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It was easy enough to find her killer. They were lucky enough to be faced with a high-end dead hooker, one who had someone keeping some sort of record on her clientele list and her timetable, and they decided it would be quicker than waiting for potential DNA matches from Price and Zeller. The universe’s savage day-to-day orchestrators had given Will Graham a break for once, and it turned out to be her last customer, their first suspect, who had slammed the door in their faces and tried to jump out of his second story window when they came to interview him.

 

Will and Jack had been the two to conduct the interview, to both of their resulting slight unease. They asked why he did it, since there was little other information to gather from the killer about the strangled call-girl that had been left by a dumpster besides his motive.

 

“She-she, look I swear I didn’t mean to alright! She ruined my orgasm, and it was so, so embarrassing and she was laughing at me so I-I…I didn’t mean to hurt her like that…” The boy was blubbering like a lost child, and Will found himself spectacularly detached from any form of feeling for him. He could empathise if he decided to, but through his own eyes, this pathetic little boy wasn’t even worth notifying Hannibal of for their hunt next week, even if he wasn’t going to jail.

 

“She wouldn’t let you ejaculate, so you murdered her?” Will pushed, needing an explicit confession so he could leave and wash the piteous man’s aura from himself.

 

“N-no I, does this matter?” he flushed, as if talking about sex was more embarrassing than killing an innocent girl over it. Normal people and their ethics were strange, Will supposed. He barely remembered before Hannibal, when they were effectively all he knew and had for company.

 

“What happened matters, yes, since you killed Jenny Kaylin.” Will says dryly, which receives a light nudge from Jack under the table for his tone.

 

“I did-I came, but she pulled off at the last second so it wasn’t, like, I didn’t, you know…” When neither officers took the liberty of replying to his poor linguistic skills, he finished with “feel it, like, the…orgasm.”

 

They had extracted a full confession after that and left it for the DA to deal with, but Will found his mind wandering back to the imbecilic murderer for the rest of the day, even over dinner with Hannibal.

 

“Well? Where are you tonight, dear William?” Hannibal had inquired when he quickly noticed his lack of rapt attention. Will had explained in more detail than he had as he walked in the door, elaborating “I just don’t get what he means, if he ejaculated, then he had an orgasm. Why would he be angry enough to kill her?”

 

“Well, it must not have felt like he had had an orgasm, even if he had the physical reaction of one.” Hannibal countered easily, lifting a delicate forkful of filet au poivre into his mouth.

 

“But an orgasm’s and orgasm.” Will argued. Hannibal smiled predatorily as he swallowed his food.

 

“Care to make a wager, my love?”

 

***

 

His frame rocked, stomach heaving in and out in breaths that were too sharp to be even close to stable.

 

“Hanni-hmmph-no, no no no; please I need it,” he’s babbling and he can’t even stop, his wrists crossed, bound above him with a silk tie Hannibal was never particularly partial to, tight enough to leave marks that Will insists on wearing permanently. His legs are spread just enough to be painful, rope scratching his skin raw as he writhes in what his body and brain can only class as sheer agony as his fourth orgasm is wrenched out of him.

 

The next day, and likely even the day after that, he will wonder why it is he took this stupid bet, and moreso why he adores the pain Hannibal loves inflicting on him so much. For now though, for now all he can do is whine like a pitiful stray begging not to be put down, and every fibre in his body aches with need and an overwhelming sense of existence, and he doesn’t feel grounded, it’s incomprehensible how far past grounded Will is, he is so utterly present that he has sank below hell’s floorboards, and he isn’t one for profanity but it feels fucking wonderful, in the sickest, most delectably sadistic way he can envision.

 

Hannibal lies beside him, which he had refused to do for the first six hours, only allowing Will comfort when he truly needed it, the desperation bursting him at the seams and polluting the air around him. He smiles a little wider at Will and he smooths his finger over and upward to a button that tears a full scream from Will’s throat.

 

“Hannibal please, can’t-huh, f’ck, stop, no pleasepleaseplease.”

 

“You know I’ll stop if you want, darling.” His teasing voice manages to penetrate through the sobs and vibrations pounding throughout his bloodstream to boil it ever so slightly more than the arousal was.

 

‘Fuck-uh-fucking hate you-mmph.” Hannibal chuckles and Will’s back arches and he feels spit drooling out the side of his mouth.

