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The pad of Hannibal’s thumb is firm; it is calloused, digging rough into Will’s stubbled cheek. The crevice of his palm holds Will’s chin, the meat of his fingers hot as they hold the man back. His eyes are narrowed, examining, teasing. Will is struggling, slightly, pushing forward and dipping occasionally down to try and plant a wet kiss on the folds of skin between Hannibal’s thumb and forefinger. There is a tension in the air so thick that Will feels as though he is a scorned school-child, waiting for the punishment of their headmaster. It does not come. He is being taught a lesson in restraint, being held back like a snarling dog. Hannibal’s hand, he realises with a spark of arousal, is his muzzle.
‘Please.’ Will tries, quiet and dutiful, eyebrows raising so his perfectly smooth forehead creases, his cheek burying into the rough hold of his husband’s palm. Any other time, this would have worked, this has worked more times than Will could count, trying to get what he wants out of Hannibal. He knows today is different. He has to push anyway. ‘Please?’ he tilts his head, slouches and then looks up as to make himself seem committed to the act of obliging his husband.
‘You, dear Will, have become spoiled.’ Hannibal is doing that half-grinned expression Will finds himself equally detesting and craving, that look which means ‘I-see-everything-you-are’ Right now, he does not want to be seen, he wants to be touched. Perhaps it is true, that Will has become spoiled. He has been showered with expensive gifts, he has had Hannibal whenever and wherever he wants him, he is cooked for and cleaned for and killed for. All he is asked, in return, is loyalty. Goddamn, is he loyal. Though, it seems not enough. Will grimaces at the memory of himself flirting with a florist out of pure boredom, tired of Hannibal fussing over the particularities of a bouquet he was purchasing. He remembers how Hannibal’s head tilted in disbelief, how his hand found Will’s back and dug into it with warning. Perhaps it is true, Will Graham is spoiled. But, all he wants now is a kiss. Is that really too much to ask for?
‘Hannibal.’ His voice is lilting, a Southern undertone peeking through the cracks of his plea. He pushes his face forward with some force, parts his lips and darts out his tongue as to try and catch his husband in a kiss. Hannibal tuts, pulls his own face back, and holds him tighter in response. Will knows he looks pathetic, looks like a starved animal desperate for a lick of meat. His upper lip rides over his canine teeth in a half-snarl-half-smile, his hand coming up firm to hold Hannibal’s forearm. ‘I’m sorry for flirting with that girl.’
‘You are ungrateful. Spoiled.’ Hannibal’s voice is venomous, foreign from his usual devoting tone.
‘I am not ungrateful. I love our life, I love you. I just want to kiss you.’
‘You take all of this for granted, my dear. Perhaps it would do you some good to see how it feels when some of your luxuries are withdrawn.’
Will bites back a laugh.
‘My luxuries?’ His tone is one of disbelief, of utter despair frankly. ‘Kissing you is a luxury now?’ Will almost falters at how a flash of almost-hurt passes over Hannibal’s face.
‘I consider every moment with you luxurious. Perhaps you do not feel the same. Or, perhaps you need to experience more of an ascetic lifestyle to begin to appreciate the things which I have given you.’
‘I . . . I’m sorry, Darling. I didn’t mean anything by it, didn’t want to hurt you.’
Hannibal’s hand remains on Will’s face, unmoving. He scrutinises his husbands face for a moment, before speaking in a quiet and familiar tone.
‘You are going to learn a lesson in restraint tonight, my dear.’
His hand withdraws. Will finds himself stumbling forward, having been resting on the weight of Hannibal’s wrist. He feels as though his body is falling, a sensation akin to being awoken from a bad dream. As though Hannibal is the centre of his gravity, and he has withdrawn himself now fully from Will, forcing him to crumble down before him. It is, he realises, exactly as Hannibal would like him to feel.
‘Get on your knees.’
