Archive of Our Own

It had occurred not more than four days earlier. 

The Behavioural Science Unit had hosted one of its very rare and horrible dinners—one of those events sold as optional, but entirely obligatory. 

Will knew this all too well, as he’d tried every possible excuse to not attend.

Alas, he’d shown up, nursed a single glass of water and nibbled at his food. 

A quick bathroom break was the excuse for a fast escape, but Beverly had stopped him with a question about cases, murders, and her  dog. 

A perfect example of entrapment.

Will had sunk back in his chair, interested. 

This led down a rabbit hole of cutting dogs’ nails, Beverly sidetracking to showcase her intricate nail art, and then commanding Will to join her next time she went to the nail salon. 

Not thinking much of it, Will had agreed offhandedly, chalking the request up to too much alcohol.

That is, until four days later, on his way out of Quantico, that Beverly had been waiting by his car. 

He had stared at her, unlocking his car in pure habit.

Beverly had opened the passenger door and slipped in, closing it after her with a slam.

He opened the driver's door and leaned in, squinting at her.

She arched a brow. “What? Already forgot our deal?”

“Ehm…,” Will began, then sighed and slid into the driver’s seat.

As he eased out of the parking space, he muttered, “Remind me again…”

“Central Baltimore. Just drive. We’ll walk from there," she replied instead.

Will fixed his gaze on the road, briefly wondering if a minor, insurance-friendly collision might be the preferable option.

“Try not to look like we’re on our way to your execution.”

“Hard not to,” he mumbled.

When they finally pulled into the parking lot, Will shot her a sharp look. 

She grinned at him. “Scared? This should be child’s play. It’s not like I’m dragging you to a cocktail party.”

Will gripped the wheel and stared out the windshield.

“Stop sulking,” she said and stepped out.

Seeing her stride away in the rear-view mirror, Will toyed with the idea of simply driving off. But there was something in her movement—expectant—that made bolting impossible.

Resigned, Will trudged after her.

Beverly’s laugh rang out the moment he caught up. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. I appreciate your enthusiasm.”

“Purely for you,” he muttered, eyes dropping to his ragged nails. 

She caught the look. “You’ll be hooked in no time. Nothing better than perfect nails, I swear.” She flicked her fingers in front of him, showing off her own intricate designs.

He frowned. “Why are you even getting them done? They already look fine.”

“God, you know nothing,” she said, pushing open the door to the nail salon—or what Will had assumed would be one. 

Lost in his own sulking—or, no, outright fuming—he hadn’t even noticed they’d arrived.

It was definitely not a nail salon. 

At least, not in the way Will had expected.

Medium-sized, closer to a barbershop than the neon, acetone-scented place he’d imagined. 

Dark wood panelled the walls and large windows flanked a glass door. To their left, small tables holding an array of tools that could have been for nails—or mild torture.

Several were occupied: neatly dressed women and nail techs under the glow of green-shaded lamps. Low conversation hummed beneath a thread of soft classical music. 

Behind them, a whole wall of nail polishes—precise and ordered.

Will stared. “Are you sure we’re in the right place?”

“Yeah—” Beverly’s voice floated back. “I have an appointment. Beverly Katz. And—”

Will turned. She stood at the counter, all expensive finishes, the kind of surface that cost more than his house.

“I must apologise, but we do not have any available appointments today. Unless you’d like to give yours away…”

Low and accented. Will glanced up from the counter towards the man.

The man had no business standing behind a counter in a nail salon—or any counter, really. 

A dark green three-piece suit, angular face—not exactly classically handsome, but magnetic.  Will’s gaze then dropped and... stilled.

Hands—masculine and strong—elegantly flicking through the appointment book. 

Long oval nails, matte black with fine gold lines.

Will heard someone speaking, but the words slipped past him; his eyes wouldn’t leave those hands.

“Will,” Beverly cut in. 

He looked at her, then at the man—who, Will now realised, was studying him right back. 

“Isn’t that nice?” she asked.

“What is?” he asked. 

The man chuckled, snapping the book shut, and Will’s gaze snapped straight back to his hands. Flushing, he dragged his eyes up to the man’s face.

