Chapter Text
When the pleasures of Will's body first made themselves known to him, Hannibal found them akin to the experience of exploring a new city. He became a flâneur of the flesh, lost and found all at once in Will.
Certainly there is something architectural in the way Will has been assembled by Nature. Take Will's neck, which occupies a number of pages in Hannibal's sketchbook, constructed roughly or in painstaking detail from charcoal or graphite. Pedestalled on this graceful column is the greatest spoil of the war Hannibal has waged with himself for years: Will's mind.
At this very moment, Will's neck is glistening with sweat as he passes Hannibal in the kitchen on the way back from his run. Hannibal's pencils have never captured that sheen to his satisfaction and he stares at it now, committing it to memory. Will grunts a greeting, fills a glass from the tap and throws back its contents until he's sated. Hannibal's focus narrows to the image of liquid passing down Will's throat in rhythmic gulps, a counterpoint to the fast arterial throb beneath smooth slick skin. Hannibal can almost see the twin streams of cold water and hot blood coursing side by side within.
Will pays him no heed. Or he affects obliviousness. In either case, he leaves Hannibal where he's standing and begins a slow amble up the stairs, towards the bathroom. He peels off his T-shirt along the way, uses it to wipe off his nape, then dumps it on the steps.
Blatant, Hannibal thinks, and immediately abandons his kitchen duties to stalk Will up the stairs. He follows in the wake of Will's scent and the heat haze of Will's body. He knows Will knows he is being pursued and dearly wishes to see the smile that the knowledge brings to Will's face. He picks up the discarded T-shirt like a prize and brings it to his nose.
Will stops in the bathroom doorway, forearms resting on the frame. He peers over his shoulder at Hannibal, eyebrow arched. When his hips cant, the muscles in his back shift and shine. Hannibal twists and twists the shirt in his hands until it forms a short tight rope.
"What?" Will asks, but doesn’t turn.
"You dropped this."
“And you look like you want to hit me with it.”
Hannibal steps closer, until the smell and the heat of Will engulf him. A fresh drop of sweat beads up behind Will's right ear and slides lazily down past clinging damp curls. How far will it roll, Hannibal wonders, before he can lap it up?
"I don't."
He slings the shirt about Will's waist and uses it to draw them together: one quick, hard tug to bring Will's back flush against himself. He opens his mouth over Will's neck without thought, just above the curve of his shoulder where the drop of sweat has settled. He swirls his tongue into its saline pool. Will squirms against him, slippery like a caught fish, and sighs, hands clutching Hannibal's hands.
"Hannibal— come on. I stink."
Hannibal is pleased at being met with such token resistance. "Stink is relative."
"I really need a shower. Or are you just gonna lick me clean?"
Hannibal lets the T-shirt drop. Will's scorching heat has soaked through his clothing and spilled down into Hannibal's cock. One palm caressing circles into the smile on Will's belly, the other spread over Will's neck. Fingertips skidding over the thyroid cartilage, down to the wet hollow of Will’s suprasternal notch. Gentle kisses laid down the long path of Will's pulse. Hannibal finds he is breathing to the beat of Will's heart and shuts his eyes, adrift.
Odd metaphors come to him, as they only ever do with Will. He imagines himself caught in the rushing red rapids of the carotid, a lost traveller carried upstream towards the circle of Willis, that coral crown of arteries that feeds the wondrous neural cities of Will's brain. What treasures would he find there with such unfettered access? And would he ever find his way back?
"Shall we ignore the fact that you baited me here?"
Will's head slumps back onto Hannibal's shoulder, all of his throat on offer to Hannibal's lips and tongue and teeth. Hannibal slots his fingers into the damp tangle of Will's hair, tightens them into a grip and tugs, not too hard. Touch, he has long ago learned, coaxes answers from Will more readily than any verbal acrobatics.
"Maybe I did," Will mutters. "Will you just—" He pulls Hannibal's hand from his stomach and shoves it down his shorts, into the heat and sweat there. Their fingers fumble together, lifting and teasing Will's hardening cock.
Hannibal nips and licks at the delicate skin of Will's neck. “And why did you?” He wraps his fist about Will’s cock and squeezes once, hard.
A little gasp from Will. Another squirm against Hannibal’s hips. "Because I woke up this morning thinking about the first time I fucked you," he says quickly.
