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Dilated pupils, a steel blue rim.
The smoking bullet holes of a dark set of eyes, heavy-lidded and clouded by desire, latch onto his, locking their gazes together with an almost audible click. Were Hannibal not who he is, his heart would be in his throat. But Hannibal is iron and steel, a rock in the face of a storm, comfortable enough in his skin to remain unbothered by the prospect of having the worth of his flesh estimated like commodity. As Will’s gaze rakes across his form, Hannibal only acknowledges him with a subtle quirk of his brow, a hint of an intrigued smile.
Will looks down at him from where he’s standing, back against Hannibal’s desk, hands grasping the wooden edge hard enough for his knuckles to whiten. His face is framed by a flurry of loose curls, lit up by the last, tentative rays of afternoon sun streaming through the window, painting him orange and pink against the contrasting blue of the dark shadows surrounding them.
This darkness is the kind that grows. Blooms. Soon, everything will be submerged in cerulean blue.
Hannibal is kneeling on the hard wooden floors of his own home office, creasing an expensive pair of slacks in the process, glancing up at that saint-like image of beauty looming above him, palms up, head down, like a beggar or a slave, asking -
“Please, Will.”
And he doesn’t even mind. It’s mostly just for show, or so he tells himself. Will unbuckles his belt without a word and Hannibal’s lips twist into a self-satisfied smirk, a dissonant chord in the symphony of submission he is orchestrating, but Will allows it, only makes a small oh-sound as Hannibal grabs his narrow hips with both hands and drags his tongue along the underside of his hard length. When Hannibal wraps his lips around the heated flesh, there is no word to properly describe the broken whine that escapes Will’s lips.
“Hannibal,” He breathes, fingers curled around the base of his skull, and Hannibal hollows his cheeks, opens his throat and swallows him whole, buries his nose in the nest of dark hairs curling over the base of his cock. He briefly wishes he could inhale, drown his senses in the exquisite scent of Will’s most vulnerable place, but he can’t breathe at all when Will fucks his throat like this, can only close his eyes and revel in the delicious stretch of his lips, the taste and feel of Will hard and dripping on his tongue.
Empathy is Will’s defining feature, not Hannibal’s. Still, his own cock is hard enough that it’s throbbing between his legs, positively aching in sympathy, as if he was subjected to something more stimulating than having his throat abused. Will’s hips are rocking against his face, seemingly on their own accord – hardly giving him any time at all to breathe between thrusts, leaving him lightheaded and blurry-eyed. But Hannibal only leans in to it, stains the front of those expensive pants with his own spit, dribbling down his chin in sticky threads.
While patience is a virtue Hannibal has acquired over the years, he doesn’t want to be patient in this particular regard, because he has been patient enough, suffered the agony of not being allowed for longer than he cares to admit, and that was before. Now is now. And now, Hannibal wants to weld their separate thoughts together, wants to braid nerve endings into union and crawl behind those blown pupils full of silent promise. But he will settle for this, for wringing those sounds of pleasure from Will’s mouth as he finds release between his lips. Just as Hannibal feels the familiar stutter of hips and quickening of breath, Will tugs his head back with a violent yank that has his cock slipping out of Hannibal’s mouth, wet and glistening, rock hard to the point where it must be painful. Hannibal gasps for breath, can’t help the buildup of saliva that pours from his panting mouth.
“I want,” Will says with a feverish glint in his eyes, and that’s all he ever has to say. Hannibal lifts his sore knees off the floor and Will pulls him close, presses an open-mouthed kiss against his wet, swollen lips and tastes himself on Hannibal’s tongue. The thick pads of calloused fingertips make quick work of Hannibal’s zipper and buttons, impatient hands tearing his shirt off of him with a carelessness Hannibal would have found irksome in anyone else, but when Will does it, it has electricity thrumming beneath his skin.
Will remains fully dressed even as every single article of Hannibal’s clothing is scattered around them on the floor. His worn jeans, hanging purposefully low on his hips, still have a soft flannel partially tucked into them. Hannibal doesn’t mind, only bends obediently over his desk and braces himself on his forearms, tries not to mess up the paper work he has stacked up in neat piles. When Will presses him face down and chest flush against the cool surface, one hand nestled into his hair and one hand trailing down his spine to the tight heat between his legs, he accidentally sends them flying to the floor anyway.