“I said I’d make an exception. Will, is it?”

“Yeah, Graham…,” Will replied, wary. “An exception to what?”

“I have a long waiting list—but as it is your first time placing your nails in another person’s hands, I would like to make an exception. Please, this way.”

Beverly clapped his shoulder, grinned, and abandoned him for a nail tech. 

Much to his dismay, he was then shepherded through an open archway into a second room, larger but carrying the same quiet opulence. 

A broad wooden desk with a padded armrest at its center. Another wall lined with colour, more varied and deliberate than the display outside. To the left, a wide window framed a garden.

Will stopped at the threshold—half bemused, half sceptical.

The suited man moved ahead, slipping off his jacket before rolling his shirt sleeves to the elbow, revealing the long, lean strength in his forearms. 

He drew out the customer chair, waiting with a restraint that somehow made it harder not to obey.

Swallowing, Will shrugged out of his own jacket with far less grace and lowered himself into the seat. 

The man sat down in front of him.

“My name is Hannibal Lecter,” he said, “but you may call me Hannibal, Mr. Graham.”

“Just Will is fine. Mr. Graham was my father.”

“Hmm,” Hannibal murmured. “You have the advantage. I was named after my father, Hannibal Lecter Sr.”

Will snorted. “Sounds like you come from a very traditional family.” The surroundings did imply old money. “I imagine they must be at odds with your chosen profession.”

Blunt, Will knew—but hardly inaccurate.

Hannibal’s smile was secretive. “No, I think they would not be. Assuming they were still alive.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, clasping his hands on the desk and tugging at his fingers. “That was… unnecessary of me.”

A horrible start, really. 

Hannibal hummed and reached across the desk catching Will’s hand in a soft yet unyielding grip. His skin was warm, the texture betraying hands accustomed to work. 

Will didn’t—or couldn’t—pull away, letting Hannibal guide his hands onto the soft, white—and from the feel, undeniably expensive—armrest.

Hannibal released him, then gripped his wrist—long fingers curling, thumb pressing lightly over his quickening pulse. With deft precision, Hannibal unclipped the cuff of Will’s checkered shirt and pushed it up to his elbow in one smooth motion.

It was oddly intimate. Will could only stare as he repeated the motion for the other arm.

When their eyes met again, Hannibal’s smile was soft. 

“Apology accepted.”

Hannibal adjusted the lamp so it illuminated Will’s nails.

Will wondered if he could still withdraw from the entire ordeal.

“I—ehm—I sometimes pick at my nails.”

“I can see that,” Hannibal replied as his fingers slid underneath Will’s. He studied Will’s nails for a long moment and then said, “Nothing that cannot be fixed.”

He withdrew, folding his hands and looking expectantly at Will, who only stared back, confused.

“I’m aware that this is your first time in an establishment such as this, no?”

“That’s correct,” Will replied.

Hannibal nodded. “And as such, I would assume you do not know what you’d like? Is that correct?”

“Yes, very,” Will allowed a soft smile to pull at his lips. “I’m entirely on thin ice.”

A satisfied expression crossed Hannibal’s face. “Wonderful. Then—if you do not mind, and your masculinity can handle it—I would appreciate it if you’d let me create something truly flattering for your complexion.”

Will chuckled. “No need to worry about my masculinity—I’m sure a manicure won’t break it. But sure, do your thing.”

Hannibal leaned in, reaching for Will’s right hand. His thumb traced the side of Will’s finger to steady it, the touch firm yet warm.

His eyebrows furrowed in confusion at—what exactly?

He wasn’t entirely sure.

Hannibal set smoothly to work, brushing a thin layer of something onto each nail. After a moment or two, he picked up a metal instrument. The metal rested elegantly between his long fingers, and with practised movements he began to push the flat metal along Will’s nails, pushing his cuticles back in slow, even strokes.

It was almost pleasant, Will thought as he studied the procedure.

“I promise I won’t do anything untoward if you look away,” Hannibal murmured. 

Will glanced up with a twitch of his lips. 

At his expression, Hannibal chuckled. “Unless you’d like to spend the rest of the appointment in silence.”

