Warnings: Masturbation, and Hannibal talking him right through it, rather disturbing mental images, Will gets off on disturbing things
Also thank you, Jodi, for somehow dealing with all my frustrated emails and reading my super disturbing porn ♥
Will’s inner voice still sounds like Hannibal Lecter and won’t stop talking.
They turn off the lights, and Will is glad for it, because in his little cell, only bars between him and the rest of the world, darkness is the closest thing he has to privacy. He hates it too, though, because privacy doesn’t mean being alone anymore, hasn’t meant that for a far too long time.
How it started, he cannot remember, it must have been a small change in the accent his thoughts spoke to him with, maybe the pitch, maybe the velvety undertone which snuck into his brain and tinted his own thoughts differently than he was used to. And he didn’t notice, couldn’t fight it (if he had had any chance to do that, even if he had realised that he was changing in the beginning, Will does not know, but doubts it), so the voice his thoughts and killers and victims spoke to him changed further, the rough edges it used to have being polished until they were smooth and seductive, the tone becoming more teasing, clear and strong and proud, the accent it slowly started talking with mixed together out of sounds Will’s lips never were able to reproduce. And he had only noticed it then, when they had locked him up and he was spending another night with open eyes and restless thoughts, when he asked himself a question and could hear Hannibal answering.
It had been the most frightful thing, the voice of the man who had put him there resonating in his head, still all seduction and madness and manipulation, and Will had tried to shake it, but hadn’t succeeded.
He still hasn’t, although it’s been weeks, and it’s night when it’s the worst, because his cell gets oh so dark, and when he does not pay attention, he can almost feel another body next to his, another’s breath stirring his hair, another’s hand on his shoulder. And sometimes, it’s not his thoughts talking with Hannibal’s voice, sometimes it sounds and feels as if it was the older man himself speaking, his words, his thoughts, his feelings, and it’s only then when Will realises just how far he has let Hannibal into his head.
It’s another night like that, he can feel it the second darkness falls around him, covers him, a tingle down his spine which might be excitement, might be fear (because there is another thing Will only allows himself to think of in the safe embrace of the night - no matter how much the thought of Hannibal having claimed him to this extent scares him, there is another part, which he keeps hidden and locked away and buried under a thousand things, which delights in it) and a whisper in the back of his mind which gets harder to ignore with every second.
He lies back, tries to bury everything which still reminds him of the older man once again, but the voice gets louder, louder, louder. Submit, it whispers, sounding as real and close and intimate as if Hannibal was sitting next to him, a hand on Will’s shoulders and coldness in his eyes. You know you want to; it’s in every breath you take, every beat of your heart. My dear Will, you can try to fight nature, but you cannot win.
And maybe, Will sometimes thinks, this now too, maybe the part the other man has left inside him is right, maybe it is in his nature to maim and kill and torture, and Hannibal, who is still trapped in his head, approves. There is a reason you were paid for thinking about killing about all those people, the other continues, and Will has to clench his hands, because his tone has dropped a nuance lower, has become even smoother, slicker, more seductive. You liked it.
The words sound worse than anything this version of Hannibal has ever said to him, and although he knows that the other cannot see him, isn’t real, Will still shakes his head furiously, until he is dizzy and cannot hear anything but the pulsing of his own blood for a few, precious moments. He does not, has not, won’t ever like thinking about these things, Will tells himself again and again, until he would believe it, if the voice in his head did not still sound like the older man, mocking and teasing. You like thinking about me killing those worthless pigs too, the voice continues as soon as Will does not concentrate enough on quieting it; he hasn’t been able to stop Hannibal before, and he isn’t now.
Cassie Boyle, I killed her just for you. I made her scream so you’d finally let yourself see, took her lungs so you’d breathe the same air as Garret Jacob Hobbs did. The words conjure up a familiar image, one which Will has been trying to forget but cannot; dark hair and pale skin, the blood on the antlers still glistening in the sun and a chest torn open, the horror at seeing a young girl treated like this and yet the strangest, most terrifying sense of relief, because even then, he knew that this dead girl would be the one to stop a dozen of others from being killed (and he sees those too, for a fleeting moment, pretty and alive.) Hannibal tears it from the prison he has built and spreads the picture out, smoothes down the corners almost lovingly, irons out the crinkles until it is as good as new, brilliant and bright and making Will choke on his breath.
He can see it now, even more clearly than before, the amount of care, of detail Hannibal put into it, and when he forces himself out of his mind and into the others, he can feel the curiosity, the interest bordering on affection, as well. Not for the girl, no, never, but for himself, and something inside him clenches and relaxes again, not painful but not far from it either. I thought of you the entire time.