Will wants to smile, but he stops himself. He feels, for a brief and ignorant moment, as if he has won their argument; Hannibal will give Will what he wants, which is him. He will let him touch him, even if not kiss him, and by the end of it he will be back to his usual lavishing self. His naivety is quickly drawn out of him in a sharp breath when Hannibal walks behind him, undoes his own belt and pulls Will’s arms behind his back in an arrest-like motion. He tightens the expensive leather around his wrist and pulls tight enough to dig into pale-freckled-skin. The sensation is almost burning, but familiarly beautiful. As Hannibal circles back around to stand tall in front of him, Will looks up at his husband triumphantly, parting his lips seductively as if to invite him to take what he needs from him. Hannibal huffs, but smiles, aware that poor Will has very little idea what is coming.
‘Please, baby, take what you need.’ Will sounds like something out of a porno when he continues, ‘You can teach me a lesson in gratitude.’
Hannibal does not say a word of affirmation, simply retorting with a sharp:
‘I have already told you, our lesson tonight is one of restraint.’
His hands reach down to his trousers, now lacking a belt, and slowly unbutton the fly. Will’s eyes dart down immediately, tracking the slow movements of his husband’s practiced hands. They look, he thinks, as if they are performing the carefully choreographed steps of a dance. Everything he does, it all seems so perfectly coordinated. He practically drools from adoration at the thought of being allowed a part in this routine. Hannibal pushes his trousers town to reveal expectedly expensive underwear, which he leaves on for a moment. He looks at Will with furrowed eyebrows, sees his desperate and drooling expression. Beautiful boy, you really do love me. He stops himself from stroking Will’s cheek in reverence.
Instead, his hand moves to press flat over his crotch, palm pulsing in a practiced rhythm as he looks down at Will with a confusingly-focused expression. Will cannot help but smirk as he realises he is being used – in his disgustingly pathetic position, how beautiful it is – as soft porn to help his husband get hard. Hannibal’s breath shortens slightly as Will watches him grow erect through his underwear. He tries to learn forward, to open his mouth and press a flat tongue to replace Hannibal’s hand. Immediately, a sharp slap is landed to his cheek. He darts back in confusion and pain, mouth parted.
‘You will not touch me.’ Hannibal states, matter-of-factly.
‘What?’
‘You heard me, Will. You will not talk either.’
‘I will no-‘ A rough fist grabs at his hair, and a sharp look is pointed downwards towards him, and Will knows to retreat. He rests back on his heels, continuing to watch the performance in front of him. Hannibal is fully erect, breath shortened and palm moving faster over his underwear. Once he sees Will is fully emersed in this little show (Not to mention incredibly hard, himself), he pulls himself from his underwear.
His dick, veined and thick, something so-familiar and beautiful to Will, feels so far out of reach here. It spills out of Hannibal’s enclosed fist, red with need. The way Hannibal slowly thumbs the head of it with the pad of his thumb is frankly pornographic. Not to mention how his calloused palm begins to stroke; up, down, slowly, and then faster for moments. Will keeps leaning forward to stick out his tongue in a plea, just to be met with either a harsh tug to his hair or a slap to his now-red-cheeks. Hannibal looks at him as though he is yet again a teenage boy staring at a nude photo in a magazine, longing and yet so distant. His fist speeds up every so often, drags out soft grunts and gasps from the man to which it belongs. Will tries his best to beg with his eyes, to tempt his husband into using his mouth, to get something from him -- anything. In his fuzzy brained staring, he does not realise for a moment that Hannibal has begun to speak. Shaking the desperate thoughts from his own head, he tunes in to the filthy words being spat at him.
‘You are so pathetic, so needy.’ Hannibal is harsh, but his breath is short and Will can tell he is getting off on degrading the man in front of him, so he does not mind. ‘Maybe we need to get you a real muzzle, stop you talking to any whorish girls who happen to glance in your direction, give you- fuck . . . Give you a reason to stop being such a spoiled little brat. Would you like that? Like to be muzzled, like to have to earn every single piece of attention I give you, Will?’
Will shakes his head no.
‘No? A shame. You would look so pretty, maybe I would tie you up and –‘ The idea has Hannibal bringing himself closer to the edge, hand moving faster and chest rising and falling quickly now, ‘God, teach you a lesson or two more. Or, we could keep you collared and leashed, show everybody you are mine; you are a bad mutt with a giving owner willing to put up with you.’
Will practically whines, not helping his own case.
