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A Sunday morning’s sunrise glow dapples warm streaks into white sheets, blending its light onto a silken canvas. Pleasant sixties promised summer seventies later in the day, and anyone lucky enough would be trying to find a way to savor the weather before these hot days relinquished themselves to autumn.
Today’s muse lay splayed comfortably across the bed, painted into the scene just-so. Will was so relaxed nobody could doubt that he belonged there, one pillow under his chest and another in front of him to cradle a book. He had a novel spread open for his eyes to devour and a window cracked at his request, always a sucker for fresh air carried in on breezes that smelled like memorable days.
They were beyond those sickly early morning hours for rushing to work but still cheating noon—Sleeping in was a habit Will was still learning to enjoy as old terrors were hard to shake off, and up his spine always crept the fear of another bedtime haunting. Today those nightmares were far in the back of his mind and forgotten, buried under the nest of smooth blankets and soft pillows he was nestled belly-first into.
Everything was in order and in its place, and that included his husband. Hannibal was stripped bare for him, a show that Will had greatly enjoyed but barely savored because he knew it would be too easy to ask and get to watch again another day. Each of Hannibal’s inner thighs near his knees were pressed on either side to each of Will’s outer thighs, snagging a grip that was hard to release. He could feel Hannibal using that pressure as leverage to help rock back and forth. Even though he wouldn’t lift his eyes from the pages, Will could also feel hands on both sides pushing weight into the mattress. Those unsteady pillars trembled with need and effort, and every time he felt Hannibal quiver to his bones, it put the twitch of a smile on his face.
If you were special—and Will certainly was—there was a sweet, very obedient bone in Hannibal’s body that he couldn’t even begin to deny, one that craved validation (from the right person). Will knew that by now he was probably starting to sweat from all the tension and pressure that came with fighting to be perfect for him. He was trying not to moan too loudly because he didn’t want to ruin Will’s focus, nor did he want to move too roughly and shake the bed, as either one would pull Will off his comfy perch and ruin his morning.
All that to say that Will was largely monitoring Hannibal’s enjoyment by his breath and heartbeat. Sometimes soft panting would hitch into quiet gasps, and Will’s smirk would hide in his pages as he turned them knowing there were many sounds his husband had surely swallowed for the sake of being his good boy.
But, of course, he couldn’t know that until after . If he was spoiled now , Will wouldn’t be able to keep his leash as short as it needed to be. Hannibal was crafty that way, and if he got one too many inches of running room, he’d start confusing who was meant to be at the end of it collared. Thankfully, it only took little nips at his heels to keep him in line.
…Sort of like right now. Hannibal was either getting excited or lazy, Will could feel that much in the way he shifted his weight. Hannibal moved one of his hands from its post, sliding it down Will’s side to grab an ungrateful handful of his hip, fingertips pressing into skin and latching. It made the bed unbalanced and he quickened out of slow, careful sways into hard ruts that rocked the boat. That kind of inconsideration couldn’t be tolerated or else he’d collapse into groping and humping like an unruly animal—Will could train him better than that.
“A little too fast, don’t you think? You’re shaking the whole damn bed, be gentle.”
“Yes, darling. I’m sorry.”
“Fix it, thank you.”
He could feel Hannibal’s thrusts slow unnecessarily, almost to a crawl. Before he could escalate to bed-creaking euphoria, he had been put in his place and forced to sink his hand back into the mattress from where it had escaped.
Although they were around the corner from an issue this time, Will’s favorite thing to do was nitpick something that wasn’t a problem. He liked telling him to slow down when he wasn’t getting faster or to quiet down when he wasn’t getting louder. It confused him, and confusing Hannibal was one of the most amusing things he could think to do. It wasn’t as often he got right back under his skin the same way Hannibal got under his.
“You’re entirely too loud right now, I can’t think.” Statements like that made him hesitant to respond sometimes, and Will couldn’t help but grin. Sometimes he swore he could hear Hannibal holding his breath when it felt too good to prevent any sound, even a huff or a grunt, from coming out of him. The control he could get over the room often became intoxicating enough to forget himself.
