Archive of Our Own ^beta

 Will Graham only allowed clients to penetrate him if the money was good, if it was one of the guys who contacted him on the higher-end escort website that he had registered with. That would make the job far more worthy of his time, all of that preparation and mental build-up to the act. Handjobs and blowjobs were easy money, but getting fucked was an entire ordeal.

 So when he found himself struggling to sit comfortably in the front seat of his shitty old Volvo on the hour-long drive back to DC from Baltimore, he couldn’t help but hold a small grudge, even if the sex had been good. Maybe a little more than good. Okay, he could admit to himself that he had been fucked within an inch of his life, but that was beside the point. 

 The evening had been a strange one. Usually, he found his clients almost pitifully easy to manipulate; it was part of what had allowed him to engage in his work for the last two years. Yet, somehow, the affluent psychiatrist with a European accent had seen through him with a frustrating level of ease. 

 But the most unsettling thing of all was the fact that Will didn’t find himself entirely angry about it. It was unnerving to be disarmed so quickly, but he couldn’t deny that there was a certain appeal to having someone actually see him. Will found social interactions exhausting and kept them to a minimum, limiting them to his work as much as possible; yet, the booking with Hannibal left him with an almost intoxicating sensation. For a brief moment, euphoric. 

 He was, however, angry about the distinct discomfort in his rear. He knew that he’d probably have to take a day out from being on campus and study from his tiny apartment, and whilst being away from people was always a plus, Will’s studies were his number one priority. 

 So much so that he had completely forgotten the conversation that had ended his evening, the fact that he had agreed to consider a more long-term arrangement with Hannibal. He’d had men offer to be his sugar daddy before, but they were usually drunk and hoping to convince him that they made more money than they actually did. Hannibal clearly wasn’t lacking in that regard, and there was a desperation to his suggestion that had taken Will legitimately by surprise. 

 He was suddenly reminded of this when his phone buzzed next to him on the couch, laptop precariously balanced on his lap and a paper plate of grocery store pastries perched on his thigh. It was a new message notification and, as he opened up the website on his phone, there it was. 

‘I greatly enjoyed our evening together. Perhaps I might interest you in something with a slightly slower pace, to test the waters of my proposal. I have two tickets to see a string quartet playing an assortment of classical numbers at a local venue. Nothing too garish. Friday evening. Dress nicely, won’t you? H.’ 

 Will scoffed. If he had known that the man was so pretentious, he never would have turned up at his house in jeans. That was the kind of thing that rich men usually liked, for Will to look a little too blatantly casual, a fantasy of dabbling with the lower classes. 

 He didn’t respond right away, instead opting to just glance at his phone every twenty minutes, as if somehow it would tell him what to do. The offer had its risks, but the truth was that he could use the money. His scholarship only got him so far, and choosing not to live on campus in student accommodation was great for his privacy but terrible for his bank account. Plus, he had his Father back home to think about.

 Finally, when the sun was low enough outside for him to force himself to stand and stretch his legs, moving through the studio apartment to start switching on the lights, he made a decision. He checked his bank balance, he checked the neatly arranged rolls of dollar bills inside his sock drawer that he kept for emergencies and untraced expenditures, and then he checked his phone. 

 ‘$300 for the concert. Another $300 if you want to break your back again. No dinner, but buy me drinks.’

 His phone vibrated before he could put it back in his pocket. 

 ‘Are you old enough to drink? I’ll send you the address on Thursday. Arrive at 7 PM. H.’

 Will pursed his lips together. 

 ‘Did you know that old age increases your risk of liver damage and alcohol poisoning?’ 

 Another quick buzz. 

 ‘7 PM. H.’ 

When Will received the address for the venue, he was suspicious. But it wasn’t until he was standing just in front of the steps leading up to what was clearly a very prestigious and well-to-do concert hall that he felt a mixture of self-consciousness and annoyance bubbling in his gut. 

