Chapter Text
Will shakes. His breath is coming fast, pinched out, bordering on hyperventilation. He can't calm it, can't control it – thinks past nothing but the wide, warm tension surrounding his neck. On the edge of panic, he shakes, he trembles.
He flinches, when a warm touch comes to his face. He turns his head, wants to bite, to snap his jaws together and draw blood. The hand is steady, though, callused at the fingers and soft in the palms, and flattens over his ear, over the entirety of the side of his face. So warm, so wide. The other side of Will's face is tucked to a thigh, strong, muscle tense and utterly still.
"Shh." That voice – he knows that voice. He searches for it, seeks it, drags his cheek against fabric soft as silk, clings with dry lips and chapped corners of his mouth. Desires, more than life, to breathe.
The fingers curl, touch the innards of his jaw, palm flat to his ear so he hears water and waves. The rush of blood – he thinks of Moses, red seas parting, red lips parting.
Turns his head, finds flesh, bites.
The muscle goes tense between his teeth, but the voice huffs in something like delight. Hands slide – two, each a mirror of the other, broad and wide-fingered and gentle as sin – into his hair, cupping his nape. Fingers pull, wrap around the heavy D-ring at the back of his neck, tug sharply so Will gasps, loosens his jaw, raises his eyes.
His gaze finds his master's, sees Hannibal dark and smiling, and Will trembles for him, flattens his touch with supplication on Hannibal's ankles, leans against the weight of the leather collar on the front of his neck – wishes it were Hannibal's touch. Leather and plastic are nothing compared to him.
Hannibal, God-like, sits on his throne and gazes upon his design, and Will hopes he finds it good. His lashes flutter, lower, he swallows and trembles and tries to breathe and Hannibal watches – silent, so silent, always, like the innards of a tomb. Will can't even hear him breathe, and in comparison, Will feels tragically loud. Devastatingly unrefined.
Hannibal tugs on his collar again, breaking him from thoughts too dark, too heavy. Will sucks in a breath, bares his teeth in a brief show of defiance – defiance that makes Hannibal's eyes brighten, mirth and challenge mixed like a single drop of blood in a glass of whiskey. I dare you, darling.
But Will does not dare. He settles, lets his jaw slacken, lips soften. Hannibal tilts his head, slides one hand along the edge of Will's collar, nails digging to muscles made sensitive from sweat under foreign substance. He has lost count of the hours spent in this collar, floating between space and time with nothing but Hannibal to cement him – Hannibal, with whiskey eyes and a venomous mouth, and Hannibal leans down, leans over, covers him like a shadow, and kisses Will's forehead.
Will whimpers, sags and stutters to his master's knees. His ankles ache, awakened by Hannibal's lips on his clammy skin. His knees protest hours on hard floor, his shoulders are weak and feel as though dust, held together solely by Hannibal's will.
He breathes, and in that breath, elation comes. Hannibal's fingers go slack, releasing ring, releasing hair, and Will clenches fingers in his master's clothes, slides them boldly up to cover the outside of his knees, then his thighs. His thumb smooths along where he bit, damp from his aching teeth. He lifts his head, lifts his heart to Hannibal's throne, and Hannibal smiles.
Will's chest is hot, burning from collar to hairline, from collar to hips, lit from his spine, shaking, too shaken. When Hannibal kisses him again, this time a gentle brush of his soft lips to the bridge of Will's nose, he moans, cries out without words, and collapses when Hannibal cups his nape and drags Will's mouth to his own.
In this, Will finally feels quiet. They move together like entwined snakes, too tightly-pressed for one to begin, one to end – it is not for the perception of outsiders, and there are no borders to cross and conquer. Hannibal tugs on Will's nape, the D-ring, the strands of his sweaty hair, other hand dug around Will, a furrow for him to tend, an open wound that seeks to be filled.
Will clutches at him, finds air and water in Hannibal's mouth. Parts his lips, slack and eager, and drinks of his master. Clings, nails dug into the thickness of Hannibal's coat, the thickness of his arms. He is covered, layered as armor and steel, burns Will's bare flesh like hot metal and frostbite.
Will ruts, arches, his breath turning tight and high and lost as Hannibal sinks nails into Will's back, tugs him so the kiss breaks and Will lifts his eyes, and the ceiling is so dark, the warmth of Hannibal like gravity, pulling him, pulling him.
He knows what Hannibal is waiting for – this is how they play. But he can't, yet. Can't make himself lax, can't melt the iron in his spine nor calm the riotous roar in his chest. It can be collared, caged, but never controlled.
"Will," Hannibal breathes, and Will trembles for him, heavy in his lap, heavy as time and memory. He sinks to Hannibal, ruts and writhes and Hannibal's teeth find the collar around his neck, bite down and that – that -.
He settles, abruptly, finds air and lets it go deliberately. His nose is at Hannibal's temple and he smells like fine sweat, amber, cloying. Will's tongue curls into the very edge of his hairline, marks the subtle curve of his skull when forehead becomes soft, vulnerable.
Hannibal shivers, biting down, and twists his head so his teeth pull the collar tight – make it pinch, make it ache. Will moans, blinks up, bears down and clutches, wraps his hands and his arms and his thighs around Hannibal and fucks forward, cockhead slipping between the folds of Hannibal's suit jacket, butting against belt buckle and waistcoat.