Some days he just woke up that way, craving the nervous sweat under his teeth when he let his attitude out to bite. Hannibal usually got his way too long too many days in a row, and sometimes there didn’t need to be a reason for war to result—Sometimes it was just Hannibal’s turn to kneel and bite the bit. But other days he had a reason. Not always good reason, just any reason. Pettiness was no stranger to Will. He was easily irritated and lived on grudges some days, so Hannibal only needed to steal the blankets or complain about insignificant bullshit for his husband to become sour with him.
Specifically, last night’s offense was having the nerve to snuff the bedside lamp while Will was still half-sat up and finishing his chapter, all because Hannibal felt entitled to determining his husband’s bedtime… and demanding a cuddle. What he needed was to learn to wait a damn minute for other people to be ready for him . Will had huffed and put his book away, sure, and even rolled over to spoon the big baby. But he didn’t go right to sleep, oh no. Not without thinking, not without steaming over it. Plotting which switch to use while he snuggled into the back of Hannibal’s shoulder and let him be satisfied thinking he’d gotten away with it.
Letting him be at ease and snatching the rug when he was unsuspecting was one of the most enjoyable parts of planning his tantrums.
Some deep-down part of Hannibal had to know what was coming to him, but it was rare that he admitted it or apologized for it to himself, let alone anyone else. And the outlook for change on his part was more than slim—He wanted what he wanted and that was that. He’d rather take punishments and lessons in patience than apologize for anything he knew he’d just turn around and do again. That was his pride, an ugly (but attractive) beast that was always getting in the damn way.
But not enough in the way for him to complain, apparently. At the end of the day, neither of them waved white flags or knew how to truly punish the other in a way that would break the cycles. Hannibal took way too much delight in seeing which of his actions pushed Will to flip their roles, and Will took too much delight in having Hannibal yank the control back. They were endlessly passing the reins back and forth and making a big show of it to pretend that anyone ever stole anything knowing it was always given up willingly as faux conflict in their routine fantasies.
That had to be in the vows somewhere, didn’t it? To have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for rude, for bitter, in bloodshed and in health, to love and to cherish (even when he grinds gears you didn’t know you had), ‘til death do us part. Or something like that.
“No no, go on. Don’t let me be in the way—Go ahead and get yourself off, filthy animal.” When he said things like that, it’d usually make Hannibal pause. Will could practically feel the look he was getting but refused to turn his head any to match eyes. He could keep pouting and scowling holes in the back of his head, he didn’t care. The way that he throbbed told Will everything he needed to know; he was right and it drove Hannibal up the wall, but he liked it so much he wouldn’t argue, even when he wanted to tell him how unfair it was.
Will could wait him out. When he didn’t get the hateful little staring contest he wanted, Hannibal collected himself enough to start up again, rolling down into soft flesh and nearly coming undone all over again. And the moment he did, Will was ready to latch the collar snug.
“Of course you just can’t control yourself, I don’t know what I expected.”
He always wondered what it would take for Hannibal to get defensive. He tracked all the little shivers his husband tried to hold in, he noticed when the words he spat at him hit his groin just as well as they hit his ego. Conflicted was a beautiful look on Hannibal. It got difficult not to laugh about it when he could practically feel the loading wheel spin. Will knew when he wanted to tell him he was wrong, but he could never actually say it. Sometimes he would wind up to, open his mouth, but the words wouldn’t free themselves. They remained caged because there was always a hesitation to retaliate knowing how hard Will would fight back. He may even prove Hannibal wrong, and that knowledge hung above them like a heavy, dazzling chandelier on a thin cord.
So, knowing Will’s capability of standing his ground, there was the question: honor his dignity or get off—And the result rarely strayed from expectations. Catching Will off-guard wasn’t easy when he so readily tucked himself under Hannibal’s skin, treating it like a warm fur on a frigid night. From his vantage points he knew it was an undeniable truth how much Hannibal loved having him there, even when it was embarrassing. Even when it was frightening.
“There’s nothing in that head of yours right now, is there? Brainless as long as your dick is wet.”
Against his own will, Hannibal’s hips twitched in response, ruining his well-behaved streak and snitching on the way those words ate at him. The rules of this game weren’t fair . Will gave Hannibal orders to be good and slow right before saying all the mean little things he knew would tempt him to get riled up. He’d wait for Hannibal to get lost in pleasure he wasn’t allowed to have, waiting for his thrusts to go excited and rabbity before he snipped at him again to watch it and not push his luck.