 He had worn the smartest thing that he owned: a plain white shirt with a black jacket, no tie, and black trousers. Or, as he had commonly nicknamed it inside his own head, ‘the interview suit’. It fit his form well enough to show off some of his finer assets, and usually it made him feel good, but as he watched women in ankle-length gowns and men in tailored finery meandering into the building, he wanted to murder Hannibal. 

 “Darling, you’re early,” came a soft voice from behind his shoulder, laced with that familiar accent, smooth and warm. 

 “You said that it would be something casual,” Will retorted immediately as he turned his head, almost rolling his eyes at what he saw. Of course, Hannibal was wearing a full-blown tuxedo, complete with a little black bowtie perched perfectly across his throat. Asshole. 

 “I believe that what I actually said was that it wouldn’t be anything too garish. Rather, the building itself is a very tasteful and authentic Art Deco, have you seen the rather lovely archway—” 

 “Hannibal,” Will cut him off, almost hissing the man’s name. His cheeks felt hot. He knew that he was being unprofessional; playful mockery was one thing, but full-on scolding risked him losing that three hundred dollars. Somehow, he found that he couldn’t stop himself around Hannibal; there was something about the psychiatrist that disarmed him so easily, and his well-practised manipulations fell by the wayside. 

 “Will,” Hannibal countered simply and to Will’s surprise, he smiled. It was a small pull of his lips, almost a microexpression, but it was there and it was undeniably fond. Will felt a sudden warmth, and he glanced down to see that Hannibal had taken his hand, interlacing their fingers. Right there, in public, where anyone could see. 

 “I feel underdressed,” he finally relented, the rebuke that he wanted to muster just evaporating from his voice in an instant. He felt small and more than a little bit ridiculous. 

 “You look incredibly handsome, though perhaps in future you might allow me to have something picked out for you. I have a wonderful tailor.” Hannibal’s eyes crinkled, and all of Will’s defences were shattered. He’d just behaved like a frustrated teenager, and this strange man was already thinking about another booking. 

 “You’re impossible,” Will muttered, trying in vain to stop the slight smile that threatened to tug at his own lips, averting his gaze. As he did so, he felt Hannibal's other hand gently pry open his fingers to slide a neatly folded bundle of notes into his grasp. He tried to be subtle as he counted them; just as before, six fifty-dollar bills, which he slipped into his inside jacket pocket. 

 “Please allow me to impossibly escort you inside, so that I might ply you with drinks. You did bring your ID, yes? Please tell me that it’s not one of those awful fake ones.” Hannibal asked with a slight tilt of his head that reminded Will of a bird of prey, curious but not entirely harmless. 

 “I’m twenty-one,” Will scoffed, pulling away to straighten his jacket and attempt to reassemble his dignity. “Cradle-snatcher.” 

 Hannibal clicked his tongue. “Do behave yourself when we’re inside, I expect you to be polite and presentable,” he said, giving Will a surprisingly serious look that made his back automatically straighten. It was a jarring reminder that he was working and not there to have fun, something he didn’t usually require when dealing with clients. 

 Although Hannibal no longer held Will’s hand, he did place his hand lightly against the small of Will’s back as he started to guide them towards the steps. On the outside, it must have looked vaguely affectionate without being inappropriate, but Will could see it for what it was. A subtle gesture of control, that Hannibal was leading the evening, and he did so with a hint of possessiveness. 

 Will was not there as a sordid secret; he was there to be seen. 

 As they walked inside, he was almost immediately hit with a wall of overstimulation. The ceiling was littered with glittering lights, artificial yellow bouncing off the numerous dangling crystals of multiple small chandeliers. The 1920s opulence of the decor was lovely, he was sure, if his eyes had been able to focus on more than one splatter of colour or sharply pointed arch at a time. The further into the foyer they stepped, the louder the buzz of excited chitchat and muttered idle talk became, creating a chorus of noise inside his head, as though his skull was overflowing with cicadas. He could practically feel the disconcerting scratching of their exoskeletons against his cochlea, crackling and rubbing inside his ears. 