Hannibal smiles between bites and kisses. His hand in Will's shorts works steadily, slowly. Never far from the shores of awareness, the memories surface at once: bent over the side of that squalid little bed, Will’s naked body draped over him, the burn of cheap synthetic carpet against Hannibal's knees, the burn of Will inside him.
"And you didn't rouse me for a reenactment?"
"Wouldn't be the same." Will says. He's shoving his shorts down, kicking them away, then grasping again at the doorframe to steady himself. His cock is stiff and heavy with blood in Hannibal's hand, precome sliding over Hannibal's knuckles. "It was— the way you— fuck." Another gasp, as Hannibal thumbs at the head, smearing the slickness. "The way you couldn't help yourself."
The way I can't help myself now, Hannibal thinks.
"Nor could you," he says instead and pulls back just enough to examine his efforts: the arch of Will's bare back, his parted panting mouth, the garden of pale red blooms on his neck, raised up by Hannibal's lips. One for the sketchbook. He reaches down and tugs himself free.
One hand over Will's throat, the other gripping his own cock to trace its head slowly down the cleft of Will's cheeks. He cannot muster even that much control. He manages a single pass over that lovely swell of flesh before he shoves himself between Will's thighs and begins to thrusts.
Will groans against his ear. He rocks back onto Hannibal's cock, raised up on his toes, not quite steady. "God. That shitty motel. You could have waited for silk sheets, for— harder. Come on, don't hold back."
Hannibal fucks faster, harder into the sweat-slicked clench of muscle, and grips Will's cock again to stroke in time. Arousal past and present crashing together, all elegant choreography thrown overboard, he roams Will's body blindly: twisting at nipples, scratching at the marks on his throat, pushing fingers into that hot open mouth. He knows what it's like to drown and this, too, is like drowning. "When could I ever help myself with you, Will?"
No more words as they find their pace, fast and jerky and desperate. Moans pass through Will's throat and vibrate against Hannibal's lips. Hannibal wishes he could swallow them down. The high drawn-out cry that his bite elicits is the end. He's caught by the sweet and bright contraction of his orgasm, and spills hot and hard between Will's legs.
He heaves a harsh breath and gives himself a moment before spinning Will by the hips and seizing him in a kiss. Their tongues tangle briefly and then, at last, their eyes can meet. Will's are dilated and hazy. Hannibal doesn't dare to think what his own may show. He cradles Will's face and kisses him again, light and tender. Then again and again.
"Your mouth," Will says softly into one of the kisses and Hannibal nods at once, already sliding to his knees, nails dragging down Will's torso on his way down.
He arrives in time to see his come coursing down Will's inner thighs. He reaches around to smear his fingers through the mess, stirring up his own scent to mingle with Will's. He closes his mouth loosely just above the head of Will's cock and paints with his tongue: over the sensitive ridge, over the slit, underneath and down the shaft. The veins he traces carry Will's heartbeat and Hannibal chases that familiar melody as he begins to suck. It's enough to make him dizzy.
"Just don't tease," Will says on a moan, fingers caught in Hannibal's hair and hips working into Hannibal's mouth, "I'm close. Please..."
Hannibal takes pity on him. He tightens his lips and lets Will thrust as he pleases, down into his throat. A few more seconds are enough and then Will is coming in Hannibal's mouth, thighs shaking in Hannibal's bruising grip.
If Hannibal had powers over time, he'd stretch moments like this into a small infinity. Instead, he lets himself linger until he's savoured and swallowed down the last drop of Will's climax. He staggers to his knees and finds himself caught between wanting to hold Will close and stepping back to admire the end result of Will's simplistic seduction. He chooses the latter and finds he's chosen wisely.
Will before him, fumbling for a towel. Flushed and naked and slightly dazed, come-soaked and bite-marked and not quite able to hold the weight of Hannibal's pleased regard. An absurdly exquisite sight.
"Sorry. That was a cheap lure. The— shirt thing," he says, frowning. He's picking up the cast off casualties of his running wear.
Hannibal begins to peel out of his own clothes. If he's entirely honest, both of them are beginning to smell appalling. Besides, showers with Will are usually pleasant affairs, not to be turned down.
"Don't be too hard on yourself, Will. It's far too late to question your methods. You should know you reeled me in years ago."