Will didn’t really care how rough he was, that wasn’t the point—It was about making sure he didn’t forget how to listen. The fun of it was talking down to him in a way that should make him get up in arms and then smiling to himself when Hannibal took it (and like it). As great as he was at playing the part that best defended his ego, he was matched when he was alone with Will. His husband knew when he was faking one way or another, there wasn’t any way to hide how much he loved the challenge and the power held over him.
Will loved pushing the privileges that came with being so special.
“I already told you, I can’t pay attention to my book when you start acting so desperate. Do you want to just be done, or do you want to act right?”
“...I didn’t mean it, angel...”
“Speak up and answer the question.”
“I don’t want to be done.”
”What do you want to do?”
“I want to behave.”
“You wanna be a good dog?”
“...Mm.
“Do you?” He sat up a little bit as if he was going to look at him over his shoulder, as if he was going to stop him, but he didn’t. He only got very close to it.
“Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, I want to be a good dog. I want to be good for you. Please let me.” Will slowly laid back down and relaxed.
“You’re lucky I’m nice enough to give you another chance.”
“I know.”
“And stop breathing down my neck, won’t you?”
“Of course, darling.”
“Only speak when you’re asked to, and do what you’re told.” Will waited to see if he’d be able to talk back after that, if he’d realize or if he’d clam up, and a grin spread across his face hearing him practically whimper a pathetic noise of affirmation. Weakening the spine of a man feared by much of the public until he could no longer stand tall and proud gave him material to jerk off with for months every single time, without fail.
…And if you asked Hannibal, he would dance around the question, but he was in a very similar boat. He carried himself like the king of a pride, but he was no lion when he lay with Will in these sheets—He better resembled a puppy bending to every snap and whistle. He knew his husband had his fingers threaded through all the strings tied to most important things, ones that tugged in his chest but also between his legs. Hannibal felt not like a pianist but more like a set of keys bowing best when the perfect pair of hands danced against his skin; beneath the mahogany surface he exhibited to victims and competitors alike was a web of strings commanded with little resistance. You only had to know which buttons to press.
You couldn’t deny that it also helped to be named Will Graham.
Hannibal was captivated by him, and he struggled until the very end not to turn into a total animal. The temptation to abandon his behavior and snap lingered in the back of his mind. He could grab whatever he’d like. He could let his hands roam across Will’s body, groping and pulling. Pushing and pulling, back and forth into every motion, he had the strength. He was in the perfect spot to pull Will’s arms down and pin them against his back, using both as leverage to shove his hips forward in as perverse a manner as he could manage. It would teach him not to let his guard down, or maybe it would remind him who Hannibal was.
Except Will wouldn’t be learning anything today, because his husband wouldn’t act on shit. His eyes would wander where his hands couldn’t go without disturbing the peace. As fun as it would be to break them, it sent chills across his body to follow such simple but demeaning stipulations. He slid his hands up Will’s sides, admiring thighs and hips on the way up. His motions lacked any recognizable force or dominance; Hannibal touched his husband as if he were shuffling across ice moving slowly to avoid cracking the surface. His body sank down and he leaned in to wrap both arms around Will, chest pressed flush against his back and putting Hannibal in a perfect spot for stealing kisses from his neck and shoulders.
“Some predator you are.” If his book were a mirror, Hannibal could watch how an amused look had snuck onto his face through the pages. Those tickles tempted giggles to bubble out of his lungs, but Will held his breath a moment and swallowed them back. “How am I supposed to be afraid of the Chesapeake Ripper when he’s heeding my every word? You’re more like a pet than a beast.”
Will was quiet a moment while he enjoyed a couple more pages with slow consideration. Couldn’t give him too much attention all at once or he’d start to feel important. He could hear in the raggedness of Hannibal’s breathing that he was nearing the edge, probably sooner than he intended to. Those familiar, twitchy motions gave it away no matter what he did to try and hide it.
Getting a funny idea, Will turned his head slightly to address him, but still didn’t properly look at him. He hadn’t earned it yet.
“C’mon, boy, speak.”
Puzzled by the request, Hannibal’s everything faltered before he scrambled to appease Will in some way. More specifically, the first way he could think of. He let a soft moan escape his lips wavering with desperation, sounding awfully shy for a man with his reputation. Will couldn’t help but laugh at how well it worked.
