He thought Will might be rough with him, quietly furious as he was, still and silent and staring at the corpse of Randall Tier on Hannibal’s dining room table, as if some other Will had placed it there and left this one to deal with the fallout.

He thought Will might turn the rest of that aggressive anger on him, was well prepared to accept it as his due, all things considered.

But he wasn’t, he didn’t. He followed Hannibal upstairs with that dazed expression slowly bleeding off of his face to reveal something pulsing and raw, like a heart beneath a parted ribcage, vulnerable without its shell of bone.

He stared at Hannibal unblinking as his bandaged knuckles were kissed, reverent, worshipful, the murmured words mere nonsense, the shining hymn of a believer finally seeing the vision he’d ached for.

Hannibal had been prepared for many things, but not for Will’s hand to flex, his fingers opening, turning to cup his jaw, gentle, surprising.

“Beautiful boy,” Hannibal breathed, the impassive stare finally fracturing. There was pride in those blue eyes, and desire, confusion, frustration, and something primal that had the flavor and scent of yearning.

He needed no words of encouragement past that. He held still and watched Hannibal shed his clothes, preparing for any eventuality. Will was as likely to kill him now in his state as he was to devour him.

But he didn’t. He watched, desire and surprise flaring in his features as Hannibal came to him, nude as a grape. He neither encouraged nor discouraged Hannibal’s hands on him, stripping him down to his skin so that he stood like a pale marble statue of Eros there before his bed.

“Whatever you want, Will,” Hannibal said, earnest and eager to pay him tribute. He backed towards his bed and Will moved with him, supple limbs and surprising muscle, his intensity sharpening with a new goal in mind.

Hannibal expected he would take his chance now to be cruel.

But he wasn’t. Will came to his bed with passion of a desperate, almost frantic kind, as if he had been too long without being touched, as if there was something lurking in that beautiful mind of his that drove him to excess. He devoured Hannibal, feasted on him, sharp teeth and sucking lips and teasing tongue, clever fingers and intuitive understanding of where to touch, what made him breathless.

They ruined his bed, and Hannibal didn’t care. Will covered him in bites and kisses, and Hannibal didn’t mind. He offered himself up and Will accepted. Hannibal waited for that violence to resurface, punishment for his manipulations.

But it didn’t.

Will spread over him in a blanket of firm flesh and pulsing breath, callused hands tucked beneath him, lifting him up, opening him for the intrusion he’d longed for. Will’s mouth and tongue and lube-slick fingers ensured he was buried to the hilt in one slow push. Hannibal folded up around him, heels dug in hard, hands gripping tightly, greedy for everything Will could give him, even his temper. But Will was gentle with him, tender with him, all of that resentment and anger forsaken for this moment of closeness Hannibal had only dreamed of.

“Anything you want,” Hannibal moaned, the deep, determined roll of Will’s hips far more satisfying than any vicious pummelling he might ask for. He was compelled to offer, all the same. Anything for this beautiful boy.

Will dragged his teeth down Hannibal’s jaw and breathed into his ear, “I don’t want to hurt you, Hannibal.”

“You won’t,” he said, but was pleased all the same and hoped that Will had forgiven him after all.

His climax, when Will finally allowed him to tip over the edge of pleasure, was fierce enough to leave him aching, subsiding in a satisfied slump of sweat and kiss-slick skin and heat. He tightened his thighs and cradled Will’s shuddering body, feeling the pulse and push of his sex within as he came. They hadn’t kissed this whole time, realized, laying there with his fingers deep in Will’s curls and Will’s breath pouring over his collarbone. Hannibal wanted Will to kiss him.

But he didn’t.

He kissed Hannibal’s throat, his shoulders, his chest, his belly, kissed as he coiled off and away, his blank stare returning as the heat between them faded.

“I have to go,” he said, dressing with haste, leaving Hannibal a satiated but bewildered mess behind him.

“Must you?” It felt petulant even to himself, even though he knew something must be done with Mr. Tier, that Will’s work was not yet done.

Will glanced back at him, pausing in the act of tying his boots. Hannibal had the most peculiar and unusual urge to cover himself.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Hannibal,” he murmured.

“You didn’t hurt me, Will,” Hannibal said, hoping to reassure him, even as Will left him there.

He didn’t understand then, in that moment, what Will had meant about hurting him.

Feasting on that encounter through his Memory Palace, bereft on his cot in the BSHCI, he finally did.


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