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The ten hour drive from Maryland to Maine has Will beginning to nod off in the passenger seat of the car, the pinch of the seatbelt against his neck jolting him from the edge of sleep each time. He tugs the fabric grating against his stubbly neck away, slight frustration settling into his bones alongside the ache of sitting in the same position for so long. He takes a breath - in through his nose, out through his mouth.
His muscles ache. The thickset meat lining his bones sore from sitting up in this car for the last - he checks the watch on his wrist - nine hours. He cracks his joints, starting at his ankles and trekking up his stocky form as best as he is able to contort in his seat. He cracks his thumbs and rolls his head around his shoulders before the silence is broken by a sound other than his popping.
“I apologize for the inconvenience. I figure a plane would have been just as - if not more - arduous on your body and psyche.”
Will turns his head to the driver who sits poised and focused on the stretch of road before them. His knuckles jut out where he grips the steering wheel with both hands - steady and easy. His profile is what Will studies - eyes more narrowed than usual against the blinding setting sun, jaw relaxed yet still seated rigidly beneath his skull, his tungsten tinted hair perfectly in place.
He finds his own blue-grey eyes in the side mirror when he turns his head away. His unruly curls, hickory and gold-toned in the sun's rays, are laid over the bridge of his brows. Their edges threaten to spill behind the lenses of his wire-framed glasses and obscure his vision. The swirls at the tops of his ears cover the appendages like a thin blanket one might use in that transitional period between winter and spring - when just the toes need shielding from the cold. He makes a mental note that he is overdue for a haircut.
“How considerate of you,” he mumbles, pushing his glasses up by the bridge, voice laced with a hint of sarcasm.
The tree line in his field of vision is spectacular. Not that Maryland doesn’t have trees - it does - but the thrush of green even in the dead of the Maine winter has something exhilarating stirring within Will. He can see the ocean just past them where they follow a curved road up a mountain. Even in the enveloping heat of the car, it’s like he can feel the cold outside biting at his bones - gnawing, even. He shudders slightly, lips stretching just the slightest bit into a smile.
They make it to the cabin Hannibal was downright bragging about - if he were capable of such a thing. There’s a blanket of snow over everything, a blinding white that they step into upon parking. It sits on the edge of a cliff, overlooking the thousands of trees thick with snow and life. Past them, waves crashing against rocks. A lighthouse too, in the distance. Will steps close to the edge of the cliff lined with large rocks and takes it in, lungs stinging as he breathes in the cold. Hannibal grabs their bags from the car and shuts the trunk, then stands and admires not the view - but Will.
“The edge of the North.”
Will turns at the other man’s voice from a few feet behind him. He chuckles - half amused.
“Wouldn’t that be somewhere in Canada? Or Denmark?” he asks, hands shoved into his pockets as the chill begins to set in.
“I could take you to both. You could decide for yourself.”
Will’s eyes narrow and he turns fully now to face Hannibal rather than just looking over his shoulder at him.
“Well, aren’t I special?”
They go inside, Will closes the door behind them and takes the bags from Hannibal. Their fingers brush. Hannibal brushes the snow off of his shoulders and with the poise and grace of a stag he takes off his winter coat. He hangs it on the coat hanger beside the door, then walks behind Will to help him shrug his own coat off. Large hands with nimble fingers touch his shoulders and Will clears his throat.
“I think I can handle taking my own coat off.”
There’s a twinge of annoyance in his voice. Hannibal’s face is stone save for the most undetectable quirk of his lips.
“I’ll start the fire.”
They dress down as the fire begins to warm the room. The bags are set beside the couch. There’s a snip right beside Will’s ear.
Will sits on a chair pulled from the table and placed beside the roaring fireplace. His torso is bare, button up plaid shirt abandoned - and folded by Hannibal after Will had discarded it carelessly - on the couch. His glasses are set on the coffee table. His socked feet are planted against the ground in front of him. Despite the warmth of the fireplace at his back, the sharp chill from outside still lingers. His nipples - dusty pink and matching the shade of his lips - are hard where they sit on his chest.
Hannibal sets the dainty pair of scissors down beside Will’s glasses and brushes the curled inch of hair off of the smaller man’s shoulder. His fingertips are cold when they touch Will’s skin, but he resists the urge to jump. Hannibal walks off toward the kitchen, a mere ten steps away in the open-concept floor plan. He takes a pot off of the stove and stirs its contents before pouring two mugs worth. He tops the mugs off with whipped cream, crushed peppermints, and a dusting of cinnamon powder. Then his long legs carry him back towards Will with the mugs.