His movements continued, half-focused on Will’s nails and half on Will himself.

“I don’t think I’d be entirely against it,” Will huffed honestly.

Hannibal picked up a file and began to slide it along Will's nails. 

“Not too fond of socialisation, are you?” Hannibal asked.

“No,” he replied, “but if I have to guess, then you are… fond of it.”

Why he was continuing the conversation at all was beyond him. 

Hannibal smiled, seemingly appreciative of the question. “Yes,” he said. “I appreciate having people under me.”

Will was sure the man had not meant anything by it. Definitely not. However, the reply and the words pulled at Will’s imagination, and he was suddenly all too aware of the man’s hands on him—warm and soft, strong in their utter familiarity with the procedure.

“Oh… I see,” Will managed to croak out.

“Their nails, that is,” Hannibal clarified, and Will might have nodded too many times to that.

“Of course,” he mumbled in reply, forcing himself to keep his hands still on the padded armrest.

“How long does this last, exactly?”

Hannibal chuckled, already past several steps of whatever he was doing, and now leaned back in his chair, opening a shelf to his right. “Is it not to your enjoyment?” he asked as he picked up a small nail polish bottle, opening it with swift hands.  

Will licked his lips and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I’m just not used to this much physical touch,” he said and immediately regretted it.

Hannibal applied another layer of something translucent, not replying—which Will was thankful for.

After a moment, he said, “Please cure the nails,” and waved a hand towards the side of the table. Will’s eyes followed the movement with confusion.

“What?” he asked, drawing his hands away from the padded armrest, holding them like a dejected T-rex.

With a soft, indulgent smile, Hannibal leaned over to place a hand over a white electric-looking instrument. “Just place your fingers inside here.”

Will carefully placed his fingers under the dome and it flickered to life with a sharp light. 

His first impulse was to withdraw them, but at Hannibal’s, “Leave them; it’ll turn off by itself,” he remained still. 

As he dutifully followed the instruction, Hannibal leaned forward and pushed himself up from his chair. His strong forearms had muscles rippling under the skin as he moved, hands pressed against the table. 

Hannibal turned to study the large wall of nail polish behind him. After a mere moment, he flipped down a couple of nail polishes.

At that, he sat down again, a satisfied look on his face.

Will looked back at his own hands and noticed the light was off—probably had been for a minute or two.

Hannibal lifted a hand, expectant. And Will, getting more and more out of his comfort zone, merely laid his hand into Hannibal’s like a particularly well-trained dog.

Turning Will’s finger between his own, Hannibal turned them so they caught the light again and said, “I’d argue physical touch is essential for health. Would you not agree?”

At that, he loaded a brush with a deep green gel and pushed it over Will’s thumbnail, painting it from the tip towards the middle and leaving the cuticle area clear.

At Hannibal’s lifted eyebrow, Will realised he’d yet to answer and stuttered, “No,” then licked his lips and added, “Or yes—essential. But also one of those things that the longer you go without, the more uncomfortable it seems to become.”

The green gel was blended at the edges with a clean brush.

“Absence of touch makes the body all the more aware of it,” Hannibal replied as his thumb shifted, brushing almost innocently along where he was gripping Will’s finger.

The entire conversation was leaving him restless and itchy.

Now, Will wouldn’t be entirely dishonest. He had dated a couple of women in his life, and while all in short durations, he’d learned early on that their nails along his back and over his skin had been... peculiar.

He’d always attributed this feeling to the women themselves—or women in general.

As he studied Hannibal’s long-nailed—and, let’s be honest, beautiful—hands, Will might have to admit that it might have less to do with women.

The deep green colour was skilfully blended nail by nail. 

“It’s beautiful,” Will mumbled, trying to push his own thoughts far—far away. “The nails…,” he added.

And as he said it, he realised the clarification could apply to both his own and Hannibal’s.

Hannibal hesitated in his movements, and something soft pulled at his lips.

A wave of a hand over the dome-shaped lamp, and Will obliged, sticking his hand inside. 

He huffed. “You probably hear this often.”

