you'd confront me. If you'd act out."

Hannibal's tongue flicked out to wet his lower lip. Will's gaze snapped to the motion.

"I will admit to being perturbed."

A huff of laughter from Will softened the steel set of Hannibal's shoulders. The younger man rubbed the faint stubble of his chin in thought, still amused. Collected as he was, there was a tremor of anticipation threaded through each movement. The subtlest hint of sweat.

"Yes, you were," Will agreed, his foot bouncing. "You watched me so closely. Tried to hard not to. It wasn't easy, you know. Holding back."

Before he could help himself, Hannibal asked, "so why did you?"

Will's head tilted. The answer was obvious to him. "You're a careful man, Doctor Lecter. So am I. I got a little reckless with you. Hadn't planned to go that far, but you…"

As his words faded off, his eyes grew glassy and faraway with longing. It tightened the pressure already growing below Hannibal's gut. Something in him had caused Will to betray himself. That was sunlight itself.

"…You surprised me."

That was certainly true.

"We surprised each other, I think."

It took a few seconds for Will to nod, but he did it with mutual understanding. This, too, was a test—but for both of them.

"How long did you wait?"

Hannibal could've pretended he didn't know what Will meant, but what was the point?

"About five minutes after you left the room."

The black of Will's pupils expanded, threatening to eclipse all that lovely blue. He sat forward, over his gently bouncing knee. Rapt.

"Right there in your classroom?"

Hannibal's hands were clasped on the desk in front of him. He looked at them briefly, remembering. He blinked twice.

"Yes."

Will inhaled sharply, shoulders rising with it. Hannibal watched his fingers twitch. 

"You couldn't wait."

"No. I could not."

"But then you did."

Hannibal pursed and unpursed his lips. "I did. For two weeks."

Will tapped his thumb on his knee, considering. He was growing more fidgety by the second. "That's a long time, Doctor Lecter."

"Yes, Will," he agreed solemnly. A flush of red was trying to fight its way to the high plane of his cheeks. "It was."

"Two weeks," Will hummed. He looked rather warm himself. "Only seems fitting to be rewarded for that kind of patience, doesn't it?"

Another twist, another coil of pressure deep in Hannibal's core. He was both glad and deeply resentful of the desk between them. Will's presence alone, his intent, had him swelling with desire where he sat.

"I… don't know if that is for me to decide."

Will sharpened with pleasure at that. He sat up a little straighter, his smile widening. 

"Oh, Doctor. That's a good answer."

Hannibal was losing the battle with the color in his cheeks.

"Thank you, Will."

It wasn't quite a snarl, the sound Will made, but it was close. Possessive, pleased. Hungry. He practically pulsed with restless energy.

"I'll admit, our encounter had an effect on me as well."

"Oh?"

"Mmm," Will confirmed, rising to his feet and circling around to the space behind Hannibal's chair. He moved methodically, staking his claim with each step. "Couldn't help myself. Hadn't expected you to get quite so… flustered."

Hannibal's lids fell like curtains, pulled once more into Will's gravity. If the boy was to be out of sight, he wanted his awareness heightened to every sound, every scent. Sweat and sugar-sweet urgency enveloped him. Understanding came together in his mind, but he wanted Will to say it.

"You unmoored me," Hannibal whispered.

"I really did," Will chuckled softly. His minty breath-no cheap coffee this time-prickled the hairs on the back of Hannibal's neck. "Kept thinking about the way you looked. So nervous. So hard."

The older man swallowed as a hand slid down the front of his torso, over all the fine fabric, to cup him through his slacks. A weak groan filled the room. Will hunched closer, lips to ear. 

"You liked it. Like it. Being teased. Being seen."

The hand on him was agony. The fragrance muddied his thoughts. It took everything not to rut up into his touch.

"Not… usually," he admitted, breathless. "You are, in many ways, exceptional."

A dark sound of satisfaction caressed his neck. He came close to whining as Will pulled his hand away, but then it began working with the other to carefully unfasten his tie.

"Even better," Will grinned. "Do you want to know? What I did, when I got back to my dorm?"

His cock pulsed in answer before his lips could form the word.

"Yes."

His tie slipped free with a hiss. The faint pink light through Hannibal's eyelids was snuffed out as the textured silk was wrapped around his head and knotted in place. His lips parted, waiting.