 “Hannibal!” An exuberant voice rang through the din, and Will was strangely thankful for something to focus on amidst the overwhelming array of sensations. His eyes landed on the glimmer of white sequins reflecting the light, wrapped around a petite body that sidled up towards them. As his gaze travelled quickly up the tasteful dress, he was met with a neat black bob, lips painted a stark red, and the kind of eyes that sparkled with an almost childlike sense of knowing. Even a brief glance made him feel as though he was looking at someone who wanted him to be in on some kind of secret. 

 “Mrs Komeda,” Hannibal said simply, and Will watched him extend his hand towards hers, lifting it to his lips to press them against her knuckles in a quick kiss. “You are looking delightful as always.” 

 “And you have brought a handsome young man into this wasp's nest! Most unlike you, Doctor. Dear, you simply must tell me how he persuaded you to attend. Are you a relative? He never speaks about his family.” Her words fired with a rapid ferocity, not an ounce of shame in her thirst for gossip. 

 “He’s not a relative,” Hannibal said, those four words slow and purposeful. He caught Mrs Komeda’s eye with the faintest hint of a smile, leaning towards Will in a way that was almost imperceptible. “This is Will, my companion for this evening.”

 Her eyes widened, but her surprise quickly blossomed into something far more like glee as she reached out to playfully slap at Hannibal’s bicep. “You dog, Hannibal!” 

 That was the trigger to snap Will out of his anxious stupor, to push him into performance mode. He had a job to do, and he knew how to do it well. His lips curled into a small smile, and he leaned in towards Mrs Komeda almost conspiratorially, placing his fingertips lightly against her bare forearm. 

 “I think you’ll find that he’s far more of a pussy cat,” he murmured, his eyes narrowing playfully as he watched her light up in response. “At least, I’ve never had trouble making him purr.” 

 He felt the faintest little scratch of nails against the back of his jacket, but he didn’t have time to consider Hannibal’s reaction as the older woman wrapped her arm around his own with a vibrant burst of laughter, tugging him away from Hannibal and towards her side. 

 “Hannibal! How dare you hide this charming boy from us. Will, darling, you must tell me your thoughts on Couperin. Hannibal prefers him to Bach, but I think his style is far too frivolous.” 

 With that, Will was untethered, but as he was dragged towards a small gathering crowd, he could feel the heat of Hannibal’s gaze on the back of his head. It was a constant looming presence, occasionally accompanied by a light touch against his arm, or a flash of a smile that never quite reached his eyes. 

 He found himself put upon a metaphorical pedestal, surrounded by older men and women wearing clothes and jewellery that probably cost more than the value of his scholarship. Inside, he was reeling, but on the outside, he knew that he was dripping with youthful allure. 

 His mask was set firmly in place. If he was asked a question that was too personal, he deflected it with ease, teasing with distractions. He delved into his memory for trivia about classical composers, poets, and academics. He was more experienced with dive bars and awkward family affairs where he’d play the doting boyfriend at a wedding or party, but he could handle this. 

 Yet as he found himself discussing Walt Whitman with a portly gentleman whose face grew red and ruddy with delight, he caught Hannibal out of the corner of his eye. It was subtle, and he had no doubt that no one else would ever notice, but behind his serene affability, there was something else seated just behind his eyes. 

 He looked bored. 

 Before Will could try to process it, to fight off the strange nausea flooding his stomach at the sinking sensation that he might be the cause, Hannibal was by his side and speaking low into his ear. 

 “I’m going to get you that drink. You’ll enjoy whatever I choose, I’m sure.” Without another word, he was gone, leaving Will to his rapt audience. 

 He felt lost, suddenly choking on his words, and forcing a smile that he knew didn’t meet his own expectations. There were too many eyes on him, and he felt his mask begin to slip, just a little. But a little was too much. 

 Then a man began to speak. 

 “Did you hear about that dreadful news? Corpses! Buried underground! Dozens of them, apparently. Dreadful stuff. Dreadful.” 

 As Will watched people’s expressions change, disgust intermingled with the telltale signs of morbid curiosity, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to prickle and stand on end. 