‘Please, please, Hannibal . . . I’ll earn it, please, will do whatever you need me to for you to touch me.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yeah, yeah, I will.’
‘Then stop crying, Will. Your tears are doing nothing to prove you are repentant, only that you are spoiled.’
It is this which makes Will feel, for the first time, the tears streaming down his cheeks. He feels ridiculous, like a petulant child throwing a tantrum. He does not want to be crying, does not even know why he is. Hannibal’s dick is impossibly hard and thick in the man’s hand, practically begging for release as he now moves his fist faster and faster over it, roughly stroking the head each time he passes over it. His other hand reaches out, tangles in Will’s hair and uses him for some stability. Will is extremely pleased to be considered, for a moment, good enough to touch.
‘Ah. . .’ Hannibal’s noises are masculine and wonderful, and he is clearly becoming more forgiving as his next words are gentler. ‘Perhaps you can be a good boy, after all, hm? Oh, God. You want – You want to prove how good you are, mylimasis?’
‘Please, please, yes.’
‘Open your mouth for me, Will.’
Will does not think he has ever snapped his jaw open so fast, tongue darting quickly out of his mouth and eyes looking up seductively as he awaited his husband to make some sort of contact with him.
‘Do not move. You understand?’
‘I understand.’
Hannibal steps forward, dick still in his hand, and looks at Will with an examining scrutiny before he decides that he is being truthful. In a moment of mercy, he lines himself up to Will’s mouth. Out of habit, the tongue wraps around the head which it meets. Hannibal tuts, pulls Will away by the hair and repeats: ‘Do not move, that means at all.’ Will nods, leans forward, and Hannibal finally obliges. He buries into Will’s throat in one slow, smooth push. He is met with a small gag, but Will fights every instinct to repress the choking sensation he so often is met with when Hannibal’s full length is in his mouth. He could cry from relief, and in fact almost is. He sighs with contentedness as Hannibal begins to withdraw and push back into the warmth of Will’s eager mouth. It is so hard not to flatten his tongue, to move his head or to hum a vibration around his husband, but he wants to be good. He wants to be grateful for what he is being given.
‘I am going to come, Will, and you are going to take all of it without complaint. You are not going to try and get yourself off, in any way. You are going to be a good boy for me. A grateful boy.’
Will blinks repeatedly, a signal of understanding, and with that Hannibal begins to ruthlessly snap his hips against the man beneath him. He pistons into Will’s mouth with no regard for his comfort, uses him to get off. Will feels pathetic, and dirty, and wonderful, and useful. He can tell Hannibal is close by the grabbing hands in his hair and the faltering of every-other-thrust, usually perfectly rhythmic. It is not long before he is coming, hot and heavy down Will’s throat. He is swallowed eagerly, only a drop or two passing through Will’s mouth and to his lips.
Hannibal slowly withdraws, then presses the pad of his thumb again to Will’s mouth, this time to push the excess back onto his tongue. Hannibal looks at Will with reverence, an admiration he so often finds himself graced with at the sight of his debauched husband. Will is painfully erect, hands still restrained behind his back. Hannibal considers leaving him like this, not even allowing him to finish. He decides, given the obedience which he has been met with, that this is perhaps unfair.
Will does not know what to expect, but it is certainly not for his legs to be parted by Hannibal’s boot, his leg slotting perfectly between the younger man’s. Hannibal pushes his shin into Will’s erection and he whimpers, looks up with confusion.
‘If you want to get off, you are going to do it like this.’
Will is crying again, half from humiliation and half from arousal. He does not even try to fight the demand, simply begins to rut himself against Hannibal’s leg like a pathetic dog. He thinks, now, that perhaps a muzzle would be fitting. He has been made into a mess which he does not even recognise of himself, and the feeling is disturbingly europhic. Equally disturbing, is how fast he comes. He cries and moans against Hannibal’s thigh, legs clamped around his husband’s leather shoe as he grinds against the man.
‘You are so beautiful, so pathetic. So perfect. I know you are grateful, now, love. I know.’ Hannibal says softly, and Will comes in his pants.
When he looks up, tears streaming down his face, having stained both of their clothes and made both of them come, and says:
‘Thank you.’
Hannibal knows his lesson was a success.