It happened fast—one moment Will was behind him, the next his chair had been pushed back and the boy had climbed into his lap. The shock of contact, of heat, had Hannibal reeling. He reached blindly for Will's waist, but was swatted away.

"Ah, ah. At your sides. Be good, or I won't tell you."

He cursed under his breath in a language he hoped Will didn't know. What choice was there, but to obey?

"Better," Will praised. The words trickled down Hannibal's spine like molten gold. He wanted to be good, for perhaps the first time in his life. "Now then. Listen. Don't touch until I say so."

"Yes, Will."

He tried not to whimper as deft fingers began working on the buttons of his waistcoat. Being at this boy's mercy was electric and unbearably ill-advised.

"I have a roommate," Will began, an offhanded remark. "Beverly. She's great, but she's nosy. I think she knew something was up, but she had a party to go to. Place to myself is pretty rare. Figured I'd take advantage."

Will reached the last button on his waistcoat and popped it free.

"Sit up," he commanded. Hannibal did. Will slipped his jacket from his shoulders first, then shimmied the vest free. He was pleased not to hear them crumple to the floor. "Back. Good boy."

Hannibal wasn't prepared for shiver those words gave him, or that they would draw out a breathy little moan. If Will had suspected, he certainly hadn't predicted how hard it would strike the older man. A gleeful little sound tickled his ears.

"Oh, you're something else," Will teased, but the tone was rough and hungry. It took him a moment to recover and get back to unbuttoning Hannibal's shirt. "Well. She left, and I was all alone thinking about you. The way you'd looked. Your mouth around my fingers, so desperate. I'd never seen anything like it."

"No one has seen me that way," Hannibal confessed, eager for approval. "Only you."

"Yeah. That got me worked up, too. You were trying so hard not to say the wrong thing. People get hung up on that. I get it. I do. But sometimes… fuck, Professor…"

He had finished prying Hannibal's shirt apart, and must have been taking in the sight. Reflexively, the older man breathed in, his chest swelling.

"Yes, Will?"

"You're fucking gorgeous, that's all," Will half-laughed. "It's distracting."

A small smile crept onto Hannibal's lips. "I shall endeavor to be less so."

"You couldn't if you tried," Will scoffed, playful. His giddiness gave way quickly to even more arousal, the scent of which joined the others to form an intoxicating feast. Will combed his fingers through the thick graying hair that blanketed Hannibal's chest and gripped. "As I was saying—I couldn't wait. I was so wet, Doctor Lecter. So hard."

Hannibal shuddered. He was already so unraveled, so attuned to every breath, that he didn't question when his wrists were guided from their position at his sides to Will's belt. Hannibal took the cue and unbuckled it, waiting a moment before moving on to the button of Will's slacks. He kept going until they were unzipped, at which point Will took hold of his wrists again and placed them back where they'd been.

"We're not so different that way," Will mused, entertained by his own observation. He cupped his free hand over Hannibal's length again, through his suit pants, thumbing over the trapped and aching head. A damp spot was growing there, urged on by the motion. "You get wet when you get hard, too, don't you?"

"Oh, Will…"

"Yeah," Will agreed, a little more wrecked than he'd been a moment before. "I was dripping. Doesn't always happen anymore, but you… "

Gently, he directed Hannibal's fingertips to the edge of what he discovered with an unbecoming whine were a lacy pair of panties.

"You got in my head."

Unable to help himself, Hannibal traced his fingers over the lace, trying to build a picture in his mind. They were delicate, a bit of stretch. Something you'd wear if you were trying to impress. As a contrast to the rest of his outfit, so practical, so masculine—

"Keep going," Will murmured. "Touch me while I tell you how I fucked myself thinking about your mouth."

Hannibal cursed again, Italian this time. Will's hips lifted to give him better access. He took the hint. Wrist pointed up, he slid three fingers down over the thatch of hair that prickled lightly through the fabric. Down, down, following the warmth until his fingertips found the small bulge in the lace that caused them both to groan.

"Yes," Will gasped, like he'd stumbled onto water in the desert. One hand cupped Hannibal's pec, teasing his nipple until the man bucked underneath him and began to move his fingers in kind. The other braced on the back of the chair to hold himself up. His breath was hot on Hannibal's jaw, his cheek.