Will rarely speaks when they are intimate with each other, but this time, he leans closer, breath tickling the shell of Hannibal’s ear and then -
“Have you done this before?” Will’s voice is rough like sandpaper and he circles his hole with a spit-slick finger, pushes past the tight rim of muscle with practiced ease. “Before me, I mean.”
Hannibal quickly ponders possible reasons as to why Will would ask, trying to find matching answers to each scenario.
“You are going to have to be more specific.” He stalls, and Will smiles into his neck. Hannibal is almost certain it’s fond.
“That gives me a fair idea of the answer to my question,” Will says pointedly. “I’m asking if you’ve ever been fucked by another man, Hannibal.”
Hannibal finds he is not sure how to navigate this uncharted territory. Truthfully, he has, when motives aligned with opportunities and desires. Mostly when he was a younger man, when he had a slender form flowing like water, a smooth, chiseled face and soft, plush lips that worked to his advantage from time to time.
But now that Will asks, Hannibal is inclined to lie. Because he imagines Will asked because he wants the answer to be no.
“Hannibal,” Will calls, adding a second finger. The blunt tips of his fingers hit his prostate with an unintentional precision that almost has Hannibal’s knees buckling. “Don’t lie to me.”
Hannibal decides to oblige him, in part because the boiling heat between his legs is distracting, in part because he is curious about Will’s reaction.
“Yes, I have.”
Will says nothing more after that, only withdraws his fingers and removes the warm weight of his torso from Hannibal’s back, spits unceremoniously in his hand and gives himself a few cursory strokes before aligning his cock with Hannibal’s stretched opening. His hand is still tangled in Hannibal’s hair and once the blunt head of his cock has breached him, Will buries himself to the hilt in one swift thrust. Hannibal chokes on a groan and almost reels, because it’s too much, too soon, and he was expecting Will’s usual rough gentleness, a dull ache gradually building up to pleasure, not this sharp, bright pain blooming in the pit of his stomach. He glances over his shoulder, catches a glimpse of morose eyes and pink lips pressed into a tight line from his awkward angle.
It makes his lips twitch into a smile, until the drag of Will’s cock through his insides has a moan spilling from his lips, jaw hanging slack as his vicious lover sets a brutal pace.
*
Dilated pupils. Eyes so dark there was an absence of rim.
Hannibal could sense the weight of a lead-coated gaze settling on him, could physically feel the way a pair of predatory eyes hooked into his flesh and pulled, freezing him to the spot like a woodland nymph in a roman myth. He slowly turned his head and was met with a pair of black, gleaming eyes, trailing obscenely over his body from across the room.
Hannibal was 23. Alone in an anonymous bar, one finger tapping against the rim of his wine glass. Aside from nibbling on the forbidden fruit of his first, devastating love, coming away from it with nothing more than a chaste kiss full of conflicting emotions, Hannibal’s sexual experiences were limited. He was in many ways otherwise occupied, attempting to squeeze everything rugged and toothed and bestial into a poorly fitted person-suit while trying out different settings for himself in an attempt to find his footing; a place where he might prosper. Not necessarily where he belonged, but where he appeared natural enough to make a convincing charade of belonging.
Hannibal had no friends, merely shallow acquaintances.
He liked it that way, liked creeping around the world unburdened by social ties. Hannibal has always had an acute sense of self-awareness, knew very well that his inner beast flashed its teeth if he spoke to someone long enough, that most people could pick up on that dangerous glimmer in his eyes just looking at him; knew to stay away in a primal, inexplicable way. These things considered, Hannibal was unused to this look of slippery arousal, this gaze turning him from a desiring subject to a desired object.
Frankly, it irked him. Offended and disgusted him, even. But to his own dismay, he found it exciting too, curiosity and arousal awakening from their slumber. His skin tingled with low voltage electricity and as he turned his gaze away in feigned disinterest only to have the man double his efforts to capture his attention, he found he enjoyed this game of cat and mouse. Human interaction is manipulation and it rings particularly true for all manner of sexual or romantic pursuits, and Hannibal is nothing if not adaptive; granted the man a coy glance, sharp teeth tucked away underneath a close-lipped smile. He knew the moment the man approached him that he had succeeded in convincing him he was a mouse rather than a cat in disguise.
