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You Would Confine Me

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Hannibal doesn’t want to do it. Will can tell, the second after he suggests it in bed one moonless night, bodies tangled together. He feels Hannibal’s breath hitch behind him, feels him force his breathing, his heartbeat, into a more regulated rhythm.

“That’s… quite an interesting proposal.”

“We don’t have to.” Will shifts, turns to look over his shoulder.

Hannibal’s eyes meet his but he’s looking somewhere far away. “I’m not saying no.”

“It was just an idea.”

Hannibal gives a small nod, and Will can tell he’s struck something, but he can’t tell what. “You’d like it? If I did that?”

Will raises his eyebrows. It feels like a trap.

“Yeah, I would.”

Hannibal’s lowers his lips to Will’s neck. They brush quick against it, a flutter of a kiss, as if they don’t want to touch him for too long. “Alright.”

It took Will a while to find the suit. He could easily have gotten one at a costume store, or online, but that wasn’t good enough. He wanted – needed – it to feel genuine. He found one on a rack in the far back of an army supply store, faded, but the right shade of white, a nearly identical collar, clean, well kept.

The mask he bought at a sex shop. Embarrassment trumped by a sort of white hot thrill in the pit of his stomach, glowing warm as he wrapped his palm around it.

Will laid them both out on the kitchen table one slow afternoon, in plain view of the front door. Hannibal, only a few steps over the threshold, tensed when he saw them. Clearly taken aback. As if he’d forgotten Will had suggested it. Or as if he hoped Will had forgotten. But Will is too eager. He tells Hannibal over dinner that he wants to try it out tonight.

Hannibal’s agreement is silent. He eats slower than usual.

Will is rough when he helps him into the suit, the mask, and he can hear his blood coursing behind his ear drums, like the loud hiss of rushing water, when he secures Hannibal’s arms. Hannibal takes a few steps backwards and stands still. Too still. Tense and uncomfortable. Their bedroom is dimly lit by a singular lamp in the corner, long shadows cast across the bed. Will takes a moment to look Hannibal up and down, eyes lingering as they pass over tightly bound arms, the hard plastic of the mask. He makes no effort to slow his heavy breath, to soften the sharp cut of his gaze. He is going to devour Hannibal, and he wants Hannibal to know.

Will stands with his arms at his sides, the thick heat of anticipation rendering his cock half hard. He takes a purposeful step forward. Hannibal looks as if he wants to take one back, but doesn’t. Spine straightening, he stands taller, eyes darting between Will’s.

Will allows a wave of vicious indifference, hatred, wash over his face. It feels unnervingly natural. Cock straining against his zipper. A milky cloud of condensation on the mask around Hannibal’s mouth.

Will reaches forward, runs his hand along the seam of the suit, pressing his palm to Hannibal’s cock. Rubbing over the fabric. Something in Hannibal’s eyes change. They grow softer, in a way that makes Will’s lungs expand, forcing his ribs apart, pressing against the wall of his chest. He presses a fierce and angry kiss to the mask. Hannibal rocks backwards on his heels with the force of it. He leans forward, tilting his head into the kiss, but Will pulls back. A hand on each of Hannibal’s shoulders.

“No.” Stern.

Will lowers himself, slow, onto his knees. He grips the waist of the jumpsuit, bunching a bit of excess fabric between his fist. He gathers more fabric in his other hand, then pulls, quick, fabric going taut at a seam, then splitting with a loud rip. Muscles in his forearms pulsing, rippling underneath his skin, against his shirt. He feels Hannibal’s eyes on them. Rhythmic as he tears. Jagged lines, flyaway threads, and Will makes tatters of the suit. The bottom half slips to Hannibal’s ankles and he, with Will’s help, steps out of it.

Will studies Hannibal’s cock a moment, hand on either side of Hannibal’s waist, as if he hasn’t quite decided what he wants to do with it. Hannibal’s chest rises and falls with breaths of calm anticipation – halting mid-inhale when Will takes it into his hand, moving his fingers along the slightly flaccid shaft. He grips it, tight, and can feel blood pumping into it underneath his palm. Moves his mouth close. He casts an upwards glance at Hannibal, threatening, voracious. It thickens beneath his fingers. He presses it to his lips, using it to part them. Tongue working circles over the head. Hannibal’s arms shift against the jacket restraints.

He takes Hannibal into his mouth entirely, in one smooth, slow movement. Sliding between his lips at an agonizing rate. One hand steadying the base, the other sliding underneath, fingers running over his balls, massage as gentle as his mouth is slow. Will can feel Hannibal’s heartbeat in his mouth. Broad strokes of his tongue, spit slick. His eyes flick up. Hannibal’s eyes are closed, his lips parted under the mask. Chin quivering as much as the plastic will allow, bursts of hot breath. Will can tell he’s doing his best to stand still, to not make a noise. Admirable, but inevitably futile. Will teases. Sucks his cheeks in, moves his head a bit faster, fingers gripping more of him. He can taste Hannibal now, just a small drop at the back of his throat. It isn’t long before one flick of his tongue elicits a moan from Hannibal, from the depths of his chest, “Mmm-” head rolling back.