 

“I know you do, love.” Will can’t even force coherent words out of his lips, settles for broken moans and half-sensical syllables that vaguely resemble Hannibal’s name, wailing pleas, and furious swear words. Merciful a deity as he is, Will feels his other lessen the ruthless assault on his engorged prostate, and the sigh he lets out feels his body sag in relief.

 

“What do you want, my beauty?” His voice is soft, and he allows himself to turn to Will, brushing lips against his neck, grazing the bluntness of teeth across a defined Adam’s apple that bobs up and down like a buoy in an ocean, trailing the hand that wasn’t holding Will’s torturous arousal hostage up and down his abdomen in a feather-light touch. Will’s stare is utterly murderous under the glaze of exhaustion and fraught longing, turning the mossy shadows of his eyes into icy plains. Will’s answer is growled through gritted teeth when he realises he is expected to give one.

 

“To come.” Hannibal knows he shouldn’t, but he just can’t help himself. “I think you already have, more than once, for that matter.” Will may have been the empath but Hannibal could feel Will’s overwhelming need to strike him at that moment.

 

“You know what I me-ean, ah,” Hannibal’s tone is severe as the vibrator inside him is turned back up to half of its total power, the full extent to which Will still hadn’t felt. Will couldn’t feel anything but the pressure through his own desperation, could only function minimally unless he allowed himself to see through Hannibal’s eyes, lets himself feel a fraction of the awareness and the arousal and the power in the oxygen Hannibal breathes in during these sessions. He thinks that that’s why Hannibal loves this, pulling him this way and that until his body is taught enough to snap, and now, pulling him so close to the edge of his orgasm that he has no choice to fall over the edge, while Hannibal watches him fall. The second he loses his balance, however, Hannibal ceases his touch, turns off whatever evil contraption he’s deemed suitable for the task at hand, leaving him feeling unsatisfied and filled to the brim with emptiness. He falls off the bluff and just keeps falling, never meeting ground, which is, somehow, more painful.

 

“Remember who you’re talking to, William.” Yes, that’s what Hannibal loves. Beyond seeing Will’s meat suit writhe and verge on breaking point, he loves Will’s dependence on him. Knows that few other people could physically withstand the pain and pleasure Hannibal inflicts for the amount of time Will does, retaining the functional (subjective) sanity that Will does; not without Will’s empathy disorder. He can breathe, if only for a second, through Hannibal’s lungs, think through Hannibal’s clear head, feel satisfaction in Hannibal’s gut to distract him from the release being dangled in front of his face but never handed over.

 

Will’s retort isn’t as strong as he’d like it to be through his persistent sobbing. “I know very, fuck-ing well who I’m talking to, please, Hannibal, I can’t, it’s too much, it’s-I, yes, okay, you were right.” He was writhing, simultaneously shying away from the contact while trying to get closer to it, encase himself within it the way it is inside of him. Will could feel Hannibal’s excitement at the admission.

 

“You know how to get what you want, if you need it that badly.” Will always trusted Hannibal, even when he first found out just how far his person suit stretched. Some part of Will always knew Hannibal would never let Will die, would never let him be pushed too far to the point of no return. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t stretch the limits until Will couldn’t recognise his own boundaries, however. Will would always be safe, at least to some point, but using his safeword always felt like a cop-out, and now there was a certain amount of dignity at stake. Hannibal knew this, and made no fuss about telling Will how entirely idiotic the notion of using it sparingly was, and pushed him further than he knew was necessary, simply in attempts to drill the message in slightly. The bet was just a convenient excuse to do indulge in such.

 

Will jolts as the toy is sped up a fraction, and Hannibal’s hand encloses around Will’s spent cock. “Ha-aa-nibalpleasestop, yo-you can’t just-nng-force me to use it, that-shit!” His prostate is pulsing, desperate and aching as his body begs for gratification that the murderer-posing-as-a-man next to him so cruelly continues to deny him. The egg shaped vibrator that he don’t think he’ll ever be able to look at again without shuddering, increases in power incrementally, until it is but a sliver away from maxing out. Will can relate.

 

“I believe I can, actually, my love.” Hannibal drawls unkindly as he lies at Will’s side, under one of his bound arms and with his legs wrapped around one of Will’s. His shuddering turns more to shivers that vibrate in a similar fashion to one of the toys inside him. Words fail his counterpart, neurons not working hard enough to keep up with physical sensations. He drops the remote-control to the sheets, taking Will’s chin and turning his lover’s beautiful face toward him to claim his lips. Will wasn’t all that responsive, more slack as he opened his jaw and let his tongue lick slightly at Hannibal’s own.