“You never can just make a plain old dish, can you Hannibal? Hot chocolate from a packet would send you into cardiac arrest,” he says, looking up at the older man through his dark eyelashes.
He swears he sees Hannibal’s chest stutter when he takes the mug from him and their fingers touch. Cold phalanges warmed by each other - and the warm liquid behind the ceramic wall of the mug. Hannibal’s lips quirk into a small smile.
“The French know what they are doing, Will. Sip.”
The command is mundane, anyone wouldn’t bat an eye at it. Will does. Will defies him, the slightest amusement finding his boyish features as he takes a proper drink from the mug. It burns his tongue, nearly scalding hot, but he doesn’t let it show. Hannibal watches him, notes his defiance. So be it, he thinks to himself as he sips his own hot chocolate and rounds the chair Will sits in. He sets his mug down and picks up the scissors again. One deft finger twirls a dark curl around itself, then he snips it away.
Will continues to enjoy his hot chocolate. Hannibal continues to trim his hair. There’s a perpetual air of tenseness between them, never fully delving into comfortability and instead keeping them both on edge - neither of them mind it.
Once Hannibal finishes trimming Will’s hair, he walks around to face him. He leans down, soulless amber eyes darting from ear to ear, temple to temple - checking for symmetry. He stands straight again and walks behind Will. Their mugs are long abandoned, empty. He trims another curl or two at the base of Will’s neck, the other’s warm skin against his fingertips as he holds him in place by the nape. His grip tightens slightly.
The cold metal of the scissors brushes across Will’s skin and leaves goosebumps in its wake. Hannibal’s thumb brushes over the path it leaves. He traces Will’s jawbone with the tip of the blades, free hand releasing the back of his neck and feeding up into his freshly trimmed curls instead. He closes the man’s hair in his fist and slowly guides his head back so that Will is looking directly up at him. The scissors round the curve of his jaw, pausing at his chin, then trail down his throat. They follow the hump of his ever-bobbing Adam’s apple, then press into the dip of his clavicle. Will’s breath hitches.
“Dr. Lecter,” he breathes out.
Hannibal can see the way his lip quivers. Not fearfully, but rather with burning anticipation. With no change in his expression, Hannibal tilts his head at Will as if the other were an animal he was studying. There is an unmistakable protrusion in the front of Will’s pants.
“Take off your clothes Will.”
He releases his hair carefully, petting the curls down before Will stands and walks away from the chair. Hannibal watches him like prey, one hand still gripping the scissors. Will undresses as he’s told, only turning to face Hannibal once he’s in just his boxers. There’s that glint in his eyes again and Hannibal reveres it.
“Will,” he warns, voice still as even as ever.
Meanwhile, Will is already shaking. When isn’t he shaking or sweating, really?
“I didn’t bring you here to play games with me. Take off your clothes.”
“Or what?”
Hannibal’s lips twitch for just a moment, but before his mask can fall, he stalks over to Will and towers over him by a whopping two inches. Will challenges him - it’s his favorite part of their game.
And his second favorite part comes shortly after when Hannibal grips his throat tightly. His own hands come up to grasp at the older man’s forearm, already wide slate colored eyes dancing in excitement. The tips of their noses touch and Hannibal’s eyes are boring into his own.
“Or I’m not going to touch you at all.”
Will huffs. Because he knows the threat is not empty, he reaches down while Hannibal’s hand is still gripping his throat and he steps out of his baggy, worn boxers. Hannibal’s eyes don’t leave his, even for a second.
“Down.”
Will obeys, letting Hannibal’s hand pull him to the ground slightly until he’s knelt before the other. Then the grip finally releases and Will awaits his next instruction. Hannibal just studies him for a moment. It can’t be because he’s figuring out what to do with him, he always knows that in advance.
“Why do you misbehave Will?” he asks finally.
He knows. Will knows he knows. He wants to hear it.
“Because I like being punished.”
His voice sounds too even, too collected, Hannibal decides.
“Then I will punish you. Crawl to the hallway, the last door on the right.”
Will’s cheeks burn, but with the very possible risk of Hannibal following through on his threat, he obeys. He hangs his head, unruly hair following the drop of gravity and shielding his face, and crawls down the hallway on his hands and knees. He can feel Hannibal’s eyes on him, everywhere. Once they both step into the threshold of the room, Will lifts his head and sits on his knees.
The bed is rigged at all four posts with restraints.
Will’s eyes study them, curiosity piqued.
“Lay on the bed on your stomach.”
He stands and does as he’s told, laying across the silky stain sheets and restraining a gasp when the fabric brushes deliciously against his cock. He lays down and presses his cheek against the fabric, eyes fluttering closed. He hears Hannibal stepping around the bed, pulling something like a box or a trunk out from underneath it, and opening it. Then, his fingertips are brushing against Will’s ankle as he ties one to the bed posts at a time, giving just enough slack to ensure the other’s knees can bend at least forty-five degrees.