Hannibal nodded and opened a small jar at his left side. “Yes,” he said with a teasing look. “Though rarely from anyone as beautiful. Now, give me your hands.”

Wondering if he had heard it wrong, Will could only allow the other man to grasp his hands again. Warm skin curled around his, steady grip lifting his fingers to layer gold foil along the green polish with fine-point tweezers.

Will could only observe the other man as he finished the procedure in silence. 

Hannibal seemingly satisfied to let Will stare stupidly at him in a mixture of mortification and embarrassment.

Smoothing the golden foil so it adhered properly, a clear glossy coat was applied over every nail, and Will was once again asked to leave his nails in the slightly warm lamp.

When he finally got Will’s hand back in his, Hannibal uncapped a small bottle of something pleasant-smelling. Dripping a drop over Will’s nails, Hannibal’s thumbs began massaging over each finger, rubbing the oil into the surrounding skin with small, circular motions.

Finally, he wiped away any excess oil with a soft white towel.

After what had felt like an eternity, Hannibal met his eyes again. The relief registered in Will’s head, and his eyes twitched, never having remembered wanting to meet anyone’s eyes.

“Well?” Hannibal asked.

Tasteful in every manner. The length kept naturally his own, but the design—small pictures of different hues of dark green, golden lines, and gold foil along with clear areas—like a dark forest or moss lit by the morning sun

“Breathtaking,” was all Will could say.

Yes. 

Breathtaking indeed. 

Will Graham stared at Hannibal’s creation in open wonder, and Hannibal found himself in agreement—not with the art, no. 

His skill was a given, honed by countless hours of perfectionism—he knew his strengths and weaknesses down to the last detail.

However, the man in front of him had proven to be a pleasant surprise. 

A mix of constant withdrawal and a subtle leaning in—something Hannibal found both curious and deeply pleasing. 

He wondered if continued touch would unravel the man?

“Thank you,” Hannibal settled for at Will’s compliment. 

Will’s gaze drifted—as it had several times that past hour—not to Hannibal’s face, but over his hands before finally meeting his eyes. 

The man huffed and smiled with such charming awkwardness. 

Yes, maybe he’d keep this one.

His own thought came entirely unbidden and by surprise, and Hannibal blinked as Will said. “Really. I can see why Beverly keeps coming here.” 

“Good,” Hannibal replied.  “I have the highest standards for both myself and my employees. Within limits of course.” 

Will chuckled at his response and scooted his chair back, clearly intending on standing—pay and then leave. 

Hannibal leaned forward, lifting an eyebrow at Will. 

“I imagine you must be thirsty. How about some tea?” 

At that Hannibal stood, ignoring Will’s sudden frown and halting movement. He walked past the man and slipped towards the staff kitchen.

Will had a mildly amused look on his face when Hannibal returned with a glass kettle of jasmine tea and two tea cups.

“Not one for refusal are you?” Will asked. 

“Only if you accept my refusal.” 

Will shook his head at his reply. “Anything else would be rude I guess. For both of us.” 

“Well, yes,” Hannibal murmured as he cleared the desk of the nail equipment.

He sat before pouring both Will and himself a generous cup of tea. 

The aroma was soft and pleasant, layered over the sharp chemical undercurrent of the nail polishes.

Will seemed to accept his fate, lifting the cup to his nose. He inhaled deeply, eyelids fluttering as he took a sip.

The white cup caught the light from the window beautifully. At the sight, a dozen new ideas and palettes stirred in Hannibal’s mind. 

He’d need this man under his hands again, if only for the sake of a new nail design.

“You don’t seem like the usual type to do this,” Will murmured, looking around the office. “Or maybe that’s wrong—because the whole salon, and this room, suit you like a glove.”

Following his gaze, Hannibal took in the space. It was curated exactly to his taste: private yet open.

“You’re not the first to say so,” he replied.

“Not surprising. But—if I have to assume—others’ opinions probably don't affect you.” Will chuckled. “Or am I wrong?”

“No,” Hannibal said with a smile. “It doesn’t. What gave it away?”

Will shrugged, staring into his cup. “No one with a character like yours gives a flying fuck about what other people say or do.” A pause, then softer: “I admire that.”