The words take the very air out of Will’s lungs, his breath coming in desperate gasps and his fingers digging into his thighs; it hurts, but he likes it. Because against all he wants, all he approves of, Will is starting to get hard, and can only hope that it’s only the part of Hannibal engrained in his cells which is responsible for that.
For a moment, there is silence, sweet, blissful silence, and Will allows himself to hope that at least for today he will be allowed to rest, to sleep, but he just about manages to finish that thought before Hannibal starts all over again. Or would you rather talk about Marissa Schuur? He asks, the mocking tone replaced by something almost gentle, as if Will’s wishes would matter. She was almost gift wrapped, a fruit ripe for that taking…I just had to reach out and pluck her off her branch, the watch her bleed out. The only thing I regret is that I did not get to see your face when you found her.
A pause and Will holds his breath. Did you see me when you looked at her?
Will did not, not back then in Garret Jacob Hobbs’ antler room, but he does now, Hannibal’s hands smeared with another girl’s blood, holding her face while he watched her die, only interested in her the moment the life flickered out in her wide, scared eyes. And for a moment, he stands beside the other, watches her with Hannibal, his right hand beneath the others, Marissa’s warm cheek under his skin and Hannibal’s palm on top of it. Inside him.
A horrifying jolt of heat travels through his body, from head to toe, makes his cock twitch and his hands feel slick with blood for a moment and Will feels himself start to shake, to tremble, and a shadow of Hannibal’s hands on his cheeks to hold him still, protect him.
Then there was Tobias Budge…I would have gladly strung him up by his own guts, made him watch me play him. Regret, sweet and yet bitter, tints Hannibal’s voice, a chance he missed but wanted to take so much, for this one did not get what he deserved, not even close to it (Will notices someone is missing – like he is sure lots of them are, people whose names he will never know – the short, stout man they found in Hannibal’s office too, and it takes him a moment to understand why: The other is telling him their story and he never was part of it.) He came too close to me. And far too close to you, Will. I should have cut off every single of his fingers, one by one, for touching you. A possessiveness lies in Hannibal, this Hannibal’s voice, which is bordering on dangerous, bordering on sensual, and Will hates it, but hates it mostly because it makes his mouth go dry and his cock grow half hard without a single touch.
If it’s a good move or the worst on possible, Will does not know, but he lies down nonetheless, part of him hoping that he will fall asleep while Hannibal still talks to him, will be far enough away for the other to never find him again, be it his body or his mind, but there is a small, miniscule fraction which hopes for the exact opposite; for the other to continue and never let him sleep again. I should have cut out his tongue, for speaking to you. Gouged out his eyes and made him choke on them because he looked at you, cut open his head because he thought he should be the one to kill you.
Something, a few words, still whisper through the air, dance and swirl, and Will almost catches them, but then, in the final moment, clasps his fingers around each other instead of the words, not sure if he wants to know their meaning. You were always supposed to be mine, Hannibal whispers and Will cannot help but moan.
Although there is no one speaking them, only his own mind and the part Hannibal has implanted into it talking, the words make something inside him sing, bend and blossom, because he wants that, wants to belong.
It might be the first time he has admitted it, might also be the first time he thought it at all, but it is true nonetheless, makes Will claw his nails into the tender inside of his thigh again, hoping the pain will take the arousal which comes with the realisation, away. But it doesn’t, instead does something so much worse; the sting of his fingernails mixes with the shameful arousal coursing through him, makes Will think of teeth marking him, of knives slicing him open, and the next time he breathes out, heavily and horrified of his own reactions, the air carries another moan.
And even though Will never has heard Hannibal laugh, he does laugh in his mind now, just slightly more than a chuckle, self-satisfied and mocking, making him hold his next breath instead of releasing it. It is not just me killing them you like to think about, is it? The other asks, and Will is still holding his breath, although his lungs burn with the effort, his fingers clench. Maybe it’s killing you, I should talk more about.
The wave that breaks and buries Will under it at that is different than arousal, more than that, maybe; it’s a feeling which drowns him and gives him no chance of recovery, floods his senses and makes renders them useless, a force of nature, of his nature, which Will cannot even try to fight against.
The voice in his head (because he has to remind himself on that, that this is not Hannibal, this is only his mind, his own, twisted, terrifying, terrified mind) is still laughing, laughing at him, but his hands are tearing open his jumpsuit, shoving it down to his knees, because his cock is hard and aching, twitching at the thought of Hannibal’s hands around his neck. I’d make it special for you, the other whispers, and there is still amusement in his voice, still mockery, but it only makes Will breathe harder, another moan – he promises to himself it’ll be the last one although he knows he will not keep his word – escaping his lips when he finally wraps his fingers around his cock.