“At this rate, you’ll need a collar.” …Actually, thinking about it, that idea wasn’t half-bad. He’d have to file it away for later and hope it was good enough not to forget. Will imagined the same situation they were already in, his husband trying not to paw so much or move too fast, but with a nice bell.
And still the same instructions to stay quiet, of course—He’d probably collapse trying to perform an impossible task and then fill the room with an obscene jingling as he stumbled towards an orgasm. He could even put a tag on it. Property of Will Graham , potentially, or some other demeaning little nickname that he’d hate. Whore or Princess . Intentionally ill-fitting and a little too terrible to tolerate. If it didn’t make Hannibal glare at him, it wasn’t good enough. Will was always aiming for eye rolls.
If he’d been paying enough attention, Hannibal might be pushed to lecture later about manners or respect and Will would ignore him, as expected. But Dr. Lecter had other things in mind rather than correcting his husband or bickering with him. He felt a shameful heat pooling in his belly and sparks crackling where his brain should be, fizzling and white and numbing. If Will was policing him for his movements or his noise again, he couldn’t hear him. It was as though he were on another planet, or maybe in a far-off room of the palace he built between his ears.
Ecstasy made his senses crave fulfillment, possessing his eyes and hands with an impolite kind of greed. Soft curls, plush thighs, and smooth sides. Hannibal’s eyes darted everywhere and so did his hands. He appreciated each inch with every fingertip, studying the way Will laid so slack and relaxed in contrast to the muscles hovering over him; strained taut in order to hammer forward, frantic and scrambling, as if afraid it would be taken away. He’d deserve it if it was, seeing how he was not always a kind lover, seeing all the beautiful finish lines he’d stolen from his partners.
Through the heated waves of deafening pleasure, Will’s voice finally captures him. It struck him like fingers punching the lowest keys of a concert piano, harsh notes echoing off a lonely stage out through an empty room.
“What?” Voice shaky, ever in love, Hannibal’s body bids him to twitch over the edge but he refuses. He stills. He awaits. He’s studying the movement of Will’s breathing when he inhales, then slowly sighs.
“If you’re going to use me like a bedside tissue, you could at least remember your manners and ask politely.” There are a couple quiet beats while the suggestion registers as an instruction and Hannibal scrambles to make up for the delay and find words that ordinarily came more easily if in any other situation, if with any other person.
“Please, may I…?” The words are unwilling to approach without a struggle, and Will can’t help puffing a laugh out of his nose at his pitiful attempt.
“May you…? Come on now, darling, I’m not a mind-reader or a fool. You can do better than that.”
Every second wasted was a second Hannibal drifted further from relief, and he knew he could either watch it drip away or act. Now welcoming one of Will’s favorite characters to the stage, world’s fastest pride-killer and most degrading source of motivation: here enters desperation.
“May I please finish?” The tremble in his delivery woefully unscripted, Will’s smile slowly waxing into his features while he pretended to check his nails.
“Finish…” Hannibal’s hips move again, only flinching some in comparison to the way he pumped his body before, but it was enough to keep the ache at bay. He was trying not to fumble everything he worked for down the drain. Maybe, between his mistakes, he could sneak a little attitude in to chip some of the ice away. Get Will to crack. “…in the way you would… with intercourse…” As if he was answering a real question.
Will was a good man to fight his laughter, biting it back into no more than a grin that his husband couldn’t see. Intercourse.
Hannibal was shocked, really, that he didn’t hear more than a snort at best. He thought he’d have him there.
“...that is to say… May I please…” Orgasm and climax could work well enough, he was sure, for the purpose of this test. But he started to think maybe he could buy a little slack in his leash if he played into it. He adjusts his position and lays down more snugly against his partner, tucking down into his neck, buttering him up with kisses if he’s allowed. Once Will tips his head for access to his throat, Hannibal knows he’s gained some footing here. All he has to do now is murmur those words to him, give him a surprise, and whine them like a predator shouldn’t with the hope it would be enough.
“May I please cum?”
Surprise was right—And Will wished he had it recorded to listen back to. He knew any attention was good attention when you’re refusing someone the simple pleasure of meeting your gaze, but he couldn’t resist turning his head. He gave his first genuine peek in Hannibal’s direction this morning all just to toss him a wickedly delighted flash of teeth.