Hannibal can’t remember his face, only that it was square and symmetrical, not unpleasant to look at, yet bland in the way conventionally attractive faces tend to be. He could smell his arousal, thick and pungent in the air around them, and in those eyes that would come to be seared into Hannibal’s memory, there was nothing but animal lust – nothing suggesting he viewed Hannibal any differently from a beautiful painting or an inanimate statue, and Hannibal wanted -
Hannibal just wanted. He has always been iron and steel, a paradox of irresistible force and immovable object, carefully lining up his desires and acting on them in a calculating manner, but everything was much more visceral back then, and he had yet to identify, categorize and remedy all of his urges correctly. Even now, some of them blur, melding together into a single forceful want which cannot be untangled.
He can’t remember what they talked about. It isn’t important now, and it wasn’t then. But he does remember the rough paw of a hand brushing a stray strand of hair from his face, the confident smile revealing a row of glistening teeth and the deep rumble of the man’s voice as he said -
“You have a lovely mouth. You should put it to good use.”
Hannibal’s conflicted emotions sharpened like the tip of a pen, rage seeping into the strange mixture of desire and disgust; honed into a fine, pointed edge. Hannibal’s mouth has always been his strongest asset and the idea of having it reduced to an instrument of another’s desire had him bristling, everything unseemly lurking behind his mask of indifference threatening to reveal itself.
Still, something clenched in his stomach and as Hannibal took note of the way his pants suddenly felt tighter, the conflicted tangle of want was given a direction.
“I suppose you have an idea of what constitutes good use?” Hannibal said in a thick accent, his tongue still unused to the soft curves of the English language. The man smiled, telling Hannibal everything he needed to know.
The next thing he remembers is being kissed in a dimly lit bedroom, enveloped in the overpowering scent of pungent arousal and musky aftershave. Hannibal briefly recalled the fact that he did not even know the man’s name as his face was grasped by a strong pair of hands that angled him just right for the man to positively claim him, his ravenous mouth firm against Hannibal’s yielding lips, his experienced tongue sliding against Hannibal’s in a dizzying kiss.
The comforting weight of a corkscrew Hannibal had snuck from a dinner table before leaving rested in his pocket, grounding him like an anchor.
“You’re beautiful,” The man sighed as Hannibal took the initiative to undress, revealing more and more of his soft, untouched skin with each removed article of clothing. The man pushed him gently to his back, laid him out on his bed and eyed him like a meal. Despite no words of instructions having been spoken, Hannibal had a vague idea of what the man wanted from him. And so he parted his legs in a wordless admission, slow and inevitable like a tearing seam. The man crawled between his legs, gripped his thighs and placed sloppy, wet kisses on his hard length, one hand soon wrapping around the part he couldn’t fit into his mouth.
While this sort of physical intimacy was new for Hannibal, he was never particularly insecure, not self-conscious by any stretch of the imagination; certainly a far cry from a blushing virgin. He merely closed his eyes and let the waves of pleasure roll through him, head full of images of driving the corkscrew into the man’s eye sockets, piercing soft eyeballs and twisting until they couldn’t glint with that filthy need anymore, couldn’t crave and demand.
He was jolted out of his musings when the man’s tongue trailed further down, his warm mouth closing over his hole, kissing and lapping greedily the tight furl of muscle. Hannibal heard himself actually moan as the wet tongue dipped inside him, ground the back of his head into soft pillows and pinched his eyebrows together as white-hot pleasure tore through him. The man chuckled, breaching him with a thick finger.
“I was just wondering what I’d have to do to get a reaction out of you.” He said in a voice so deep it sounded as if he was growling. The slightly condescending tone of voice he employed was not lost on Hannibal. Still, another finger pushed inside, and something about the angle made the pads of his fingertips brush against a spot that had Hannibal moaning again, heels digging into the mattress and legs automatically falling open a little wider. The man chuckled darkly once more. “You even sound pretty.”
This sweet torture without release kept going until Hannibal was rolling his hips, vulgar suggestions he would rather not recall pouring from his lips. The man hushed him softly, but as with everything he did, it came across as more predatory than genuinely benevolent. Finally, the man withdrew his fingers, leaving Hannibal feeling bereft, clenching around nothing. Then there was the click of a capped bottle and Hannibal remembers watching the man slicking the gracious girth and length of his cock before the blunt head made contact with his hole.