He snarls, feels how Hannibal's hand tightens on his back, urging him closer. Leans down, whispers "Dirty boy", in his ear, and grunts, hand dropping, wrapping tight on himself, and comes onto Hannibal's fine clothes. Sinks, rutting against soft fabric, buttery leather, finds Hannibal's erection and presses down with the heel of his hand until Hannibal shifts, and releases his neck with an uncomfortable, disapproving noise.
Will laughs, edges teeth on Hannibal's ear, bites down very gently. "I like making a mess of you," he whispers, noting with pleasure half-echoed that Hannibal has his head tilted, allowing Will room to bite and nuzzle. Will's control does not rely on the implicit – their reversed state of dressed and undressed does not mean he loses command. Rather, it is wilder this way; Will is savage, merciless, and moves through Hannibal like he invades consciousness and home – without care for refinement, for it neither touches nor affects him.
But the loss of that refinement, well, that affects him very deeply.
He slides back on Hannibal's knees, sinks to his own and puts one of Hannibal's hands in his hair. Hannibal's eyes are glass-dark, shining like they contain smoke, contain sin. Will runs his fingers through the mess he smeared over Hannibal's clothes, grins off-kilter and animal, parts button from hole, teeth of the zipper, and coaxes Hannibal's cock out from his clothes.
He's hard, so very hard, a deep blushing red that matches the flush on his cheeks. Always is, when Will kneels for him. His fingers curl in Will's hair, breathing harsh – now it's his turn to be loud – and he wraps his knuckles against Will's nape, circles the ring, pulls it to the front and hauls Will between his thighs.
Will smiles, parts his teeth graciously for Hannibal to slip between them. He sucks, jaw tight so that it aches, tongue thick and wet as a cushion for his teeth and a rough scrape for Hannibal to fuck against. His mouth, full, wet, parting; his throat, tender from abuse, tight with the collar, barricaded with Hannibal's flesh. He lets himself sink, lets Hannibal's hand demand and pull obedience from him.
Thighs tighten, Hannibal's breath stutters and stalls. He drags Will up by the grip on his collar, and Will, petulant, lets saliva drip and coat him. Hannibal takes himself in hand, stroking quickly, thumb swiping through the exposed slit of his cock, knuckles white, whiter. Will looks up, slides his gaze feral and fine up Hannibal's heaving body, his dirty lap, the rush of his breath in his chest and the flash of his teeth.
Will licks his lips, tilts his chin up. Shows Hannibal his collar.
Hannibal growls, twists his wrist, his other hand curling tight to Will's neck, between collar and throat, tugging and Will snarls, shakes, but doesn't move his eyes from Hannibal's as Hannibal comes, spurting thick and heavy-hot on Will's collarbone, over the thick black leather of his collar, whip-crack droplets along his jaw.
He sighs, and his fingers go slack, his eyelids fluttering and his shoulders rolling with sudden absence of tension. Will smiles, lets out a rough, growling sound, and turns, wipes his jaw on the inside of Hannibal's suit pants, turns and sinks his teeth in fabric and flesh.
Hannibal leans forward, unclasps the collar, thumbing the red marks undoubtedly left behind. Will shivers, swallows, throat abused and lips bruised and red. Hannibal wraps the collar around his knuckles, cups Will's neck and Will's clammy skin turns wet, slick with Hannibal's seed, as Hannibal pulls him up and kisses him deeply. Will's tongue, salty with precum, curls behind Hannibal's teeth, tastes his wine, tastes him.
He pulls back, rests their foreheads, eyes meeting, shining as light on water. Slides, close, heavy, onto Hannibal's lap, stains soaked to fabric and skin. Hannibal's knuckles are still sheathed in leather, he rests with palms flat on Will's hips, cradling him, subtly arching.
Will smiles, kisses his master, cradles Hannibal's skull and kisses him again until Hannibal's fingers twitch, tighten – until his mouth curls, hungry, and the collar finds its way back to Will's neck. Will arches for it, bares each inch of skin with grace and reverence and sees it met, matched, in Hannibal's eyes.
Hannibal smiles as Will sinks to his knees, comes to rest on toes and knees and straining ankles. Will shakes. He shakes and wets his lips and lets his eyes close as Hannibal kisses his forehead. Bookended, his mastery, his control, and now he slides fever-wet into the darkness.
"Shh," Hannibal murmurs, luring him to the quiet, back into the place where time is thick and he shakes, he shakes. And he feels at the bottom of a cliff, and he tries to climb it but his nails catch and everything crumbles -. And then Hannibal is there, hands around Will's neck, collar pressing warm and slick and tight, and Will can't breathe. In breathlessness, he relaxes.
Tilts his head up, nose to Hannibal's jaw, and Hannibal is pleased. Will can feel his pleasure.
"Let's see if you can hold out a little longer this time, darling. Your record's fifteen minutes."
Fifteen minutes, but they've been here for hours, ebbing and flowing together as tides.
Will breathes out, lets the world become heavy. Lets his eyes close, neck drooping, so the tug of the D-ring at the back of the collar keeps him upright. His hands find Hannibal's knees, lay loose, his forehead to his knuckles. He blinks, once, twice, and closes his eyes again until he can feel his lashes graze his cheeks.
He settles. And waits.