“I’m not sure if I heard that right.”
“Will.” A warning tone, a pleading one, don’t be cruel. He wanted to frame the pout Hannibal was wearing.
“Okay, okay…” He turns back to his book that splays on the wrong page in front of him, ready to be closed since there was no point to his little act anymore. “Go ahead, you have my permission.” A pause, and then a lowering of his voice, down soft and careful in a way he expected to capture his husband’s full attention. “But you’d better make the most of it. Don’t disappoint me.”
Hannibal didn’t need to hear it twice. No sooner did Will finish his sentence that his puppy resumed his pace, hips stuttering back up into motion and forgoing a build-up (they could both agree there’d been plenty already). None of this ever felt so good with anyone else, nor did Hannibal have the trust before to unwind and be under someone else’s power. Not in years. But something shifted when it was Will, whose talent with Lecter had him walking right into his perfect shade of submission without the need for much training at all.
Hannibal started to feel more like an animal than a man between every heartbeat. Will’s, he was Will’s, his purpose right now was nothing but fulfilling his every fantasy and whim. He felt no better than a toy in the nightstand, and that melted his mind to bliss. For a few heart-squeezing moments, he let everything go, let free all those pesky, lingering thoughts so they could pinch at his worries no more. This wasn’t about him at all; once he accepted his purpose as an object to be turned off and on when his husband needed him, he could finally fall off the edge and into a boiling pool of release .
All pressure built inside now sank from his body to Will’s through a burst of shortened thrusts, hands clumsily grabbing at his hips with fingertips pressing against his David until marble softened into skin. He felt himself fumbling not only his restraint but his identity, grappling with both and still losing them down the drain. No Michelangelo was he for defiling a precious creation, but pray that He should recognize the shreds of romance left in each whimpered gratitude, each thank you mortal lips pushed into Will’s shoulder.
The experience isn't unlike a concussion; there's dizziness while trying to catch his breath, the way his balance wavers while he musters the might to sit up off of his husband, and all the haze he's surrounded in until the euphoria can be shaken off. Not to mention the confusion as he teeters the tightrope between two types of men—The Ripper and The Puppy. Through the blur of it all, Hannibal finally begins coming to his senses, guided back in when he finally makes out some of Will's words:
"...rget to take care of your mess, either."
Ah, right.
The window of post-climactic glory is short-lived and leaves him sweat-stained, fighting for some kind of purchase, and knowing exactly which muscles would wind up complaining later. But who was he to deny a request? Who was he but living for the performance, and better yet, living to serve one perfect man?
There’s a certain sort of satisfaction that shivers down Will’s spine when he feels Hannibal’s lips trailing kisses along it. A well-earned victory followed by well-earned care and soon-to-be well-earned reward—Starting with Hannibal pressing his face in where it belonged. After all, if he is any kind of gentleman with any remaining shred of courtesy, he should know to clean up after himself.
His place was lost now in the neglected book, pages falling over themselves until Will finally snapped it shut. A clumsy effort was made to slide it across the pillows where he then reached and tossed it to a shaky landing on the edge of the nightstand. Good enough. At this point, he just wanted to let his head smush into the pillow so he could thoroughly enjoy Hannibal’s tongue and plot which words to use when they both came down out of their headspaces. A few minutes of quiet, pleasant oral led him to accept that he still had a bit of instigation left in him.
“Feel better? Did you get it out of your system?” Hannibal’s pause here made Will bite at a grin.
“...Did you?” Appalled at the idea that he could be associated with lesser animals that needed to exert their repression (dogs, humans, murderers that never hit the front page, etcetera).
“You’re lucky I love you.” He avoids the question, but not entirely. He felt the hands on his body relax, taking the fingertips out of his skin, and knew it was a good answer. It was a delicate game—a favorite—picking and choosing what ways to best unzip Hannibal from the skins he wore for the general public. Claws sunk in at night, heart melted during the day, all the tricks that would undo him and always when he least expected.
“I agree.” Will could hear in his softened tone that Hannibal had already put his teeth away (if he ever had them out in the first place). “Though perhaps next time we could each use our words, hm?”