 “There was a TattleCrime article on it,” Mrs Komeda chimed in, and her words were met with a few rolls of eyes. “Now now, you know I’m not one for tabloids, but the photos! Tragic stuff, honestly. Apparently, there were signs of the bodies being hooked up to, what was it—” 

 “Sugar water,” Will said softly, the words slipping past his lips before he could stop them. 

 He felt Mrs Komeda patting his arm approvingly. “No wonder you and Hannibal get along; he always knows about these macabre things.”

 “I– I study forensic science, so it’s—” Will tensed. He felt as though he’d been doused in ice water. At least Hannibal wasn’t there, though he had no doubt that every word he uttered would somehow make its way back to the psychiatrist. It’s not like they knew what school he attended; a little personal detail would be okay, wouldn’t it? 

 “Oh! You must speak with Roger, he works with the police, he’ll know all about it!” Mrs Komeda exclaimed, reaching for a particularly burly man whose expression very clearly stated that he did not want to be having such a discussion. But Will couldn’t stop the words that came out of his mouth next. 

 “Were there beetles?” Will asked, his eyes fixed on the man’s left jaw, almost honing in on him. 

 “Sorry, what?” Roger sputtered, taken aback and utterly confused. Things had begun to grow quiet, and Will could feel eyes on him. 

 “At the crime scene. Were there beetles?” Will asked again, his voice firmer. 

 “What— I don’t know, it was in a forest, I’m sure there were bugs—” 

 “No, you’re not understanding my question,” Will snapped, his voice quiet but steady. “Beetles present at the crime scene, surrounding the corpses, could suggest that the bodies have been there long enough for the larvae feeding on the flesh to pupate and metamorphose into beetles. Unless it’s dermestids actually in the soil, they can already consume soft tissues in their adult state. If there’s dermestids, the bodies might be older, but with the sugar water helping to maintain—” 

 Will faltered slightly as he realised just how quiet their social bubble had become, his voice trailing off awkwardly. His face began to feel lava hot as his gaze flickered rapidly back and forth. Some people had stepped away, and their visible repulsion was reflected in his gut. But, before his panic could well and truly set in, he felt something cold being pressed into his hand. 

 “Come, it’s almost time for curtain up,” Hannibal said, his fingertips brushing briefly against Will’s own as he handed him a glass. Will gripped onto it, fighting against the slick condensation on the side of the vessel. 

 “Right,” Will muttered as he found himself being guided away. Before he could think, he held the glass to his lips and took an inappropriately large mouthful. He felt the familiar burn of whiskey down his throat, but it was accompanied by pleasant notes of bitter citrus. 

 “An old-fashioned,” Hannibal explained simply, his hand on Will’s lower back once more, though his eyes were set straight ahead as they walked up a large staircase. “You try to disguise it, but there’s a Southern twang hiding behind your vowels.” 

 “So you think I’m a hick that drinks whiskey?” Will spat out, regretting it the moment the words escaped his throat. He felt off kilter, his professionalism cracking, and that nausea was back. It didn’t help that Hannibal wasn’t wrong. 

 Hannibal stopped, pulling Will to the side and out of the path of people making their way into the performance hall. He slid his hand to Will’s waist, giving it a squeeze that wasn’t so gentle. 

 “I think that you’re a very clever boy,” Hannibal said quietly, his voice low enough to go unnoticed by those passing by, yet the words echoed inside Will’s skull. It was then that Will noticed that little hint of boredom had been replaced by something else, and he felt a shiver crawl up his spine as he was met with eyes darkened by dilated pupils. 

 “...I’m sorry—” he murmured before he could stop himself, his words catching in his throat as he felt nails digging into his clothing. 

 “Never apologise for being clever,” Hannibal whispered. “Never apologise for being different. For that exquisite brain of yours.” 

 Hannibal didn’t give Will time to react, time to recover from the little flutter he felt in his stomach, as he immediately returned to guiding Will along the plush, red carpet. It was ridiculous; he’d never felt anything other than nonchalance and apathy when Johns complimented him, but this was somehow different. It wasn’t about his looks or his physical talents, and it seemed so forthright and genuine. 

