Missing You (Day 9 of 30 Days of Hannibloom): Hannibal, Hannibal/Alana, nc-17
Title: Missing You, Day 9 of 30 Days of Hannibloom
Fandom: Hannibal
Pairing: Hannibloom
Rating: nc-17
Author's Note: My muse is taking me to strange places, y'all. Forgive me.
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Alana had been gone for all of one day, and he missed her already.
She was at a psychiatry conference in Philadelphia. She'd gone with his (unneeded but appreciated) blessing of course, unspoken promises that he would take care of Will, and spoken assurances to check in on Applesauce and consult on her most recent case with Jack. But he missed her already. He found his newfound dependence on Alana disturbing, and he turned it over in his mind, feeling it, then tasting it. It tasted sweet and bitter at the same time. He was not used to relying on anyone. Or caring about anyone. He called Will his friend, but he had no qualms about manipulating or indeed terminating the friendship or Will if it served his greater purpose. Alana seemed to fall outside of the rules; his purpose in life, his mission, all seemed to fall by the wayside when he thought of Alana Bloom. Alana Bloom, in his bed, in his kitchen, and in his heart.
After a long day, he entered his bedroom, taking off his clothes and putting on pajama bottoms. He placed his cell phone on his bedside table. Then he lay in bed and picked up his book, Baudelaire's Les Fleurs Du Mal. The pages were thin, the copy vintage and well-loved. He turned over in his bed and read the familiar text, his eyes scanning over the pages. But his mind wandered.
He glanced over his shoulder at the phone. Then he turned in bed and picked up the phone, laying his book aside for the moment. He checked to make sure that the volume was on. It was.
"I could call her. I could call her," he thought.
Then the phone rang in his hand, Bach's Goldberg Variations playing in his palm. The screen read "Alana."
He swiped his finger across the screen and placed her on speakerphone. "Hello, my dear."
"Hannibal. How are you, lover? I've missed you."
Unwittingly, he felt warmth suffuse his chest. He swallowed and answered, "I've missed you too. How is the conference?"
She started off on a story about the keynote speaker and the various presenters, before wrapping up with a synopsis of her own presentation. Ever modest, she claimed she didn't present as well as she'd have liked. Hannibal assured her that she was a talented presenter (which she was, he recalled from when she was his student).
He heard shuffling in the background as he told her about his own day, treating patients and consulting on a new case at the FBI. A flash of annoyance. "What are you doing right now?"
Her answer was unexpected, and thoroughly delightful.
"I'm touching myself," she stated baldly. Her voice dropped, smooth and sensuous, she said, "Thinking of you."
Hannibal felt a rush of blood flow to his loins. He felt almost dizzy at the rush. He pictured her, spread out on the bed, fingers between her thighs.
"Alana. I find your lack of attention to our conversation quite rude," he said, his voice sounding stern but with a teasing note in it.
"I'm sorry, Hannibal. I am being rude. I should stop."
"No, don't stop on my account." He dropped the hand not holding his phone to his groin and lightly squeezed. A groan escaped his lips. He'd never had "phone sex" before. He thought. How was this supposed to go? He paused, then asked, "What are you wearing?"
She laughed. "Nothing but a towel." Another groan on his end. "I'd just gotten out of the shower. And you?"
He responded, "Just pajama bottoms."
"That's far too much clothing if we're going to do this, Hannibal."
He put the phone down on his bed and said, "One moment, please." Then he stood and untied his bottoms, letting them drop to the floor. He sat back down on the bed. "I'm nude now, Alana."
She sighed. "Good. I want you to touch yourself like I'm touching myself."
"How are you touching yourself?" he asked, curious.
He heard her take a deep steadying breath before responding. "I'm running my hands all over my body. They're far too small, but I'm still pretending they are yours. Now I'm squeezing my nipples between my fingers."
Hannibal's hand drifted to his penis, which stood half-hard in his bedroom light. He took himself in his hand and started to stroke.
She continued. "So touch yourself like I am, Hannibal." He heard a light suckling sound on her end. "Suck your fingers. Get them all wet. Then play with your nipples, and pretend it's my hot little tongue running around them."
Oh. She was good. He followed her directions, sticking his thumb and forefinger in his mouth and licking them. Then he took his left nipple in between his fingers and played with it, first gently, then more roughly, just like she would if she'd been with him. He groaned.
"I love the sounds you make," she moaned into the phone. He trailed his nails down his chest, pretending they were hers. Then he took his penis into his hand again, now fully erect.
"My darling, I love hearing you moan," he said. He cast around in his mind for what to say next. She was a natural at this and he felt like her pupil, a reversal of their usual roles.