He opens his eyes when he feels his wrists meet the same fate, watching Hannibal tie them expertly. He still has each piece of his suit on, even the blazer jacket. It thrills Will - being so exposed while the other gets to keep his dignity. Hannibal’s hands brushes over Will’s hair, tucking a perpetually sweaty curl behind his ear before disappearing from his sight.
There’s a few agonizing seconds of not knowing what Hannibal was doing, then he jumps when there’s a hand guiding his hips up from the bed. He plants his knees into the bed and arches his back to lift it off of the sheets, and a cylindrical pillow is placed beneath them. He relaxes against it, agitated at the loss of the silk on his sensitive cock.
“You’re shaking Will,” Hannibal muses, voice tinged with amusement.
“Am I? Couldn't tell,” he quips back quickly.
His attitude is met with a smack against the swell of his ass, the one presented up in the air so valiantly. He squeezes his eyes shut at the sudden sting over his left cheek, unable to intercept the breathy squeak he let out. Hannibal did always like to catch him off guard to elicit such sounds.
“I won’t tolerate your attitude, Will. I brought you here for a nice holiday together, I made you hot chocolate, and I trimmed your hair for you. You haven’t even said thank you.”
Will bites his lip, head lifted now so his chin dug into the bed beneath him.
“Is this supposed to be my punishment?” he taunts, adding a dry chuckle for good measure. “I hardly-“
Smack.
This one was harder than the first. Will’s left leg twitched at the pain.
“You hardly what, Will?”
“I said, I hardly-“
Smack.
“Finish your sentence.”
Will couldn't help the whimper he let out, the same area of skin reddened and beginning to swell from the leather paddle.
“I’ve only hit you three times and you’re already whimpering. You typically last longer.”
Smack.
“You usually space them out,” Will grits through his teeth, squirming slightly now.
“Yes, well, I did say I was going to punish you. Maybe if you were to say ‘thank you’ for all that I’ve done for you so far, I would be more inclined to give you a longer recovery period.”
Will hears the sound of the air in the room traveling around the leather paddle as Hannibal rears it back again, ready to drive it down against his flesh.
“Thank you, Dr. Lecter. Thank you,” he rushes, shaking as he anticipates another smack.
It doesn’t come. He relaxes slightly.
“You will thank me for each smack until I decide you are grateful enough for this lesson.”
Will nods, cheek stinging as the balmy skin is cooled by the air in the room.
“Yes, Dr. Lecter,” he breathes out.
A moment. Then another smack.
“Thank you,” he breathes out, cock leaking against the pillow hoisting his hips up.
Smack. Too soon after the last. He throws a glare over his shoulder at Hannibal.
“You said-“
“I said I would be more inclined. Do not talk back to me, Will.”
Will watches him rear his hand back and he flinches when another smack lands on his ass. His hips jolt forward to escape the sting.
“Th-thank you,” he struggles to get out, turning his head forward again and biting at the satin sheets.
There’s a pause. Hannibal is pleasantly surprised that Will seems to have fallen in line so quickly. He gives him his well earned break, walking around to the other side of the bed now to target the other cheek.
The flesh of Will’s right cheek is tinted red and warm to the touch, trembling along with the rest of him. Hannibal watches him, deep tawny colored irises studying the length of his body. The sinewy expanse of Will’s skin, muscles flexing beneath the warm exterior, sharper bones jutting out in all the right places. In examining the other’s body as he slowly comes down from his exhilaration, Hannibal finds his own pants growing tighter.
He brings the paddle down against Will’s other cheek.
Will yelps at the unexpected contact.
“Thank you,” he breathes into the sheets, forehead pressed to them.
“Head up, chin or cheek on the bed,” Hannibal commands clearly.
Will obeys, turning his head to face Hannibal and resting the right side of his face against the cool expanse of silk. He notices Hannibal’s crotch immediately and smirks, out of breath as he taunts him yet again.
“Are you hard, Doctor?”
“Don’t address me with your vulgar mouth,” Hannibal replies, half-teasing back though his tone wouldn’t suggest it.
“I thought you liked my vulgar mouth,” Will taunts, settling into his role now as he pokes the tip of his tongue against the inside of his cheek to simulate exactly what he was insinuating.
Hannibal replies with another smack, harder than any of the previous - Will knows now that he’s gotten him riled up.
“Did I strike a chord, Doctor?”