As a doctor, Hannibal had seen his fair share of bodies that had evolved from their default form. He had always admired the strength and horror of transition—to commit to radically altering one's physical form through both advanced and archaic means impressed him deeply, particularly in a world that so misunderstood and maligned the practice. To him, it was its own form of becoming. Those without personal experience or medical knowledge had no real concept of how grotesque the process could be; drains, sutures, dilations, side effect after side effect. In a way, he pitied them. Even if they could comprehend it on paper, they would never understand what a radical, horrific, magnificent form of defiance it was.

To be oneself so violently should only ever be admired, in his opinion.

So, yes, theoretically he knew what to expect. Clitoral enlargement was one of the most highly sought-after results of testosterone therapy. But technical awareness, having observed in a clinical setting, was not the same as feeling.

Not even close.

"Oh, Will."

"Fuck."

Will's cock was small, as was to be expected, but it was hard. It pressed through the lace, twitching at his touch. The wetness that had crept up slicked the way. Without his sight, he focused entirely on Will's sounds, his movements, his breath. He knew the boy's flesh would not react the same as it might have before hormones, so he experimented. Circled. Stroked.

"Will."

"Y-yeah?"

"You were telling me a story."

A shocked, stumbling laugh burst from Will, who had apparently gotten lost in the feeling of Hannibal's fingers.

"Fuck. Yeah. I—Jesus. You shouldn't be good at this."

"Shouldn't I?"

"No," Will hissed, though his smile was loud enough to hear through the panting. "But, yes. Right. So." He cleared his throat. Hannibal could feel his arm trembling on the back of the chair. "I was wearing boxers that day. I switch it up. I, they were soaked. I stripped everything off-f. Got into b-bed. B-because you were right."

"I was?"

"It was shot day. Y-you called it."

Hannibal's cock ached. He wanted to sink his teeth into Will's throat. He slicked his index finger down below Will's cock tentatively, ready to be told what was or wasn't allowed. All the boy did was nod into his shoulder.

"So I—ah—did it. Bent m-myself, fuck, over. Sometimes Bev does it for me but sometimes I, well—"

"Testosterone injections are known to spike libido," Hannibal purred against his neck. Will's admission was getting close.

Will grunted in protest at the phrasing, but ultimately nodded again. "Yeah. So I did the shot like t-that. It was like—I was on fire. I needed—I needed something inside me. Bad."

At the words, Hannibal slipped his index finger around the gusset of the lace, hissing with pleasure at the wetness that greeted him. Will was drenched, coating his fingers as he teased the opening. Again, he waited to be stopped. Again, Will merely rocked against his hand.

"What did you do, Will? Did you use your fingers?"

A hand found the back of his head again, threading through and gripping for purchase. He was bent over Hannibal's torso, chest heaving. Entirely undone, shivering with sweat, yet still somehow in control.

"Yeah," he moaned. "At first. But it wasn't—"

Hannibal took a risk. He drove two slick fingers inside to the second knuckle, leaving the heel of his hand for Will to grind his cock against through the wet lace it was still trapped behind. It paid off; Will cried out, clenching around him beautifully.

"It wasn't enough, was it?"

"No—!" Will gasped, delighted and surprised by the action. "I needed. I needed more."

"Did you use a toy, darling?"

A high, incensed whine. Another nod. Will's cock rutting against his hand, his cunt squeezing him, pulling him deeper. It was all Hannibal could taste or smell or think of, other than imagining the boy in his dorm, fucking himself senseless.

"I've got, yeah, hah, a few."

"And which one did you choose? Was it the biggest? The hardest?"

"Fuck," Will shuddered, a manic laugh tucked beneath it. "The biggest. It's not, it's not huge, but, I thought—"

"You thought of me."

With a strange, angry growl, Will pressed his teeth to Hannibal's neck. It was the first time the boy's mouth had made contact with him, and it came without warning. He didn't bite hard, but he made his point. He sucked the skin just long enough to leave a pink mark, laving his tongue along it before he broke free.

"Yeah, you bastard," Will groaned giddily, "I thought of you. Thought of you when it first went in, stretching me o-open. Thought of you when I was riding it, stroking my cock. What you'd do to f-feel me that way."

"Anything," Hannibal pledged, meaning every letter of the word. The thought ruined him. His hand never stopped, fingers thrusting up and curling, but now he wished he had twice the limbs to pleasure every possible inch of skin. "Please, Will."

"Yeah? You want my cunt, Doctor Lecter?"