She must have sensed his confusion, for she said, "Tell me how you'd touch me if you were here right now."
He smiled. "If I were with you right now, Alana, I'd be between your glorious thighs. I'd be biting a path up those thighs to the place you love me best. I'd draw blood as I bit up your thighs, all the way to your sweet center."
She sighed and said, "Continue." He could hear her stroking herself in the background, steady and wet.
He continued to stroke himself as he spoke. "I'd flick my tongue out, lapping around your engorged clitoris. I'd keep going, running my tongue up and down your labial folds, up, down, and around, until I made you cry out with pleasure." He didn't know if he had any talent at "talking dirty" but he enjoyed the images that were running through his head, and by the sounds coming from the other end of the phone, she enjoyed his description.
"I'd reach up and take your breasts into my hands as I continued my ministrations. I'd squeeze and stroke, then take your nipples between my fingers and pull, just how you like." He heard her moan on the other end, and the sound of her wet strokes came faster. He stroked himself faster in response.
"I love the sweet taste of you, my dear Alana. You're so delicious. You're so beautiful." He heard her half-sigh and half-moan on the other end of the phone. "I'd lick you repeatedly until you orgasm, screaming my name." He swallowed hard. "I want to hear you scream my name now, Alana." He chanted, "Come for me. Come for me, darling."
She did, and she screamed his name just how he liked to hear her, wanton and desperate, "Hannibal!"
He jerked his hips up in response to her cry. Another handful of fast strokes and he was orgasming, spewing white strings of ejaculate on his stomach.
He grabbed a handful of tissue and wiped himself down, then deposited the dirty tissues on his side table, listening to her breathing slow on the other end of the phone.
"That was...different," she said, and laughed breathily.
"Different?" he questioned.
"Wonderful," she amended. "It was wonderful." He heard her yawn.
"You have had a long day, my dear. And now, a strenuous evening. Would you like to sleep?"
"Yes, very much so. That was truly wonderful, Hannibal. I still miss you though."
He could hear the smile in her voice, and he smiled too.
"I'll call you tomorrow. Same time, same place...same activity?" She teased.
"It would be my pleasure," he answered.
And then, suddenly-
"I love you." And then the beep as she hung up the phone before he could even process what she said, much less respond.
He lay down in his bed, and placed his hand against his heart, feeling its fast, staccato beat.
Fandom: Hannibal
Pairing: Hannibloom
Rating: nc-17
Author's Note: My muse is taking me to strange places, y'all. Forgive me.
-------------------------------------------------------------
Alana had been gone for all of one day, and he missed her already.
She was at a psychiatry conference in Philadelphia. She'd gone with his (unneeded but appreciated) blessing of course, unspoken promises that he would take care of Will, and spoken assurances to check in on Applesauce and consult on her most recent case with Jack. But he missed her already. He found his newfound dependence on Alana disturbing, and he turned it over in his mind, feeling it, then tasting it. It tasted sweet and bitter at the same time. He was not used to relying on anyone. Or caring about anyone. He called Will his friend, but he had no qualms about manipulating or indeed terminating the friendship or Will if it served his greater purpose. Alana seemed to fall outside of the rules; his purpose in life, his mission, all seemed to fall by the wayside when he thought of Alana Bloom. Alana Bloom, in his bed, in his kitchen, and in his heart.
After a long day, he entered his bedroom, taking off his clothes and putting on pajama bottoms. He placed his cell phone on his bedside table. Then he lay in bed and picked up his book, Baudelaire's Les Fleurs Du Mal. The pages were thin, the copy vintage and well-loved. He turned over in his bed and read the familiar text, his eyes scanning over the pages. But his mind wandered.
He glanced over his shoulder at the phone. Then he turned in bed and picked up the phone, laying his book aside for the moment. He checked to make sure that the volume was on. It was.
"I could call her. I could call her," he thought.
Then the phone rang in his hand, Bach's Goldberg Variations playing in his palm. The screen read "Alana."
He swiped his finger across the screen and placed her on speakerphone. "Hello, my dear."
"Hannibal. How are you, lover? I've missed you."
Unwittingly, he felt warmth suffuse his chest. He swallowed and answered, "I've missed you too. How is the conference?"
She started off on a story about the keynote speaker and the various presenters, before wrapping up with a synopsis of her own presentation. Ever modest, she claimed she didn't present as well as she'd have liked. Hannibal assured her that she was a talented presenter (which she was, he recalled from when she was his student).
He heard shuffling in the background as he told her about his own day, treating patients and consulting on a new case at the FBI. A flash of annoyance. "What are you doing right now?"
