babby's first hannibal fic
Title: To Sleep, Perchance to Dream
Author: captainswank
Pairing: hannigram
Rating: R
Words: ~900
Summary: Will Graham lives in a constant state of violation.
Warnings: extremely dubious consent
Will Graham opens his eyes and he’s standing in Hannibal’s elegant foyer. It’s not where he should be right now. He should be at home in bed, tossing and sweating and surrounded by strays. But now he’s in Hannibal’s house and the doctor is ushering him in with a face lined with what looks a lot like worry.
It’s not fair, Will thinks, that as always Dr. Lecter is impeccably dressed in his tailored suit and tie and his calm and focus, while he’s here in the boxers and t-shirt in which he sleeps, and an intense feeling of disorientation. He’s not even armoured by the barrier of his glasses.
Will is well aware that he’s not running on all cylinders, and a part of him is demanding that he gathers his wits here. But it’s difficult to concentrate on the protestations because there’s something about Hannibal’s voice, something low and soft and warm, talking about him needing to relax, and he’s steered towards Hannibal’s couch. The notion is dark and amusing but even a wry grin is challenging in his exhaustion and he sinks down.
Hannibal sits beside him and is murmuring again, into his ear this time. Will wants to move away but suddenly there are gentle hands on his shoulders and he goes still. This is strange, absurd and unprofessional and Will says no and laughs a sick laugh and shakes his head, shakes his head and closes his eyes and tries to move away, feeling the hysteria begin saturate his consciousness. But Hannibal’s hands are firm and he presses his fingers into Will’s back. He digs deep into Will’s musculature and Will wants it to stop but it’s good. He shakes his head no again and wants to move away but it’s really, really good.
Will starts to sweat.
But it doesn’t seem to bother Hannibal and he doesn’t stop. His hands run up and down Will’s back and shoulders, searching for tightness and knots onto which he can bear down and release. And normally he would never but Will’s so damned tired that he starts to lose himself in it, in the quiet of the early morning and the man’s hands on him and the feeling of weeks, months, a lifetime of tension being pushed and kneaded out of him. But it’s still an uneasy sort of calm so he’s quick to crawl back into consciousness when Hannibal’s hands change their pattern. His strong fingers aren’t pressing in anymore; now his warm hands are flat, moving down Will’s back again, this time slipping around him. Slowly he inches them over Will’s sides, catching a little on his tee. Hannibal’s almost right up against him now, warm breath on the back of his neck, and Will freezes. There’s a moment in which Hannibal waits for him to fight or to run, but he stays solid and static in place and that’s when Hannibal’s hands finally reach his hips. No, Will says again, in between shuddering breaths. No, and it’s more a whisper through clenched teeth, clenched eyes, Will tightened up again and twitching.
And then Hannibal’s hands slide down over his naked thighs, prickling in the cool air, and then the soft thin material of his boxers, and up to cover the rock-hard erection that’s pushing against them.
Hannibal rubs him through his shorts and Will makes a sound, a tight hard noise from inside his throat, and allows his body to fall against Hannibal’s. At that he’s rearranged a little, settled with his back to Hannibal’s chest, that smooth voice in his ear promising to help him sleep. His thighs fall open and his hips lift up a little for the hand on his cock, and his head tips back onto Hannibal’s shoulder. The palm against his prick feels so good and the teeth on his neck feel so good too. Hannibal bites down and sucks at him, holds Will against him with one hand and rubs and strokes his cock slow and deliberate with the other.
It’s quiet in that dark room, Hannibal humming whenever Will’s body twitches against his own. Will’s breathing is heavy, shaking. He jerks and trembles when Hannibal moves his wrist faster, every sensation too intense, from the sweat on his legs making them catch and stick against the material of the couch to the soft scratch of Hannibal’s perfect suit against his bare arms.
Hannibal knows then to slide his hand back up to the hem of Will’s shirt, and under the worn elastic of his boxers. At the feel of bare skin against the wet head of Will’s prick he moans low for the first time and Hannibal smiles. It’s overwhelming now, a little too much, being surrounded by heat and hands and hot breath and Hannibal speeds up the flicking of his wrist and Will tenses up against Hannibal and that’s when he loses it, loses it hard.
Hannibal brings his hand out of Will’s boxers, covered in his come. Will watches through half-mast, heavy eyelids as Hannibal lifts his fingers to his lips and slowly licks Will off of every single one. His eyes flutter and close before he can catch Hannibal sucking the last of it away.
Will Graham opens his eyes, awoken by the early morning shuffling of his dogs. And he feels hot and damp and sick.