“Are you not like that?”

Will shook his head, his expression twitching with something like annoyance. “Not in any way that helps me. If I could, I’d avoid social interactions entirely. Spend hours alone—just me, no one else. It’s—” He huffed, looked away, embarrassed. “Sorry. I’m rambling.”

“No,” Hannibal said instantly, hungry for more. “Continue.”

“It’s really not that interesting.”

A tsk slipped from Hannibal as he leaned back, fixing Will with a mild look of disapproval. “I would not have invited you for tea if I didn’t find you interesting, Will.”

That drew a loud laugh from Will, his eyes glinting with humour. “Has anyone told you you’re kind of a smooth talker?”

Hannibal set his cup down, spreading his hands in a small shrug. “Nonsense,” he said with a smile. “I’m certain it’s only you.”

By the time Beverly stepped into the room, Will and Hannibal had likely been talking for hours. 

Will froze at her arrival.

She lifted an eyebrow and leaned against the archway, studying them both for a moment.

Hannibal met her eyes. “Everything to your satisfaction, Ms. Katz?”

Beverly glanced between them once more, then smiled broadly. “Oh yes,” she replied sharply. 

She turned, resting a hand on the archway and giving a brief wave. “I won’t bother you. Good evening, Mr. Lecter.” A quick grin at Will. “And you, Will… see you at work.”

With that, she slipped away, leaving Will feeling distinctly caught in the act of… something.

It was only after his last employee had slipped past the archway, said their goodbyes, that Will began to shift uncomfortably.

Hannibal noticed the movement with a curious look.

“Something is bothering you,” he said, and Will twitched at the words.

A hand pushed through his curls—curls Hannibal was certain were wonderfully soft. 

“I don’t want to assume anything, okay,” he murmured, decidedly not looking at Hannibal. “It’s just—”

His gaze slid over Hannibal’s frame, across his face, then down his bared forearms before coming to rest on his hands—one curled around the white teacup, the other simply resting on the table.

He made another sound of frustration and pressed a palm over his mouth, looking out the window. 

Hannibal studied Will, amusement blooming.

Oh well—Hannibal did enjoy pushing buttons.

And eventually, one of them had to say something.

“I am curious, Will,” he began, and Will turned his attention towards him. “Is it the nails or the hands?”

Will’s throat felt parched all of a sudden.

He shifted in his chair, sliding his hands into his pockets.

Yeah, okay—maybe he hadn’t been that discreet.

“It’s neither…,” Will said, then, thinking it a poor reply, added, “Or possibly both.”

Hannibal’s right hand moved—practised and graceful.

Will felt warm.

He sent Hannibal an annoyed glare, which the other man seemed all too delighted by.

“But it’s not like I just get hot on anyone’s hands,” Will snapped, then froze, realising he’d said far more than he intended.

Hannibal stood, came around the counter, and stepped between Will and the desk, leaning back against the edge of it and looking down—expectant.

Then—Will wondering if having a heart attack right there might be appropriate—Hannibal leaned slowly forward to place his hands on either side of the armrests, long nails curling around the wood.

Will stared at him, wide-eyed.

“I’d love to get you under my hands,” Hannibal murmured, low. “Unless you’d be against that.”

Okay.

His pants felt too tight.

Okay.

Maybe Will wasn’t entirely against it.

Or anywhere close to against it.

The thought of Hannibal’s firm yet soft hands and strong forearms tugged at his mind. 

“When did you decide to be so direct?” Then, realising it might sound like a refusal, he said. “Not that I’m opposed… at all.”

The man only smiled secretively, his eyes sliding over Will’s face.

“I’m relieved,” Hannibal replied, then straightened. “Please allow me to drive us home—anything less than a bed underneath you would be a crime.”

Will felt heat rise to his face, but somehow managed to push out a nervous okay.

Satisfied by his compliance, Hannibal strolled away, fetched Will’s jacket, and held it up for him. Will felt both uncomfortable and oddly cared for as he slipped his arms inside. Hannibal’s hands slid over his shoulders, settling the jacket and smoothing out wrinkles, making Will shift in sudden awareness of his own body.