“As if those’ve ever worked with you.” Will used a long stretch as an excuse to cut his eyes back over his shoulder, wanting to catch the look on Hannibal’s face and the linger in his limbs while forcing himself to create distance from the bed and the prize laying across it. And the half-annoyed look he got, watered down with pleads for mercy? Icing on the cake. Please be kind, those eyes begged, I am forever chained to you. How awful, how terrible, how perfect.
“Could you consider it made up for if I took the time to read it to you later?”
“Maybe.” The book didn’t really matter, both of them knew that, but these were the motions.
“After breakfast?” A piece well-played on the board and well-considered… But Will knew he could fish for more.
“I’d love breakfast. Could you throw in a favor at the table?” His gaze flicked down away from Hannibal’s eyes and back up again.
“I don’t think that will be a problem to arrange.” He knew agreeing too quick betrayed a mutual enjoyment, but our cannibal was worn too much by now for prolonging the fight. Was it so bad to admit to it, that horrible love of providing a job well done, that carnal need to service and be thanked for it?
“Beautiful, thank you.” He knew returning manners and appreciation back from off the shelf would relieve him, delight him, and he felt Hannibal had earned it by now. Especially knowing the rest of the morning, rest of the day, the night, their life together, was bound to his liking.
There was no room for Will’s scars with theremin hands taking care of his body, washing him and combing his curls, and too much difficulty for any soured mood to find a way in. Hard to be upset with the view he had in the kitchen, sitting on a counter, both of them in robes. Certainly intentional the way Hannibal’s was opened a bit too much… An almost pornographic amount of chest to stare at, absolutely planned and no complaints from the audience.
Gorgeous to look at, serving gorgeous plates, and bending to the whim of a gorgeous man. Whatever had Will been upset about in the first place? He’d remember another day, but not now. All that concerned him now was the love in labor to make possible warm food, fresh juice, and sore knees under the table.
What’s the phrase? Better to beg for forgiveness later than ask permission now? It must be one of Hannibal’s tenets to live by. Frequently carving his way under your skin, sure, but through years of practice adept at winning the most stubborn souls back even when it’s your tenth ‘last chance’.
One of his hands finds a home at the back of Hannibal’s head, guiding a man more than happy to follow. The eagerness in matching pace to the squirming of his master’s hips was a letter dedicated to a love of being on the leash. Bobbing forward, ebbing back, hands holding himself sturdy in two positions: one near the back of the dining chair, the other under fabric at his lover’s hip with a thumb petting his thigh.
“That’s it, there you go…” Balancing a cleaned plate and a praised partner was key, both worked wonders for showing appreciation (and pressing Hannibal into putty). When nudged further, there was an obvious lack of resistance to having his nose pushed into Will’s stomach. He was dying to do whatever he could if it meant Will would be satisfied, would keep talking to him.
“Wonderful… Mm, mm-hm… Exactly the way you’re supposed to…” The placement of his hand went from cradling the back of Hannibal’s head to making a handle of his hair. Will liked seeing how relaxed and willing he could get. Tests included dragging Hannibal back until just the tip rested at his lips before pushing him all the way down again to feel the controlled breathing that came out of his nose. Getting to hold him there without any question ascended Will to a glowing power that had him throbbing against the inside of Hannibal’s cheek.
“Do you love it down there? Because I love you down there.”
“Mmm-hm.”
“What’s that?”
“Mm-hm!”
“Goooood boy…” Only one eating at the table, but soon two people swallowing. Will didn’t have to give that instruction because his husband knew how he was meant to gratify. He didn’t need to hold his head, either, yet those gentle motions betrayed the nature of every vile act that morning. Hannibal would do it all again to wind back up at the altar kneeling for his reward.
It was his house, his rules, he could have taken his seat whenever he liked, but he waited. Surgical hands fixed soft fabrics back over each other where they were meant to be and not the way they’d been torn open for apologetic penance. There were no words exchanged, they needn’t any—Will knew what he was waiting for, and Hannibal knew permission was given in the form of a loving couple of pats on the cheek.
“I’m beginning to notice a pattern,” he mused with all the complacent charm a doctor should have. “Should I expect you to demand such favors every time I’ve crossed you?”
“Demand?” The raised eyebrows put a smile on Hannibal’s face, all too pleased. “You’re mistaken. This is a habit you started.”
“I’ll take that as a yes?”
“Definitely.”
With Hannibal’s first bite of breakfast raised to his lips, “Amen."