 Those thoughts flitted around inside his head as he started to realise that they weren’t going in the same direction as everyone else. “Hannibal, I think we’ve just gone past the entrance?” 

 Hannibal glanced to Will at his side, his lips twitching into a slight smirk. “Darling, that’s the main entry into the hall. I have a private box.” 

 ‘Of course you fucking do.’ Will had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. “Bring many boys here, do you?” He asked, wincing slightly at his own stupidity. There was something about Hannibal that just seemed to render his usual filter completely useless, and he had no doubt that it was going to get him into trouble. This arrangement, Hannibal’s odd fixation on him, it all seemed too good to be true anyway. 

 “No,” Hannibal replied bluntly without looking at him as they ascended another, smaller staircase. “This is neither the time nor the place to be discussing this, but you seem to be rather set on misbehaving, so let me make something clear to you.” 

 Will felt himself swallow hard as they passed through a doorway and into a dimly lit viewing box, the soft sounds of chatter below them as people made their way to their seats. His body automatically tensed as Hannibal turned towards him, his expression almost infuriatingly unreadable. 

 “I enjoy sex. In fact, I rather enjoy carnal pleasures of a diverse variety,” Hannibal murmured, reaching out to grip Will’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, causing the younger man to flinch. “Do I partake in the supple bodies of working men and women? Quite regularly, yes. Sometimes I even have them accompany me to restaurants. I do not, however, risk showing them off to my social circles.”

 Will furrowed his brow, preparing to ask what made him so different, but he could tell that Hannibal was already two steps ahead. 

 “You can assume other people’s points of view. It’s as though you’re riddled with empathy so great that, in order to find relief from your own mind, you take on the behaviour of others. Tell me, Will. Is that escape therapeutic, or is it merely a deflection because your own thoughts scare and sicken you?” Hannibal’s voice was low enough to almost blend into the sounds below their balcony, yet Will could hear every syllable with startling clarity. 

 He couldn’t help the fragments of memories colliding inside of him. Child psychologists, awkward parent-teacher meetings, the look of disappointment in his Father’s eyes. He tried to step back and away from Hannibal, but the man’s grip only tightened. 

 “For better or for worse, you fascinate me, and I find myself engaging in behaviours that put myself at risk,” Hannibal concluded before finally releasing Will’s chin. 

 ‘You and I both’ were the words on the tip of Will’s tongue, but he kept his lips pressed tightly together. He was unmoored, and it felt loathsome. He considered calling it quits, leaving there and then; it didn’t feel worth the money to expose himself to such antagonistic, psychoanalytical bullshit. 

 Yet he felt cemented to the ground. 

 “Come, the performance will soon be starting,” Hannibal said, his voice taking on a softer note, as though at least somewhat aware of his behaviour, though not enough for Will’s liking. He gently pried the cocktail from Will’s hand, where he’d been gripping it with some force, before placing it down on a small table between the two seats in front of the balcony and seating himself. He glanced over his shoulder, looking at Will with unspoken expectation. 

 Will sat, feeling begrudgingly like an obedient dog. He could feel those maroon eyes on him, studying his silence, the way he stubbornly bit his tongue. He couldn’t afford to lash out, not if he was going to see this through. 

 He heard a deep, exaggerated sigh beside him. “Well, as much as I appreciate the determination to improve your behaviour, I do believe that there are more enjoyable ways to earn your silence.” 

 Will looked at him then, unable to disguise the way his brow twitched with curiosity, but Hannibal simply held a finger to his lips in time with the lights dimming across the hall, all the murmurs below fading into silence as the stage lit up. 

 He looked away, leaning forward slightly in his seat as he glanced down at the quartet taking up the stage. He barely registered the introduction and, when the music began, it was merely background noise to the flurry of thoughts whirling around inside him. He was vaguely aware as the first piece of music came and went, more alerted by the applause than anything, but what really caught his attention was the movement he spotted in the corner of his eye. 

 Hannibal casually slid his suit jacket off, rose to his feet and placed it neatly down onto his seat. He took a single step towards Will, giving him a slight smile when the younger man looked up at him quizzically. Then, without a word, Hannibal sank down onto his knees in front of where Will was sitting, peering up at him with a budding air of mischief. 

