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"Will," Hannibal murmured, a hand on his elbow bringing him back to reality. "Do you have a ride home?"
Most of the people from his dinner party are on their way out, saying their goodbyes and commenting on how the duck was exquisite. He glanced around; he's lost time again, evidently, and the thought scared him.
"No," Will replied, and he can hear his voice slurring. "I can get home on my own fine, I'll call a taxi."
"I really insist you don't, in your state. I have a spare room, and besides, it's my fault for allowing you to drink too much. Your dogs were fed before you came here, correct?"
He furrowed his brows, trying to remember. It was like a deep and heavy mist had taken over his memories, making each and every one seem uncertain, but he nodded. "I think."
"They will be fine without you for one night. I insist."
After a long pause, Will nodded, standing up. He swayed, vision blurring as he stumbled towards the suddenly close ground, and Hannibal caught him. Arms gripped his side as he was pulled back up.
"I'm sorry, I don't— I don't remember how much I had to drink."
"Are you losing time?" the older man asked bluntly. "The effects of the alcohol may have factored into it; I apologize."
He shrugged in response, snickering a bit as he slowly began to walk with the support of the other man. Eventually, they reached the stairs, and ascended. The dizziness that had been euphoric before just made him nauseous now, the fuzziness lining his brain different than his usual fog.
They reached the landing, and Hannibal all but carried him to a guest bedroom, lying him down on the bed. Will chuckled at the mental imagery of him being put to bed like a child, which turned into a full blown fit of giggles. The look of concern on Hannibal's face as he was quickly sat up did nothing to stop his hysterical howls of laughter, barely able to breathe.
It only took a few minutes for it to even out, leaving him panting for air, barely noticing when Hannibal began to untie his dirty shoes.
"No," Will moaned out, kicking his leg.
"Will," he warned, a firm hand placed on his knees.
His boots slid off, clattering onto the floor, and next came his socks and jacket, then his flannel underneath. It left him in just an undershirt and his jeans
"You don't even dress well for a dinner party," Hannibal sighed.
The remark felt targeted, a jab into his heart, and yet he couldn't tell if it was meant to be rude or a simple comment. He turned over, mocking displeasure, and Hannibal turned him back over as easy as though he was flipping a pancake.
When his pants were unzipped and his belt taken off, he squinted up at Hannibal. "I can sleep in just jeans," he mumbled, moving his legs away.
"No, you will not," he responded, a undisguised command.
When his pants were yanked down and off his legs, Will began to get the feeling that something wasn't right. Why wasn't Hannibal listening? He could just sleep in his street clothes, go home early tomorrow morning and get changed.
"Hannibal," he said, trying to muster up as much sobriety as he could in his still slurred voice. "Hannibal, I don't want this. Seriously, stop."
The older man ignored him though, moving to take off his undershirt. Will, however, kept his arms pinned firmly to the side, a protest. It didn't dissuade Hannibal in the slightest, who grabbed it and yanked it upwards anyways, until the chafe in Will's armpits made him lift his arms.
Then he was shirtless and vulnerable against Hannibal, only one flimsy piece of underwear away from being completely undressed. He prayed it wouldn't be taken, that it was all, that Hannibal simply wanted him out of his sweaty day clothes. That was all, had to be all, because Hannibal was a sane and good man.
But then it was tugged down and thrown to the side, and then Will was kicking as though his life depended on it, but in his intoxicated state, he could barely lift his legs up an inch.
The sound of a lube bottle opening made him slam his eyes shut and turn his head into the pillow, a sob escaping his mouth. He could hear a belt buckle unclipping— not real, imaginary, had to be— and the sound of pants being pushed down. He was just drunk, just imagining things, he could barely stand anyways, there's no reason to believe what he hears.
Underneath Will, the mattress creaked as Hannibal climbed on, the sound of a jacket being thrown to the ground. Warm hands forced his legs apart, and then his knees were thrown over Hannibal's shoulders.
He wasn't sure what he was anticipating— stopping, waking up— but then a tongue came and rested upon his hole, and he gasped in surprise. It licked him, working it's way inside, before marking a stripe of saliva from his ass to the very space behind his balls.
Then Hannibal's mouth popped off— surely he had to be done now, that was all— and his legs were dropped unceremoniously onto the bed. Will could feel Hannibal's dick nudging at his entrance, foreboding, and despite him clenching, Hannibal pushed in anyways.
Despite his lubed up cock, it hurt like hell, and he bit down on his lip so hard the taste of metallic blood came away. It made him shudder and gasp, panting in pain until Hannibal was fully seated in him
The burn of Hannibal's dick in his ass felt both imaginary and real to him. Surely, it had to be a hallucination. He was probably asleep right now, lucid dreaming, even as the wet tears that spilled out of his eyes silently felt too true to be fake.
Then he began to pull in and out, each thrust— each intrusion— becoming easier and easier to handle.
Will didn't even realize his own cock was hard until it was pressing against his stomach, causing him to gasp, the arousal coming like a wave crashing down on him. The buzz felt as though it was working against him. Everything came in tsunami like storms after a lull in the tides.
The disassociation would pause for just a second at some sort of physical contact— Hannibal's hand grabbing his ass, Hannibal's pubic hair brushing against his perineum, Hannibal moving inside him— and then it was overwhelming, everything too much.
Escaping inside his mind only worked for so long, because every coping mechanism he used Hannibal had taught him. Every time he tried deep breathing, all he could think of was the fact Hannibal had practiced it with him, and then he was falling back into that hole of reality.
Even if Will could do them, he could only achieve a few seconds before lack of focus caught up with him, brain struggling to process in for two, out for four.
Hannibal pumped in and out of him, each thrust brutal and possessive, and then he suddenly stilled, entire body shaking.
Will could feel a warm liquid spilling in him, a sensation he had never felt before and never wanted to again, coating his insides. He imagined it traveling all the way up to his esophagus, to his throat, to his mouth—
A wave of nausea overwhelmed him, and then he was gagging and hacking. Hannibal's hand quickly turned his head, his dick popping out of Will with a squelch, and then Will was vomiting onto Hannibal's rug. Fucker. It did nothing to cleanse the disgust he felt in every cell of him, even as he coughed until only acid came back up.
"Shh, you're okay," Hannibal murmured, petting his hair. "Dabar tau viskas gerai."
Will wanted to leave— needed to leave— but he was exhausted, a sudden tiredness collapsing onto his body like a burning building. He was drowsy, and sleep was lulling him in all the right directions. A blanket was placed over him, barely registering it, before the night seemed to kidnap him and he all but passed out.