"God, yes." Every squeeze, every gasp, every wet sound had Hannibal's cock leaking more. It was growing deeply uncomfortable, but he wouldn't stop unless he was told to. Sightless and helpless. Owned.

"Beg me for it."

He didn't need to be asked twice. "Please, Will."

"Please, what?"

"Please. Let me fuck you. Let me taste you. Let me fill you. Use me how you want. I'm yours."

Will nearly collapsed over him, shuddering through the onslaught of lust Hannibal's crude submission seemed to offer.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay."

And then he was up. Briefly, Hannibal grew terrified that he might leave for a second time—but then Will was sucking his own flavor off the man's fingers, savoring for a moment before undoing and wrenching Hannibal's pants and underwear down his thighs.

His mouth was unexpected.

"Oh, Will—!"

"Mmmm." Will hummed along the head, fingers of one hand winding around the length while the other trailed up his thigh, pushing his legs apart. "Fuck, Doctor. I was right to use the biggest."

Hannibal tried not to let the flattery get to him, though some landed all the same. Not being able to see Will like this, on his knees, was exquisite torture. He could've torn off the blindfold—his hands were free, after all—but the obedience was far more thrilling. He bucked as Will took the head into his mouth, cupping and rolling his balls expertly. Realizing that he'd done this before struck a hot chord of jealousy that he forced down—it wasn't like he'd never been in Will's position. He could only benefit from experience.

Still…

"Thinking about all the other cocks I've sucked, Professor?" he asked, switching up the honorific just to keep Hannibal remembering all the ways in which this was wrong. "I told you, the shots make me horny. Sometimes I get up to trouble."

Ah. Finally.

"Two weeks," Hannibal smirked.

Will grinned against the side of his cock, licking him broadly as a reward for his cleverness. Letting him feel the graze of teeth as a punishment for knowing.

"Of course you knew. I thought you might. Yes. Tonight. Right before I came a-knocking at your door, in fact."

"Never again," Hannibal hissed before he could stop himself.

Will paused. The air stilled.

"Excuse me?"

Hannibal tried to think over the rush of his blood. His chest heaved. He needed to be inside Will so badly it felt like a scream perched in his throat.

"Never again," he repeated. "Don't—don't go out. Don't find someone undeserving, Will. Come to me."

Will inhaled long and slow. The heat that had vanished around them settled back in, heavier than before. Barbed. The hand circling Hannibal's cock began to stroke, so slippery with the precome that wouldn't stop leaking for Will.

"You want to give me my shot?" Will asked, breathless.

He'd kill anyone who tried to stop him. "Yes."

"You want… you want me like this? After?"

"During, if you prefer."

Will squeezed just under his swollen head, breath sweltering as he leaned up to lick the fresh beads of silky fluid. Hannibal practically mewled.

"Yeah," Will said quietly, seriously. "Yeah, okay."

And then he pressed Hannibal's legs together, climbed back into the chair, and sunk down onto his cock.

"Oh—!"

Hannibal wasn't sure which of them had said it. Both, perhaps. Neither. Maybe they'd moaned in harmony, or cried out nonsense in dead languages. Whatever it was, it was eclipsed by the sheer magnitude of feeling. Will's body, his heat, the tight embrace of him slowly opening to accept Hannibal's girth. The tiny winces as his body grew accustomed to the stretch. Both of them drenched in each other, for each other. Ruining Hannibal's chair, his office, his life.

Good.

"Will," he finally managed, unable to keep himself from reaching up to find the boy's waist once he was finally seated. "You're perfect."

Will didn't stop him this time, instead encouraging him to seek out and map the rigid lines of his chest. Hannibal whimpered at the first touch of scar tissue, pulsing inside as he traced the jagged lines. He wanted to see, wanted to taste. Will guided his fingertips to his nipples, the small buds slightly uneven. Hannibal examined the dimensions, the scarring.

"Do you feel them?" he asked, shocked he could form words with Will on top of him.

"Uh-huh," came the answer. "Little w-weird sometimes. Numb in some places, but, ah, I like it. You can be rough."

Hannibal's answer was a snarl and a sharp, claiming pinch.

"Ah! You like this," Will yelped, breathing growing short as he began to move. Drawing up, sinking back down. Petting and clawing and touching, touching, touching. Stroking his own cock between them. He was feral with need, now that the facade had been dropped. "The scars."