 “What are you—” 

 Before he could continue, Hannibal’s hand shot out to grip his thigh, squeezing firmly through the fabric of his trousers, causing Will to jolt slightly in his chair. 

 “I do believe that I requested for you to behave yourself. It’s terribly rude to speak during a performance, Will,” Hannibal chided with a little click of his tongue, giving a performatively slow shake of his head, lips frowning in faux disappointment. 

 For a moment, Will just blinked, glancing back and forth between Hannibal contentedly perched between his legs and the audience below. None of the other boxes were occupied, and Hannibal was beneath the line of the balcony, but that didn’t stop the way that his pulse began to race with the realisation that their low visibility was not guaranteed. 

 Hannibal slid his hands to Will’s knees, pulling his legs slightly apart, raking his eyes across the other man’s limbs with an assessing look. “You will behave, won’t you?” He asked under his breath as his fingers made their way up along his thighs and towards his belt. 

 “Hannibal–” Will choked before he was silenced by a sharp ‘shush’ and a pointed look. 

 For a moment, he almost thought that he saw Hannibal briefly consider rolling his eyes before he reached over towards his jacket and pulled something from the front pocket; a simple, white silk pocket square. He leant upwards and reached for Will’s jaw, clasping it in his hand. 

 “Open,” he murmured, his voice soft but unabashedly demanding. 

 Will hesitated for only a second before his jaw fell open, and he cringed a little as the fabric was pressed against his tongue and placed between his teeth.

 “Close,” Hannibal commanded. 

 He closed his mouth around the silk, trying to get used to the texture against his lips and tongue, soft but soaking up all of the moisture that it made contact with. He didn’t miss the barely whispered, “Good boy,” that rumbled from Hannibal’s throat before the man resumed his work, fingers deftly pulling Will’s belt from the teeth of its buckle. 

 Will would have cursed the way that his body betrayed him so easily if it hadn’t been for the pocket square sitting in his mouth; Hannibal had barely pulled down the zipper on his trousers, and he could already feel himself beginning to fill out in response. Even over the music, he could hear the air leaving Hannibal’s lungs, a deep exhale followed by a slow, measured inhalation through his nostrils, almost as though he was scenting the younger man. 

 He watched that large hand, the long fingers decorated by fine lines, and the back of it illustrated with a map of prominent veins, reaching inside his trousers. Hannibal’s brow rose as Will shifted in his seat, and that mischievous hand felt around the shape of his rapidly firming flesh beneath a pair of boxers. Hannibal didn’t even attempt to hide his rapturous expression at witnessing the speed at which blood rushed southwards in Will’s body, his lips curling like the most content feline. 

 There were just light, lazy strokes at first, coaxing Will’s appendage to full hardness over the fabric of his underwear, gradually feeling the size of him as Will fell into a bit of a daze. He didn’t know what to try and focus on; he was certain that the music was probably lovely, but there wasn’t a hope in Hell that he’d remember a single note of it, especially not when the feeling of fingers pulling down his boxers prompted him to suck in a breath through his nose. 

 He only realised just how hard he was clenching his jaw when the sight, and then the sensation, of Hannibal leaning in closer to press a kiss to the tip of his cock caused him to grind his teeth against the silk seized between his incisors. He wasn’t sure if Hannibal could hear the faint grunt that escaped his throat, but it seemed that the psychiatrist’s attention was elsewhere. 

 It wasn’t the first time that a client had attempted to perform oral sex on Will. There had been lazy, halfhearted attempts that fell short when men would become bored with pursuing something other than their own release: clumsy mouths, too much saliva, beer breath between his legs.

 None of it could compare with this. 

 As Will’s eyes almost rolled back inside his head at the slick, wet muscle lapping at the head of his cock, somewhere in the back of his thoroughly distracted head was a vague realisation that this was far more akin to a kind of worship. He was being tasted, and he was being savoured, but make no mistake; he was not being served. 