He couldn’t help leaning—just slightly—into the touch before catching himself, and stepping away.

He’d agreed to go home with this man; why he was being shy was beyond him.

They left the nail salon and as they walked along the pavement, Will’s eyes flicked between Hannibal and their surroundings, a rising tension in his stomach.

They reached an expensive BMW. Hannibal opened the passenger door, making Will halt and stare at this strange man.

When Hannibal merely waited, Will chuckled, brushing a palm over his face. 

“You have some strange habits,” he said, scooting past him into the seat.

“Is it not enjoyable?” Hannibal asked, leaning a bit forward with a cheeky smirk, his hand resting on the car door. 

Not trusting himself to respond coherently, Will merely looked away.

A soft chuckle, then the door shut. Moments later, Hannibal slid into the car, thumb and forefinger curling around the key and turning it smoothly.

Will, catching himself for what felt like the hundredth time, swallowed and looked slowly up at Hannibal, who was staring back with a pleased glint.

The bedroom door slammed shut behind them, going entirely ignored as Hannibal’s hand slid up along Will’s throat to grasp his chin, pulling him closer.

Sharp breaths and a groan slipped from Will’s lips.

Hannibal exhaled slowly, enjoying the proximity and the desperate twitches from the other man. He slid his hand over Will’s chest, up along his neck, and behind his head—nails and palm gliding along Will's nape. 

A shudder ran through Will, and Hannibal shifted, chuckling as he felt his own body heat and respond to the immediate reaction.

Will looked entirely lost to it all, eyes bright. He pulled at Hannibal’s jacket, bringing their mouths together. 

His lips were as soft as Hannibal had assumed—wet and supple beneath his own. As his lips brushed carefully along Hannibal’s lower lip, Hannibal groaned and pressed Will harder against the wall.

Their lips parted, and Will stared at him, breath slow. 

Hannibal felt delighted. 

His hand slid down Will’s stomach, resting over his belt for a breath, studying Will’s face. The other man merely pushed his hips forward in silent plea.

Yes.

Hannibal took Will’s chin with his left hand, pushing their lips together again as the right did fast work on the belt. It clicked open, and Will groaned at the touch.

“Patience,” Hannibal murmured against his lips, sliding a warm palm past the jeans and into his underwear, pressing firmly against Will’s erection.

Will huffed, his eyes clenching shut.

Another few strokes over heated flesh, and Hannibal withdrew his hand. A soft kiss, then he stepped away from Will, who swayed for a moment before catching himself.

Hannibal undid his tie in a fluid motion, letting it slide from his fingers to curl on the floor. Will stood pressed against the wall, jeans open and erection straining against his underwear, hair tousled.

Hannibal unbuttoned his shirt, slid it off his shoulders and down to the floor. Pants opened and slid down his legs—not teasingly, but fluidly. He could feel Will’s heated stare along his now nude torso and legs.

Finally, he stepped out of his underwear.

Two steps back, and he seated himself on the edge of the bed, lifting one foot to rest on the frame as the other stretched out—comfortable and completely nude.

He lifted an eyebrow at Will.

“Well,” leaning back on his elbows, “what are you waiting for?”

Will chuckled at the sight, a breathless—good god—escaping as he stepped over to Hannibal and pulled his shirt off. He paused just in front of Hannibal’s open legs and his displayed form, but allowed himself to be pulled down by a firm hand.

His hands braced on either side of Hannibal’s shoulders, pressing kisses along Hannibal’s neck and up to his lips, a warm tongue brushing along his lower lip.

Will pressed their hips together, jeans halfway down his legs, the cloth of his underwear deliciously rough against Hannibal’s cock.

A groan slipped from Hannibal’s lips, his eyes closing in quiet pleasure.

Will shifted, leaning on one arm as the other slid down Hannibal’s torso, along his stomach, and around his cock. He pressed a finger to the glans, gathering the precum to then glide back and forth along the shaft.

Hannibal opened his eyes to meet Will’s, who stared at his reactions in quiet rapture.

A brazen smile pulled at Hannibal’s lips. “Move on, Will. I want you inside me sometime today.”