Author: captainswank
Pairing: hannigram
Rating: R
Words: ~900
Summary: Will Graham lives in a constant state of violation.
Warnings: extremely dubious consent
Will Graham opens his eyes and he’s standing in Hannibal’s elegant foyer. It’s not where he should be right now. He should be at home in bed, tossing and sweating and surrounded by strays. But now he’s in Hannibal’s house and the doctor is ushering him in with a face lined with what looks a lot like worry.
It’s not fair, Will thinks, that as always Dr. Lecter is impeccably dressed in his tailored suit and tie and his calm and focus, while he’s here in the boxers and t-shirt in which he sleeps, and an intense feeling of disorientation. He’s not even armoured by the barrier of his glasses.
Will is well aware that he’s not running on all cylinders, and a part of him is demanding that he gathers his wits here. But it’s difficult to concentrate on the protestations because there’s something about Hannibal’s voice, something low and soft and warm, talking about him needing to relax, and he’s steered towards Hannibal’s couch. The notion is dark and amusing but even a wry grin is challenging in his exhaustion and he sinks down.
Hannibal sits beside him and is murmuring again, into his ear this time. Will wants to move away but suddenly there are gentle hands on his shoulders and he goes still. This is strange, absurd and unprofessional and Will says no and laughs a sick laugh and shakes his head, shakes his head and closes his eyes and tries to move away, feeling the hysteria begin saturate his consciousness. But Hannibal’s hands are firm and he presses his fingers into Will’s back. He digs deep into Will’s musculature and Will wants it to stop but it’s good. He shakes his head no again and wants to move away but it’s really, really good.
Will starts to sweat.
But it doesn’t seem to bother Hannibal and he doesn’t stop. His hands run up and down Will’s back and shoulders, searching for tightness and knots onto which he can bear down and release. And normally he would never but Will’s so damned tired that he starts to lose himself in it, in the quiet of the early morning and the man’s hands on him and the feeling of weeks, months, a lifetime of tension being pushed and kneaded out of him. But it’s still an uneasy sort of calm so he’s quick to crawl back into consciousness when Hannibal’s hands change their pattern. His strong fingers aren’t pressing in anymore; now his warm hands are flat, moving down Will’s back again, this time slipping around him. Slowly he inches them over Will’s sides, catching a little on his tee. Hannibal’s almost right up against him now, warm breath on the back of his neck, and Will freezes. There’s a moment in which Hannibal waits for him to fight or to run, but he stays solid and static in place and that’s when Hannibal’s hands finally reach his hips. No, Will says again, in between shuddering breaths. No, and it’s more a whisper through clenched teeth, clenched eyes, Will tightened up again and twitching.
And then Hannibal’s hands slide down over his naked thighs, prickling in the cool air, and then the soft thin material of his boxers, and up to cover the rock-hard erection that’s pushing against them.
Hannibal rubs him through his shorts and Will makes a sound, a tight hard noise from inside his throat, and allows his body to fall against Hannibal’s. At that he’s rearranged a little, settled with his back to Hannibal’s chest, that smooth voice in his ear promising to help him sleep. His thighs fall open and his hips lift up a little for the hand on his cock, and his head tips back onto Hannibal’s shoulder. The palm against his prick feels so good and the teeth on his neck feel so good too. Hannibal bites down and sucks at him, holds Will against him with one hand and rubs and strokes his cock slow and deliberate with the other.
It’s quiet in that dark room, Hannibal humming whenever Will’s body twitches against his own. Will’s breathing is heavy, shaking. He jerks and trembles when Hannibal moves his wrist faster, every sensation too intense, from the sweat on his legs making them catch and stick against the material of the couch to the soft scratch of Hannibal’s perfect suit against his bare arms.
Hannibal knows then to slide his hand back up to the hem of Will’s shirt, and under the worn elastic of his boxers. At the feel of bare skin against the wet head of Will’s prick he moans low for the first time and Hannibal smiles. It’s overwhelming now, a little too much, being surrounded by heat and hands and hot breath and Hannibal speeds up the flicking of his wrist and Will tenses up against Hannibal and that’s when he loses it, loses it hard.
Hannibal brings his hand out of Will’s boxers, covered in his come. Will watches through half-mast, heavy eyelids as Hannibal lifts his fingers to his lips and slowly licks Will off of every single one. His eyes flutter and close before he can catch Hannibal sucking the last of it away.
Will Graham opens his eyes, awoken by the early morning shuffling of his dogs. And he feels hot and damp and sick.