 Hannibal had that firm grip on his thighs, his eyes now closed with an almost serene sense of bliss, and he was shamelessly taking what he wanted. 

 Those torturous licks would slowly melt into a soft suck or an open-mouthed kiss, but there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to it. Will couldn’t predict what the man’s mouth would do next, and it was causing his gut to sear with an intensely building heat. Every time the friction would start to reach a familiar little surge of pleasure, Hannibal would change up his movements, and Will would find himself biting down on the pocket square, grinding his shoes into the carpet. 

 His breathing was growing increasingly ragged, his knuckles whitening with how hard he gripped the arms of the chair, struggling to keep his eyes open every time that Hannibal dipped his head and took half of the length of his flesh into his puckish maw, only to pull back completely and press tender kisses along the weight of him. 

 Will started to lose all sense of time as the torture dragged on, his cock turning a deep shade of red against Hannibal’s flushed lips, but eventually it dawned on him exactly what Hannibal was doing. There was a logic to his odd pattern. 

 The fucking music. 

 The man seemed lost in his own little world, and each kiss, lick and suck was perfectly in time with either one of the violin’s melodies or the cello’s underlying refrain, constantly changing momentum. At one point, he even seemed to be following the viola, and if Will wasn’t being constantly edged to the blossoming brink of orgasm, he could have kicked him. 

 He had even started to gently tap his fingers against Will’s trousers, occasionally squeezing his thighs, not unlike a cat kneading a particularly comfortable blanket. But again, that observation was fleeting, as Will’s head flew backwards with a strangled noise as Hannibal abruptly took him deeper, the back of his throat bumping against the head of Will’s erection. 

 Will wasn’t exactly sure when it started, as he became increasingly lost in a haze of ecstasy and frustration, but he had begun to make quiet whining noises, and he couldn’t seem to stop. He tried to bite down harder on the pocket square, tried to stop his hips from shaking almost violently in his seat, but he was rapidly coming undone regardless of the irregularity of Hannibal’s cruelty. 

 The older man seemed to sense it, however. He paused in his ministrations, digging his thumbs into the sides of Will’s thighs, and fixed him with a stare. Will was panting through his nose, trembling on the spot, as he tried to hold Hannibal’s gaze. No words were needed for the message to be clear. ‘Not until I decide.’ 

 His heart was battering against his ribs, and he could feel sweat seeping through the back of his shirt, feeling horribly trapped and claustrophobic in his suit. He blinked slowly, trying to keep focus on Hannibal’s stern expression. Saliva was pooling in his mouth, the fabric no longer able to contain it, and he swallowed hard as he had another realisation. 

 He wanted to be good. 

That thought alone, and the intensity of the hints of red in Hannibal’s eyes, were enough to make him want to come. He felt as taut as a bowstring, tears beginning to gather in the corners of his eyes that he tried to blink away. 

 Hannibal slowly smiled. 

 Will barely had time to breathe before the hot cavern of Hannibal’s mouth was enveloping his swollen flesh, pressing down hard, his nose rubbing against Will’s shirt as his throat contracted around him. He didn’t even need to move; Will was so oversensitive that Hannibal’s tongue pressed firmly against his length was stimulation enough, and soon the younger man’s entire body was spasming with an orgasm so brutal that it knocked the air from his lungs. 

 For a moment, everything was white and hot and silent, before gradually the strings below brought him back to the present. He felt a hand pluck the pocket square from his mouth, and it took him a second to remember to release his iron grip on the fabric. Will was panting and slightly dizzy as he watched Hannibal lift the material to his lips and delicately dab at the remnants of pearlescent semen on his skin with the spit-soaked pocket square, as casually and as neatly as one might do at a fancy dinner party. 

 As Hannibal started to carefully and almost tenderly tuck Will back inside his trousers, neatly rearranging his clothing until it was back to something resembling presentable, he heard a softly uttered, “Good boy.” He forgot to breathe. 

 The rest of the evening was a bit of a blur, and it wasn’t until the cold night air hit his face that he started to sober up a little, though he’d barely swallowed more than a couple of mouthfuls of alcohol. Hannibal had that familiar hand on his lower back as he walked them out onto the street. 