Will’s pupils dilated, and his hand slid further down to press against Hannibal’s entrance. 

He didn’t push inside, only massaged the soft skin.

“Lube?” Will groaned.

Hannibal lay back fully, one hand sliding around Will’s neck, holding firm as he slid his fingers into Will's mouth, catching his tongue between them.

Will’s mouth loosened, spit dripping onto Hannibal’s chest, eyes sliding shut.

Sliding his fingers free, Hannibal guided the wet digits to his own entrance, careful to keep his nails away.

“I enjoy a little burn,” Hannibal said as he withdrew his hand.

Another shudder ran through Will’s body. His fingers massaged the rim, gathering spit, before pushing a single finger inside.

“Good, open me properly.”

Hannibal hummed in encouragement, his hands gliding over Will’s torso and arms, nails dipping lightly into the skin.

Dutiful in his task, Will opened him with patience, fingers thrusting, curling, until his body relaxed. Only then did he add a second and third digit.

“Is it enough?” Will asked, his third finger drawing a particularly pleasant groan from Hannibal.

“More than,” Hannibal nodded, feeling wonderfully loose but impatience lingering just beyond the horizon.

Will’s eyebrows furrowed, his fingers continuing their ministrations.

Huffing, Hannibal slipped a hand into Will's hair and tugged at it firmly. Will hissed and met his stare.

“Now, Will,” Hannibal murmured, voice low but sharpened at the edges, “either take me, or I’ll have to fuck you instead.”

Breath catching in his throat, Will withdrew his fingers, slathered his hand in spit, and ran a wet palm over himself once, then twice. 

As he pushed inside Hannibal, they both groaned in relief.  It burned, certainly. With little more than spit, there was no other way. However, the sensation of being filled so completely was wonderfully exquisite. 

Will pushed carefully all the way inside, their hips slotting together. Hannibal pulled him close, offering touch as his nails dragged along the muscles of Will’s back.

Will inhaled sharply, a wild look in his eyes as he withdrew, easing back from their embrace and letting Hannibal sink into the soft bed—before snapping his hips forward.

Hannibal’s breath caught, and he moaned loudly. 

Will gripped Hannibal’s hips, pulling him back against each thrust, his cock catching on Hannibal’s entrance in the most pleasing way before plunging deep again.

Their breath was a symphony of grunts and groans.

The bed’s height was perfect for Will’s angle. Hannibal moaned, his hand gripping himself firmly.

Will groaned at the sight.

“Shit,” he whispered between thrusts. As his pace grew harsher, he pleaded, “Could you—your—” The words caught, sweat dripping.

Hannibal, catching his stare, grunted at a particularly wonderful thrust and grinned. 

“Of course, you need not ask.”

Pushing up on his elbows, Hannibal pulled himself closer to Will, who leaned down. One hand slid over Will’s shoulders and neck, fingers digging into his neck while the other gripped his arse.

Will gasped, grinding tight against him. The response was enough for Hannibal’s own body to shudder in release, a groan slipping past his lips.

Will’s head rested on his shoulder, breath harsh, cock still warm inside him.

Hannibal’s hands smoothed over Will’s back and head.

“How come you gave me a time slot?” Will asked groggily from beside him. He lay stomach down in Hannibal’s bed, a sheet slung over his hips, head turned to watch Hannibal with lazy curiosity.

Hannibal glanced at him and lowered his book.

“I may or may not have a thing for beautiful men,” he replied honestly. Then, with a cheeky smile, added, “And while that doesn’t mean I make a habit of bringing said beautiful men into my bed, I’m afraid I realised quickly there’s nowhere else I’d want you.”

Will swallowed, a faint flush colouring his cheeks as he hugged the pillow beneath his head.

At his response, Hannibal closed the book completely and leaned down, voice dropping to a whisper. “Now, tell me, Will. Why hands?”

Will huffed, shooting him an irritated glance. “Oh, shut up,” he muttered.

After a beat of silence, his gaze drifted to Hannibal’s hand resting near his pillow. 

“It’s not my fault your hands are so compelling.”

Hannibal’s mouth curled faintly.

Yes. He’d keep this one.