“That doesn’t sound like a ‘thank you’.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
Hannibal meets Will’s eyes and there’s that glint in them that tells the older man he’s too amused to take his punishment seriously.
“I don’t think this is effective enough for you,” he muses, tilting his head down at Will.
“I know what would be.”
Will is sweating, the tan expanse of his back coated in salty droplets that slide down his sides and stain the sheets below him. He relaxes his straining muscles when Hannibal walks out of his line of sight, resting against the pillow under his hips. He listens to the rustling at the foot of the bed and furrows his eyebrows when he feels the mattress begin to dip by his hips. Hannibal rests his weight on the back of Will’s thighs and snaps the latex gloves against his wrists - a sound that excites Will’s body as it reminds him of the spanking he’d just endured.
“Arch your back and lay still,” Hannibal commands from behind him.
There’s the sound of a lid opening, some sickening squelching noises that makes Will’s muscles twitch all over, and then silence. Will arches his back again, the head of his cock rubbing against the pillow and eliciting a breathy moan from him that he has no intention of hiding since he was so dedicated to his taunting of Hannibal. Any quick remark dies in his throat when he feels the flared tip of a toy press against him. He bucks away from the sensation, cold and slick between his ass.
“You didn’t get me ready,” he protests, looking over his shoulder as best as he could at the other man.
“You can endure it. Head forward, chin on the bed.”
Any protest again dies when Hannibal pushes the tip of whatever he was torturing Will with forward. Will looks forward and focuses on the woodwork of the headboard while Hannibal pushes the toy into him by the centimeter. He’s resistant, only making the stretch hurt more. He calms himself once he gets used to the slick feeling - two, three, four inches slide into him and once the flared base pops into place, Will drops his forehead to the mattress and shudders. The pressure against the back of his thighs is gone and he hears Hannibal peel off one sticky glove to discard it.
The tip of the toy - not completely a plug but rather a longer, cone shaped thing by the feel of it - presses right into his prostate. He tries not to move in any way that would stimulate the bundle of nerves. He knew what would await him if he came before he was allowed and he had no interest in robbing himself of what he wanted so badly.
Smack.
While he’d been distracted trying not to move, Hannibal had picked up his paddle again and continued his interrupted ministrations.
“Do not orgasm. Thank me.”
“Th-thank you, thank you,” Will whispers, clenching his fists when Hannibal spanks him again and it jolts the toy inside him.
His arms flex - forearms tensing as he yanks at his restraints. His shoulder blades gravitate towards each other as his back contracts with the force to stay still. He’s lost the teasing edge to his features, eyes locked on the headboard in front of him.
Smack.
“Thank you!” he cries out, lips quivering as the toy is jostled around mercilessly.
“For?”
Smack.
“F-for teaching me manners, thank you. Th-thank you…Dr. Lecter.”
“For teaching you manners,” Hannibal echoes after him, face content as he watches the younger man squirm.
Smack.
“Fuck,” Will whispers into the sheets as he bites at them.
Smack.
“Should I put a bar of soap in your mouth too?”
“No, no. Thank you,” Will shakes his head, eyes screwed shut now. “I’m sorry. I’ll behave.”
Hannibal trails the edge of the leather paddle along Will’s swollen skin, admiring his quick turn around. He gives him his break, watching the way his back heaves with each breath. After a few seconds, Hannibal steps closer and teases the sensitive skin on the inside of Will’s spread thighs with the paddle, a dangerous reminder to continue to behave as the seam brushes over the underside of Will’s groin.
“You are starting to sound sincere.”
Will nods feverishly and Hannibal can tell he’s nearing pliancy.
“Convince me that you deserve to orgasm.”
He rests the paddle on the swell of Will’s ass and sits on the bed finally, his bare hand resting on the arched small of the other’s back. Will flinches at the gentle contact, then preens into it. Hannibal’s finger traces the stretch marks on the outside of Will’s hip.
“Please, Dr. Lecter. I’ve learned my lesson, I promise. I’ll do better, I’ll mind my manners.”
Hannibal hums an acknowledgement, but doesn’t move or react otherwise.
“You’ve taught me a very valuable lesson on how to conduct myself. Please, please may I cum?” he looks over his shoulder at the other, round eyes pleading in that way he knew Hannibal couldn’t resist. “Please?”
His voice broke slightly with the plea and it drew Hannibal’s lips into a small but prideful smile. Bare hand pinning Will’s hips to the pillow, he brings his gloved - still slick - hand to his ass and slowly pulls the toy halfway out before sinking it into him again. He studies Will’s reactions with reverence, relishing in the way a low whine escapes the other man’s lips. He watches Will’s body start to tremble more and more with each drag of the toy in and out of him.