 

The empath’s cock was slowly growing harder again, blood rushing to fill his arousal slowly as compared to the lust that encased his mind. Hannibal’s hand was slick with lube from earlier, and the hand that caresses is sickeningly gentle and loving, like a high-school boyfriend taking a girl’s virginity.

 

Will is furious, red hot and inflamed, and he feels angry and helpless and he is completely at Hannibal’s mercy as the constant, pleasurable torture wracks through him, no longer in waves, but like the wind of a hurricane, relentless and strong enough to leave one completely powerless against its force. The thought that Hannibal can do whatever he likes to Will right now is as utterly terrifying as it is sensual, and it is so encompassing Will pulls the pendulum himself, lets himself into the older man’s head.

 

The first thing he notices is the overwhelming smell of sex in the room, one that might usually be unappealing, but is currently as divine as the scent of coffee and pastries first thing in the morning after a rejuvenating rest. Will’s unique scent penetrates through it, and makes it intimate, makes it smell beautiful and musky and faintly like pine. Over it, Will can feel a sense of contentment, Hannibal’s own arousal kept at bay by the fact he had already come, satisfyingly, twice today, both of which were achieved from Will’s orifices.

 

The adoration, the warmth in his gut that tugs at the corners of his mouth and drowns his mind in a cyan coloured elation is difficult for Will to feel when it is directed at himself without cringing. The thought of it does pull at his heart strings, disgustingly romantically enough, and it’s comforting to know when Hannibal calls him beautiful, tells him of his devotion, his utter and entire infatuation, he’s being deadly serious, literally at that, but it’s another thing entirely to feel it. It hollows him and stuffs him and makes him feel even weaker than he already does in his current predicament.

 

The breather of empathising with his partner is a necessary evil, but it is cut short, however, when Hannibal pulls at the plug stuffed into his hole and shoves it back in, forcing the egg against his prostate even more directly than before, as he simultaneously latches sharp teeth onto the junction between neck and shoulder, breaking into skin, drawing blood, and climbs the last notch of the vibrator to turn it up to full speed.

 

“HUH-fuuuuuck, fuck, no no no no-Hahh—Hann, no, Hannnnggh.” Incoherent ramblings, most of which fell under some variation of his lover’s name, continued to tumble from Will’s lips as he is hurled past his limits and into oblivion.

 

“Would you like to tell me what I can and can’t do again, mano dangiškas mylimasis?” Will lasted barely four seconds.

 

Baltimore! Baltimore, Balt-ah!” Hannibal had turned the toy off before he finished the first word, Will’s relief instant as he sagged into the sheets. Hannibal untied the tie at his wrists before he retrieved the bedside hunting knife and cut the ropes holding his lover open carefully, then pulling him into his arms as if he were the most delicate of flowers, handle too roughly and it would tear. Will’s entire form was damp, his face with tears, neck with blood, half his body and scalp with sweat, the rest of his body covered in lube and his own semen. Will’s limbs ached to the point of numbness, his grip on Hannibal’s jumper limp and desperate as he let out sobs of overstimulation and exhaustion into Hannibal’s chest.

 

“What do you need, Will?” He was so soft, so careful as he carded his hands through perspiration covered curls as he held his love, holding him to keep him whole and present as if he had not been the one dismantling him.

 

“’Co-come…” Hannibal had rendered Will entirely speechless on more than one occasion, and was impressed he could give even one word answers if he had been pushed to use his safeword.

 

“How do you want to orgasm?” the tension radiated off the empath, even as his shattered mind and body saw him encompassing himself deeper into the sheets.

 

“Any-thing,” he interrupted himself by hiccupping, and he nuzzled further into Hannibal’s chest. “Don’t-don’t move.” His voice was meek and pitiful, and the elder felt his body surge in oddly-protective reverence as Will gripped at his bicep and whimpered pathetically as he shifted slightly, torturous toys still residing inside his oversensitive hole.

 

Hannibal maintains his grip around Will, as he uses one arm to once again caress down his torso and hold his thickened prick, gripping tightly and stroking slowly, the way Will prefers, Will is scrambling, hypersensitive and ruined, and it takes only three strokes and the turning on to the lowest possible setting on the vibrator for him to cry out, back arched and hips bucking for him to come, his release almost entirely dry and yet still the most intense he has felt in weeks. Hannibal continues to stroke him through it, but wades through his own sadistic inclinations and turns off the vibrating egg after Will reaches the peak of his pleasure. Will has no competent thoughts as the coil inside of his gut snaps and unravels, taking him around the spin with it so intensely it was giving him headrush. He whines and trembles through his orgasm, rhythmically clenching and unclenching his hands in cashmere that Hannibal couldn’t find it in himself to mourn the ruining of.