Her answer was unexpected, and thoroughly delightful.
"I'm touching myself," she stated baldly. Her voice dropped, smooth and sensuous, she said, "Thinking of you."
Hannibal felt a rush of blood flow to his loins. He felt almost dizzy at the rush. He pictured her, spread out on the bed, fingers between her thighs.
"Alana. I find your lack of attention to our conversation quite rude," he said, his voice sounding stern but with a teasing note in it.
"I'm sorry, Hannibal. I am being rude. I should stop."
"No, don't stop on my account." He dropped the hand not holding his phone to his groin and lightly squeezed. A groan escaped his lips. He'd never had "phone sex" before. He thought. How was this supposed to go? He paused, then asked, "What are you wearing?"
She laughed. "Nothing but a towel." Another groan on his end. "I'd just gotten out of the shower. And you?"
He responded, "Just pajama bottoms."
"That's far too much clothing if we're going to do this, Hannibal."
He put the phone down on his bed and said, "One moment, please." Then he stood and untied his bottoms, letting them drop to the floor. He sat back down on the bed. "I'm nude now, Alana."
She sighed. "Good. I want you to touch yourself like I'm touching myself."
"How are you touching yourself?" he asked, curious.
He heard her take a deep steadying breath before responding. "I'm running my hands all over my body. They're far too small, but I'm still pretending they are yours. Now I'm squeezing my nipples between my fingers."
Hannibal's hand drifted to his penis, which stood half-hard in his bedroom light. He took himself in his hand and started to stroke.
She continued. "So touch yourself like I am, Hannibal." He heard a light suckling sound on her end. "Suck your fingers. Get them all wet. Then play with your nipples, and pretend it's my hot little tongue running around them."
Oh. She was good. He followed her directions, sticking his thumb and forefinger in his mouth and licking them. Then he took his left nipple in between his fingers and played with it, first gently, then more roughly, just like she would if she'd been with him. He groaned.
"I love the sounds you make," she moaned into the phone. He trailed his nails down his chest, pretending they were hers. Then he took his penis into his hand again, now fully erect.
"My darling, I love hearing you moan," he said. He cast around in his mind for what to say next. She was a natural at this and he felt like her pupil, a reversal of their usual roles.
She must have sensed his confusion, for she said, "Tell me how you'd touch me if you were here right now."
He smiled. "If I were with you right now, Alana, I'd be between your glorious thighs. I'd be biting a path up those thighs to the place you love me best. I'd draw blood as I bit up your thighs, all the way to your sweet center."
She sighed and said, "Continue." He could hear her stroking herself in the background, steady and wet.
He continued to stroke himself as he spoke. "I'd flick my tongue out, lapping around your engorged clitoris. I'd keep going, running my tongue up and down your labial folds, up, down, and around, until I made you cry out with pleasure." He didn't know if he had any talent at "talking dirty" but he enjoyed the images that were running through his head, and by the sounds coming from the other end of the phone, she enjoyed his description.
"I'd reach up and take your breasts into my hands as I continued my ministrations. I'd squeeze and stroke, then take your nipples between my fingers and pull, just how you like." He heard her moan on the other end, and the sound of her wet strokes came faster. He stroked himself faster in response.
"I love the sweet taste of you, my dear Alana. You're so delicious. You're so beautiful." He heard her half-sigh and half-moan on the other end of the phone. "I'd lick you repeatedly until you orgasm, screaming my name." He swallowed hard. "I want to hear you scream my name now, Alana." He chanted, "Come for me. Come for me, darling."
She did, and she screamed his name just how he liked to hear her, wanton and desperate, "Hannibal!"
He jerked his hips up in response to her cry. Another handful of fast strokes and he was orgasming, spewing white strings of ejaculate on his stomach.
He grabbed a handful of tissue and wiped himself down, then deposited the dirty tissues on his side table, listening to her breathing slow on the other end of the phone.
"That was...different," she said, and laughed breathily.
"Different?" he questioned.
"Wonderful," she amended. "It was wonderful." He heard her yawn.
"You have had a long day, my dear. And now, a strenuous evening. Would you like to sleep?"
"Yes, very much so. That was truly wonderful, Hannibal. I still miss you though."
He could hear the smile in her voice, and he smiled too.
"I'll call you tomorrow. Same time, same place...same activity?" She teased.
"It would be my pleasure," he answered.
And then, suddenly-
"I love you." And then the beep as she hung up the phone before he could even process what she said, much less respond.
He lay down in his bed, and placed his hand against his heart, feeling its fast, staccato beat.