His legs shake, thighs restricted from clenching closed by his restraints. He closes his eyes and presses his forehead into the bed, silk dampening beneath his curls. Sweat droplets glide over his skin everywhere, even underneath Hannibal’s bare palm. After six agonizing pulls of the toy, it leaves his body and then Hannibal is pressing two long, gloved fingers into him. His head shoots up in shock and he looks over his shoulder, neck straining.
“You took your punishment very well today, Will. I’m rewarding you,” Hannibal explains, meeting the other’s frenzied eyes. “Look me in the eyes while you orgasm.”
Will does as he’s told, eyebrows dancing as they knit together and then relax with each thrust, curl, and spread of Hannibal expert fingers. He’s gripping the sheets tightly, pupils dilated and overtaking his blue-grey irises. In the few times he nearly closes his eyes, he reminds himself of the older man’s command and keeps them open. In a matter of seconds, he can’t help but buck his hips back against the ministrations.
The warmth in his gut builds and builds until he’s choking out a moan and coating the pillow beneath his hips in white, jaw slack and eyes twitching. Hannibal watches him through this orgasm and doesn’t once seize the movement of his fingers until he can visibly see Will not only come down from his high, but begin to show signs of overstimulation. His features tense up, his noises die in his throat, and Hannibal pulls his fingers free. He stands and disposes of the soiled glove, slowly untying Will’s wrists and ankles.
“Stay.”
Will obeys, breathing deeply while he brushes his soaked hair back from his forehead. Hannibal returns with a warm rag and has Will sit up on his knees. He sets the pillow at the foot of the bed, then returns and wipes the warm rag along Will’s face first, his flushed skin reacting to the heat by turning pinker than it already was. He brushes Will’s damp curls back and dabs at his hairline, then swipes slowly at his inner thighs and over his cock with a gentle grasp to prevent any adverse physical reaction.
Will, spent, lets Hannibal touch and swipe at him, cleaning him. Once the older man is satisfied, he returns to the bathroom to rinse the rag and hang it up to dry. When he comes back, Will is still sat patiently waiting for his next instruction. The notion makes Hannibal feel a swell of pride in his chest. He nears the bed, sliding his coat jacket off and folding it before setting it beside Will. He grabs a pillow at the head of the bed and sets it on the floor.
“On your knees.”
Will obeys, though with a sloth in his limbs. He sits on his knees on the pillow and looks up at Hannibal, eyes slightly droopy. Hannibal threads one hand through Will’s sweaty hair after rolling his sleeves up.
“Nearly finished. Use your vulgar mouth.”
Will chuckles lazily, a bit of that fire returning to his eyes at the mention. Rather than tease back, he instead just laces his hands behind his bare back and parts his mouth, lips wet with saliva. Hannibal frees himself from his slacks, one hand at his base as he guides himself into Will’s waiting mouth. His tongue touches the head of Hannibal’s cock and it’s the first bit of contact that - admittedly - makes the stoic older man shudder. He slides down the man’s throat, meeting only slight resistance when Will gags slightly.
He pauses, then continues at a slower pace until Will’s nose is pressed into his lower abdomen. Tears sting at the pools of dreamy blue, pale pink lips stretched around him. He nods once to the man at his feet and watches as he begins his work. This was typically how these meetings went for them. Will would taunt him and face the consequences, and Hannibal would put his mouth to use for something other than that taunting. Rarely did they actually fuck. On occasions maybe when a glass or two of wine was shared did Hannibal release those inhibitions and indulge in the primal, but he was otherwise content with their arrangement.
Will swallows him down at the pace he likes, hands behind his back obediently the whole time. Hannibal guides his head with the fingers threaded through the back of his mop of hair, free hand rested against his jaw. The tip of his index and middle finger rests against Will’s jugular, pressing down against the spot occasionally. It makes Will’s head swim if he holds the pressure there long enough, slackening his jaw more for easier use. Hannibal pressed; Will melted.
Hannibal uses the other’s mouth, his own breathing picking up the more Will’s stubbly cheeks hallow around him. A strand of hair falls out of place over his forehead and he brushes it back before returning his hand to Will’s hair. It isn’t until Will’s jaw starts to ache that Hannibal orgasms, pressing into Will’s more than willing mouth while he swallows around him eagerly. He holds him there for a moment, jugular free from his touch, and catches his breath. Once he’s sure Will won’t spill any and make a mess on his shoes, he retracts from him and wipes at the drool in the corner of his mouth with a hanky from his pocket. Will is panting, head tilted back and face flushed.
“I hope you’ve worked up an appetite. I'm making lamb.”
Will chuckles dryly at the other’s humor.