 “Have a lovely evening, Dr Lecter!” Mrs Komeda gave them a little wave before she vanished inside the back of an expensive-looking car, and Will found himself taking a deep breath of fresh air as he felt the freedom from rich socialites quickly approaching. 

 “Would you like me to drive you home, Will?” Hannibal asked, sliding his hand up over his jacket to gently squeeze his shoulder, the gesture subtly affectionate. 

 “I always budget for public transport if I’m not driving,” Will replied with something resembling a smile. He still felt boneless, and part of him wanted to raise the subject of how unusual it was that Hannibal didn’t seem to expect any sort of physical reciprocation, but it didn’t seem like the time nor the place. 

 “I appreciate that you did not drive here this evening. I hope that it isn’t too crass of me to say, but with your profession and your clear talent for it, I’m surprised that you don’t at least take a cab. I assume that you must be putting your earnings towards something worthwhile?” Hannibal tilted his head a little, and Will couldn’t help the huff of laughter that escaped him. 

 “You know that I’m not going to tell you that, Dr Lecter,” Will said, unable to hide the smirk that pulled at his lips. 

 “Mm. It seems that you are getting the upper hand when it comes to obtaining personal information,” Hannibal remarked with a slightly unimpressed expression. “Still, I don’t regret taking that risk. I had a most amenable evening.” 

 “So did I,” Will muttered, averting his eyes as he felt his cheeks warming against the chill air. 

 He caught a sudden movement out of the corner of his eye, and his smile was uncontrollable as he watched one of the evening’s patrons loudly tutting at the sight of what was presumably her husband struggling to maintain his grip on the leash of a large, unruly husky. 

 Hannibal let out a small sigh. “Mr and Mrs Astor. Her husband brings their dog to meet her after every concert—” A small pause, then ”—You like dogs?” 

 Will glanced over at Hannibal, internally cursing how he felt that heat travel from his cheeks to his ears. “Grew up with them, but I can’t have one where I live now.” 

 “Mm, a shame,” Hannibal said simply. 

 “You don’t strike me as the animal-loving type, Hannibal,” Will replied. 

 “I rather like animals, but I’m not so certain that one would fit into my lifestyle. It doesn’t take much of a stretch of the imagination to imagine you surrounded by hounds, however.” 

 That took Will a little by surprise. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult.” 

 “Well, life’s full of mysteries, isn’t it?” Hannibal said with one of those barely there, subtle smiles that was less on his lips and more in his eyes, and this time Will didn’t resist the pull to roll his eyes as he started to walk away, waving his hand in an almost dismissive gesture. 

 “Goodnight, Hannibal.” 

 “Goodnight, Will.” 

 A week passed, but Will didn’t receive another message from Hannibal. He didn’t think much of it, not really, even if there was a strange pang of disappointment in his gut every time he received a message notification from a prospective new client. 

 Then, as he was fishing through the pile of junk mail in the mailroom of his apartment complex, he noticed a small cardboard box sitting on top of the cabinets. A box that had no address on it, but instead simply, “Will” written in needlessly intricate cursive.  

 At any other time, he would have just assumed that it was for someone else, but his hands were drifting towards it as though on autopilot, and he was soon turning it around in his hands. He checked to see that the mailroom was empty before gingerly tearing off the packing tape and reaching inside. 

 The first thing that his fingers touched was a small, paper note, written in that same script. 

 ‘For more direct communication. My number is in it. Text me your bank account details. H.’

 Will furrowed his brow as he lifted out a phone charger and then, with an uncontrollable bark of laughter, he reached inside to find a phone. Not just any phone. A 2004, hot pink, Motorola Razr flip phone. Dangling from it, on a small black cord, was a little plastic phone charm of what could only be described as some sort of strange amalgamation of a Yorkshire terrier and a corgi. 

 “What the fuck,” he muttered under his breath, grinning at the garish device. Then, without missing a beat, he stared at the box and blurted out loud to himself, “How the fuck does he know I live here?”