 

Will eventually had to slap the other’s hand away as the aftershocks faded, and he was quietly proud of himself for locating some hidden strength in his voice when his delectable little shit of a boyfriend trailed his hand down his shaft and to his perineum.

 

Hannibal.” He is unwavering in his tone, the day’s abuse leaving him too wrecked to play games. It reminds Hannibal of the time Abel Gideon told him that he ‘really was the devil’.

 

“You will feel better for letting me remove them, darling-it will hurt more in the morning if you leave them in.” Hannibal is smirking, and Will throws his head against the pillows petulantly, despising the man that held him almost as much as he despised himself for being pathetically in love with him,

 

“Take,” Will blows out a breath and looks at him, trying to convey how incapable he was of dealing with teasing in the current moment. “…them out.” Hannibal kisses him slowly, gently, cradles his cheek in one hand, deep honeyed iris’ staring into muted green ones meaningfully, and Will lets himself relax, knows that Hannibal understands. The deep-toned aubergine plug, obscenely curved metal eases out of him, and he hides his wince in Hannibal’s neck. Hannibal’s prodding fingers within him have Will panting, teeth sinking into his lip and drawing blood, his head an endless prayer of ‘toomuchtoomuchtoomuch’.

 

When he is free from the onslaught of stimulation for the first time in around eight hours, he lies boneless in Hannibal’s arms, lets the contact of them around him bloom out under his skin like tree roots, soothing aches and pains, warming hypothermic chill and cooling fevers. He feels weightless, present, aware of himself in a way that didn’t press down on his skull and trigger anxiety in the way it often did. The air seemed thicker, yet clearer, and he felt connected, literally, spiritually, even metaphysically to the things that touch him, like he is part of them and they him, like they are sharing some essence of life that is spindling them into something more. He feels the layers of their human veils peel back just slightly, revealing just a little more of the otherworldly energy that they share and mask together.

 

When they are comfortable and as clean as can be without making any real effort, Will lets himself cry, too tired to sob, letting silent tears form tracks down his cheeks as he lets himself be overcome with emotion and raw feelings that he is too tired to label or discern. Hannibal held him and shushed him, their combined body heat merging to become choking in the most delightful way, comforting Will like a blanket. The cannibal stroked his fingers against the hair at the nape of Will’s neck the way he knew always calmed him and whispered soft words of praise.

 

“Mylamisis, you are simply the most exquisite, dazzling entity I will ever have the fortune of experiencing. You were so perfect, agonisingly stunning in the way you shake and moan for me. I don’t have words, not in this language or any other yet known, to describe how much I love you.” Will never responds, not when they are like this, not even when he is capable, save for small, occasional groans and sighs of interchangeable acknowledgement and embarrassment.


Time means little to either men in this state, but some has passed when Hannibal tries to move away, answering the question when it comes in a wordless growl and stiffening posture.

 

“I need to get you something to eat, darling, you need your strength after that most delightful display.” Will responds without opening his eyes and digs his nails into the blonde’s arms.

 

“If you even try to move from this bed again, I swear to God, Jack Crawford will be receiving a sample of those loins you served last week to the lab with an anonymous tip.” Hannibal was smiling despite himself, excusing how low the empty threat was for Will’s compromised mental state. “Will I’m be-”

 

Only Will. His love was the only being on the planet that would survive being so utterly rude as to interrupt him the way he did. “Hannibal. You’re not leaving me right now.” He wanted to argue, he wanted to tell Will to stop being ridiculous, that he wasn’t leaving, but that Will did need to eat, that he would feel better for it, less weakened, reiterate how important it was to stay well-fed, and that thought alone was enough to send a spike of adrenaline through him, the image of Will, starving and bony painted in his mind’s eye as if it were cinematography, but then he feels trembling, tear-moist and blood cracked lips press against his own, featherlight, vulnerable and reassurance seeking. He sighs and hugs will tighter into his chest.

 

“Of course not, mylimasis.”

 

***

 

Hours later, when they are showered clean, and Will isn’t plagued by ejaculate sticking his thighs together and his muscles feel slightly strained, Hannibal sits and feeds him grapes and fancy cheeses and can’t quite hide the glint in his eye when he asks,

 

“So, is an orgasm still an orgasm?”

 

Will throws a grape in his eye.