"Yes," Hannibal sighed. He wished he could've been the one to stitch them. Not his area of expertise at all, but he could learn. He should've learned, for Will.

"You like my scars and my shots and my tight little boy-cunt," Will half-giggled, clenching his muscles to hear Hannibal groan at the feeling and the vulgarity. "Not a chaser, my ass."

Not one to be outsmarted even as he was used, Hannibal snarled against Will's neck, shocking a deep gasp from the boy as he thrust up sharply.

"Don't forget your cock," he grinned, sliding a hand between them to engulf it.

"Oh, f—dirty old man," Will huffed. He sounded thrilled.

"For you. Only for you."

The pressure was building too quickly, but it had been for weeks. His own release meant nothing—he had been waiting for Will's. He wouldn't be sated until he came at his cruel, beautiful boy's behest.

"Yeah. Fuck. You're..."

He trailed off. Hannibal wouldn't allow it. He gripped Will's hips. "I'm what?"

"You're really big," Will laughed shyly.

A strange moment of softness bloomed between them at the admission. A shared smile, unseen by one of them but felt by both.

"I won't apologize for that," Hannibal smirked, catching one nipple in his teeth and biting lightly. Will moaned. "You can take it. You're a very adaptable boy."

"Ff-fuck."

"That's it. You come to me, Will. Put it in your calendar. A standing appointment. I'll spread you over this desk and give you what you need."

"Oh, fuck—"

"Fill you properly. Encourage the—hah—blood flow. Watch it take effect."

"Han—"

His hips stuttered, but didn't stop. In fact, he was stampeding towards climax faster than he could control.

"Do you own a plug, Will? You should wear it, the day of. Be ready for me."

On top of him, Will shivered. He clenched so tightly Hannibal worried he might be forced out. Unwilling to even entertain the possibility, he seized Will by the waist and pulled him further down into his lap. Their skin slapped together obscenely. Feeling bold, he wet his fingers in the mess between them and dragged it to Will's unused hole.

"Your cunt is perfect," he rasped, teasing the entrance, "but the days you most feel like a man, don't you think you should be fucked like one?"

The second his finger pressed inside, Will's entire body wrenched tight, shook violently, and began to rock in desperate, urgent waves. He came like rapture comes, all-consuming, all-encompassing. His fingers twisted in Hannibal's hair, in the knot of the blindfold. He cried out against sweat-slick collarbones and gasped, nearly in disbelief, as Hannibal thrust up to meet him. Release took them both, Hannibal flooding Will with warmth that spilled out over them both as they panted through it.

Hands found hips found chests found lips. The tie-blindfold, now askew, revealed a blurry image of an absolutely ruined Will Graham grinning back at him. Pink cheeks, wild curls. Bright, all-seeing eyes.

"Hi," Will laughed.

There would be no one else. That much was clear.

"Hello, Will."

They fell back against the chair in a heap. Not sleeping; the position wouldn't allow for it. Recovering. Holding each other until their hearts found a rhythm that could support separation. Hannibal slipped free eventually, both of them shivering at the loss.

"So," Will said eventually, chuckling with exhausted, giddy disbelief. "A standing appointment, hm?"

Eyes crinkling, Hannibal reached a hand up to pet Will's sweat-damp jaw. He realized, in that moment, they still hadn't kissed. The sudden apprehension on Will's face told him he'd realized the very same thing.

They could maintain that line. Keep this for what it was. Something dark, something taboo. Hidden and sacred and wildly, beautifully dangerous. Hannibal pictured easily the next few months; Will darkening his doorway like clockwork every fourteen days, lip caught between his teeth. Sauntering in to see his very own, personal physician after hours. Commanding every step as if he weren't the one about to get filled and bitten and made to come. Would he like Doctor Lecter to dress the part? Latex gloves, sleeves rolled up? Would he refuse Hannibal's own release as he rode the man for all he was worth, attendant and object all rolled into one?

His thumb found Will's mouth as he considered all this, and then epiphany fell upon him—it could be all that, and this, too.

"Will," he breathed, dipping closer.

"Yes," came the answer, spoken trembling against his lips.

As he tasted himself on the boy's tongue, as the tender exploration slowly grew heated and Will's hungry-sweet scent returned, certainty took hold; he would do anything Will asked.

Anything, if it meant more of this.

*