Will’s body surges at the sound, a kind of quiet tingling. Dizzying. He lets Hannibal, rigid, fall from his mouth. Hannibal moves his hips forward, involunatry, head still resting on his shoulder. Will places his palms flat against Hannibal’s hipbones, pushes back against them.

Hannibal looks down and seems to realize what’s happening.

“Will, please-”

Will shakes his head, muscles in his cheeks again morphing into an icy expression. He sits back on his heels, then stands. Face to face with Hannibal. He’s breathing heavy against the mask, trying to keep his shoulders still. Will grips them, firm, fingers pressing hard and painful into flesh. He turns Hannibal towards the bed and shoves him onto it, falling, in one swift motion, atop him. Chest on Hannibal’s back, the hard line of his body, pinning him down. Heaving against each other. Cock pressed hard against Hannibal’s ass. Hannibal’s, unattended, aching.

Hannibal shifts, or rather, tries, unable to move much, Will’s weight pulling fabric taught behind his back, his arms bound tight and uncomfortable around his abdomen. Head rolled to the side so the holes in the mask aren’t pressed to the bed. It’s hot. Will can see his face reddening, sweat underneath the straps. He threads his fingers through Hannibal’s hair and shifts some of his weight into his wrist, pushing Hannibal’s head hard into the mattress.

Will snatches the lubricant from the bedside table. Uses his free hand, his teeth. Struggles, for a moment with the bottle, awkwardly managing to squeeze just enough – barely enough – into his hand. Hannibal tenses beneath him when he pushes his fingers in, rough, makes a sort of strangled noise.

“Will, that-”

Will cuts him off by pressing his head harder into fabric. He grunts.

He moves his body against Hannibal’s in rhythm with his fingers. Light against his prostate. Just enough motion to cause a small amount of friction, but no real relief. Small, teasing amounts of pleasure. Hannibal squirms against him, pushing his ass against Will’s cock. Will responds by grabbing the straps of the mask, pulling it up, tight on Hannibal’s face.


Will pulls tighter. Hannibal’s head lifts off the bed, hair gathered between Will’s fingers. He tries again, futile, to move his arms, and Will can’t take it anymore. Withdraws his fingers. Fumbling at the base of his shaft. He forces himself into Hannibal, far too quick, far too hard, drawing a sharp inhale from him. His protest is muffled against hard plastic. The unpleasantness of the friction is dull in comparison to the thrill Will feels, filling him up, pouring out of him. White and ringing in his ears. Hannibal, underneath him, completely and utterly powerless.

Will fucks him with hard and angry thrusts. Hannibal tight around him, not quite moving with the rhythm, stiff, huffing shallow exhales as Will ruts into him. Will pays no mind to needs other than his own, to Hannibal’s weak protests. Eventually, their breath, their movements synchronize. Hannibal begins to loosen. Breathing deeper. His shoulders fall forward, loose against the bed. He leans his head into Will’s grasp. His grunts take on a contented tone and suddenly Will feels the intoxicating surge in his belly begin to subside. Frantic to hold fast to it, he pulls out. Hannibal cranes his neck to look over his shoulder at Will.

The look in his eye, the redness of his face, deep lines where the mask has pressed painful into his skin. The feeling returns, a swell, crashing over Will, deafening him in the process. His legs quiver. He gets up, hardly able to stand, grabs a fistful of fabric at the small of Hannibal’s back where the two sleeves overlap. Another hand slips underneath Hannibal’s arm. He hauls him up off the bed, forces him onto the ground, knees burning across carpet.

Will works at himself with his hands now, staring, vicious, at Hannibal, at his erection. He’s close, he knows he’s close, his cock presses to the mask. Hannibal squints his eyes shut, turns his head away from Will’s cock. Will grips his head, forces it foreward. Hannibal opens his eyes, a gray wash over them, a defeated haze. He looks up at Will with an emptiness that sets Will on fire. Will comes with a force that nearly brings him to his knees. Hot, slick, dripping down the mask, spilling behind it, mixing with Hannibal’s spit, over his lips.

Will’s hand is on Hannibal’s shoulder. Doubled over. Lips pressed to the top of Hannibal’s head. He takes a stumbling step backwards, collapses onto the bed, thick breaths, open mouth, chest heaving. His head rolls back. Cracks his neck.

He regards, for a moment, Hannibal’s cock, rigid, deep pink, dripping. Hannibal watches him, breathing just as heavy, if not heavier. Silent. Will blinks slow. Stands up. Walks to Hannibal.

“You…” He reaches behind him, undoing the arms of his suit. “…can finish yourself off.”

Hannibal’s arms fall limp against his sides. He sits back on his heels.

A thick pane of glass appears between them. Will can see his own face in the reflection, rage and want hidden underneath the veneer of cold apathy. He can see what his face has done to Hannibal’s. The bottomless pupils of a man gutted.


Will turns and leaves the room, leaves Hannibal kneeling alone in his cell, face inches from the glass.