The man never asked Hannibal if he had done anything like this before, but something in those damnable eyes told Hannibal he somehow knew and simply didn’t care, even as he sunk inside him and gave him only seconds to adjust before pulling halfway out again and slamming into him with a force that made him gnash his teeth. Spite awoke in Hannibal and he wrapped his legs around the man, urging him to set an even quicker pace, because patience is a virtue Hannibal had yet to develop and he did not enjoy the slow burn, preferred the sharp, bright pain of everything at once and moaned appreciative in spite of himself as it faded into pleasure.
All the while, the sharp edge of a spiraling corkscrew glimmered in the forefront of his mind, fingers itching with the need to rip and gouge and destroy.
The man wrapped a hand around Hannibal’s cock, hard and sticky with precum, and gave it a few strokes in time with the rhythmic thrusting. Hannibal saw no point to drawing out the inevitable, so he arched his back, threw his head back and gave himself over the pleasure building at the base of his spine, coming all over the man’s hand with a loud moan.
Once the orgasmic haze cleared, Hannibal lowered his voice to a purr, suggested in a teasing, lilting tone of voice he hardly even recognized in himself that the man should fuck him from behind. Eyes fogged, lips parted and Hannibal carefully arranged himself on his knees, chest flush against the mattress and back curved as he stretched out his arms, pretending to get comfortable in the new position. Only he was reaching underneath the pillow, where he hid the corkscrew earlier while taking off his clothes. His hand closed around the cool metal and he almost sighed in relief, just as the man gripped his hips to slide inside him again.
Before the man had time to push inside, Hannibal whipped around and jammed the sharp edge of his weapon into the man’s chest with surgical precision, driving it all the way in between his ribs with a single stab. The man’s mouth fell open, eyes unblinking, making him look surprised more than anything. But then Hannibal shoved him down to his back, straddled his chest to pin him in place and yanked the corkscrew out again, resulting in a agonized scream that reverberated between the walls.
Hannibal smiled as blood splattered across his face, a toothy grin stretching from ear to ear.
Staying true to his initial vision, Hannibal made sure the deep, dark pits of his eyes, shrouded in lewd arousal, were nothing remotely resembling eyes once he was through with them. The man was still alive to feel it, and once there was nothing but a mess of bright red sludge where his eyes ought to have been, Hannibal leaned in close, whispered with that mouth the man had dared to underestimate:
“You sound pretty too.”
*
The sharp edge of the unusually disorganized desk bites bruises into Hannibal’s skin as Will thrusts inside him, rhythmically knocking his hip bones into solid wood. If Will’s hold on him was not next to paralyzing, the sweat-slick palm of one hand pressed firmly against the small of his back and the other hand gripping his hair, Hannibal would attempt to find friction, seeking release from the throbbing ache between his legs with a roll of his hips. But he doesn’t even test his restraints, only lets out a cut-off groan as Will tugs his head back, baring his throat in a way that makes him feel oddly vulnerable.
Mine, Will says, not with his mouth, but with everything else. Yours, Hannibal affirms with an arc of his back and a tilt of his head, a silent invitation as well as a request. Will accepts it, sinking his teeth into his neck and biting down, sucking at the abused flesh until it darkens into a bruise before coming with a muffled groan that goes straight to Hannibal’s neglected cock.
Will slumps down on top of him, torso draped across Hannibal’s back, and everything loosens; strong hands releasing him from their grip, the taut line of Will’s body becoming a boneless heap of heavy limbs.
“Would you have liked to have been the first?” Hannibal asks, knowing the answer to be yes.
“I am your last.” Is all Will says in response, voice as scratchy as the two day stubble chafing against Hannibal’s skin. It’s a sober statement, not a promise as much as an inescapable fact. As if staking claim, his warm hand wraps around Hannibal’s dripping hardness while the other one trails up his neck, thumb pressing into the freshly bruised skin. Moments later, Hannibal comes with a shaky release of breath, relishing the slight sting bleeding into the pleasurable release of his orgasm.
They stay like that for a few moments, limbs intertwined and sweat cooling on their skin, for no discernible reason other than that they can. Around them, blue shadows creep up the walls like vines, the growing darkness erasing the contours of their bodies. Only a set of dilated pupils glimmer in the dark as Hannibal casts a glance over his shoulder, the familiar blue of the rings surrounding them smoldering like embers.
You are my last, Hannibal doesn’t say with his mouth, but with everything else.