The feeling is as good as new to him, pleasure something he rarely finds and even less often outside his dreams, so the first stroke, slowly, from the very hilt to the head of his cock, fingertips brushing over the slit, makes Will shiver, hips bucking up to get more friction, more pressure, more.
…because you’re special.
A shuddering breath, a half moan, an almost gasp, and Will strokes him down again, varies the pressure when he repeats the motion, grips too lightly and then too hard, then imagines it to be Hannibal’s hand for a moment, makes it larger and the fingers broader in his mind, takes away the callouses and adds a certain strength, a certain, concealed roughness to them, and finds the perfect pressure easily (he wonders if Hannibal could do that too, read him so easily.) I’d lay you down, but I wouldn’t give you anything to ease the pain, the voice says softly, promises, and Will strokes himself again, still clumsy and unsure, but making pleasure spark under his palm, his skin tingle. Because I would want you aware of what is happening, I would want you to share those moments with me without anything between us. Just the two of us, Will. And you… you would like it better this way too, would you not? So you could feel the life leave you, every cut, every touch. So you could feel me.
He’s right, even now, when he is nothing but imagination, neurons firing and memories of a voice being cut to pieces and sewn together again, Hannibal is right with every of his words, and Will feels himself slipping already; when his fingers reach the head of his cock this time, it’s slick with precome, and he can’t help but rub the pad of his thumb over the slit, spread it. His skin has never felt so sensitive before, the light pressure and soft circular motions enough to make Will moan in the back of his throat, and he so he does it again, presses harder and makes himself see stars before he strokes down the length of his cock once more.
It’s hard to force his second hand to let go of the thin prison sheets, which are the only thing still feigning comfort, but Will pries his fingers off one by one, lets them wander between his legs as well, cupping his balls and massaging them gently, fingertips brushing over the spot behind them every once a while and making him shudder.
And I’d want to feel you die, Will, share those most intimate moments with you. You would let me, I know you would. A smile has appeared in Hannibal’s voice and Will’s lips curl up as well, at least for a moment, before his thumb rubs across his slit again, makes his hips buck up. So I’d slit open your wrists, because it takes so much longer that way, because you could watch me do it, watch yourself bleed out… Maybe I’d let you do it yourself on one side and then slice open your other arm.
Hannibal’s words paint a picture in Will’s mind, of himself on a large bed and the other man above him, a sharp razor in his hand and his fingertips, the very same ones he is dragging over his cock so desperately now, cut open as well as his veins, blood seeping from the wounds and into the sheets, and most importantly, into Hannibal’s skin, binding them together forever. It should be gruesome, but instead it just makes Will stroke his cock faster, grip it a little harder, losing the rhythm he has set as easily as he has found it before.
His hips are snapping up with every of his strokes now, his every breath a small moan, and although it is only his own hand, Will cannot remember ever feeling this good before, every touch eliciting the sweetest sparks of pleasure, all of it building up in his lower stomach, only waiting to burst and wash over him, cover him, bury him. Back arched, his feet are planted against the mattress, which usually is far too thin but now does not matter, his toes curled and his whole skin, whole body on fire; Will’s arms are burning with the phantom wounds Hannibal’s words have left on him.
I wouldn’t touch you at first, just watch you, because you would look more beautiful than ever, my dear Will. Red suits you so well.
He can taste blood on his tongue and does not know if he bit himself or if it’s just his too vivid imagination, but no matter what it is, Will ignores it in favour of twisting his wrist when he strokes up to the head of his cock, making himself groan. We could watch it together, your blood spilling from you, your life… and when it would be too much for you, when your head would grow heavy, I would hold it up for you so you would still be able to see, even when your limbs would be too tired to move, your brain too slow to think.
Pleasure, pure and hot and the colour of blood, is pooling in Will’s lower stomach, ready to be released, ready to explode and paint him bright red inside out, and by now, he does not have the concentration to control his movements anymore, lets his hands act on their own account, stroking and pressing and rubbing over his cock, his balls, his hole until he is drenched in sweat and reduced to gasps and mewls, eyes having slipped shut at some point and refusing to be opened again.
I’d be the last thing you’d ever see, Hannibal whispers, and it sounds like a promise. And I’d make you mine, Will, completely.
He’s on the brink of orgasm, just a second away from it, a moment, just needs one push, something which is more than just his hand, more than just physical, and Hannibal gives him that, four more words which make him come harder than ever before, the whole world fading until nothing is left but pleasure and the echo of the other’s voice. I’d eat your heart.
I can't choose between calpernia, ned and roy ugh no
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