Ch. 3: Illusions and Fairytales

Summary: Will anxiously waits for payback after giving Hannibal a taste of how he would have misbehaved at the opera. Hannibal doesn’t disappoint, nor does he do anything in half-measures. Art historical porn ensues.

Note: There is a very brief scene of canon-compliant NON-CONSENSUAL DRUGGING and references to Will’s anxiety about experiencing Hannibal’s violent manipulation (again). This story does NOT contain non-con sex.




Will spends the following day on tenterhooks, waiting for some devious payback for the hot, frantic, vulgarity he visited on Hannibal. Hannibal appears oblivious to his discomfort, happily puttering around the house, reshuffling the bookshelves and pantry items to better reconcile Will’s additions into his preferred organizational system. He occupies himself for hours in the kitchen preparing a sumptuous feast of roast duck. Will only interrupts when he hears grumbling in Lithuanian. He is informed that the house is woefully lacking in supplies for a decent table centerpiece.

“I’ve got some goose and turkey tail feathers out in the garage and there’s quail eggs in the fridge that are probably too far gone to safely eat. Would those work?”

Hannibal looks all too pleased with himself when he presents the result. Unhindered by improvisation, the centerpiece sails well past outlandish and takes a hard left at over-the-top. Will sets the rest of the table while Hannibal goes to the bedroom to change. When he returns, his hair is slicked back with styling cream and he has donned a dark summer-weight wool suit with a floral silk tie.

“Good to see you again, Dr. Lecter. I wondered how long you would try to resist the siren call of all those handsome suits gathering dust.”

“Alas, I have succumbed to temptation.” He places a gentle hand on Will’s shoulder, surveying the place settings with approval.

“But now I’m underdressed. Give me a sec.”

Will decides to complement him in a light grey suit. The pick stitching is done so exquisitely that Hannibal’s eyes keep roving over his lapels while they eat. Will talks about the music he listened to – and then couldn’t listen to – when he wanted to be reminded of Hannibal. Hannibal, on the other hand, waxes about having taken up landscape photography in place of his sketchbooks. “The only thing my pencils seemed to be capable of drawing was you.” Neither mention the fact that Will had framed and displayed several of the drawings he had found among Hannibal’s things. They were beautiful, if not overly complimentary, and Will takes too much pleasure at the fact that Bedelia was forced to appreciate Hannibal’s detailed study of his ass every time she hung her coat in the foyer.

It is a light and relaxed conversation, even for them. Will is starting to think Hannibal must be happy simply to partake in and share quiet domestic activities. He’s almost ready to concede that his day of keyed-up anxiety was misspent.

Almost.

They move to the sitting room overlooking the ocean for digestifs. Hannibal proposes a toast.

“To shattered illusions, dear Will.”

Will raises his cordial glass and takes a sip. The port tastes off. The rim of the glass had traces of….He looks to Hannibal and the walls of the room start to slide sideways.

“Oh fuuuc -” he slurs.

<> 

Will wakes to darkness. The soft choral sounds of music filter somewhere in the background. His limbs and tongue feel heavy. “Han..Hannibal?”

“Oh good, you’ve rejoined us.”

“Where are we?” He can smell flowers and burning firewood. His fingers tighten over what feels like the armrests of a chair.

“Would you be so good as to stay put and indulge me for a moment longer? Don’t move yet.”

“Okay.” Will’s heart is thundering in his ears.

“About half an hour ago, you realized I drugged you.”

“Yes.”

“How did that make you feel?”

“Panicked…and….”

“Go on.”

“I expected it. Something like that.”

“Is it fair to say you expected something violating your confidence in me and your consent? Are you expecting something violent now?”

He nods his head. When he does, he feels a knot at the back of his skull. He’s blindfolded. Hannibal doesn’t want him to see whatever awaits him.

“You cannot see anything. Where do you imagine you are?”

“I don’t know. I’m disoriented.”

“What do you imagine I’ve done?”

“Taken me somewhere…Somewhere I don’t know. Where…I can’t escape. Am I tied down? My body feels so heavy. I know I am turned away from you and that you’re close, but…I’m…I’m scared.”

“You are feeling the effects of a very mild sedative. One I will never use on you again unless it is a medical necessity. I apologize for the misdirection. There’s nothing holding you down.” Will swallows thickly and shivers. “Your tie is blindfolding you. It is easily removed when you are ready.”

Dread blooms under his skin. He can feel the adrenalin coursing in his veins, telling him to run, run, run with every heartbeat. “Fuck, Hannibal…”

“Mind the language, dear one. You’re meant to be playing a part.”

“Who, exactly?”

“Baglione’s Sacred Love defeating Profane Cupid.”

Will crumples his brow. Some kind of painting? He doesn’t know it. He tries to pinpoint the music. “This is Fauré’s Requiem.”

“Indeed it is.” Hannibal had often played this when they drove somewhere together. It was soothing. Should he be soothed by this? His heartrate evens out as his brain starts to process what is happening analytically. “In Paradisum, to be precise. A work criticized by some for failing to convey the possible horrors of life after death. Far too happy, it was said. Ecstasy and bliss instead of fire and brimstone.”

A hesitant smile breaks across Will’s face. No detail here was insignificant. He wants to understand what Hannibal is trying to show him. He wants to see. “Can I get up?”

“But of course.”

Will pulls the tie off and finds that he is sitting in the master bedroom, facing the window. In his lap lay an arrow. His crossbow and quiver are set against the wall at his feet. He stands, arrow in hand, and turns.

Before him, splayed out in all his nude glory, is Hannibal, tangled in a meticulously posed white sheet on the floor. Behind him the fireplace is blazing, gilding the scene in a dancing, golden light. Cups of bountiful fruit have overturned and spilled. White goose feathers are scattered about and intermingled with leaves of sheet music and wildflowers.

It takes Will’s breath away. He steps toward the spectacle.

“Baglione and Caravaggio were masters and contemporaries,” Hannibal explained. “Like all great artists, they quarreled hideously over their secret admiration for each other. They spread libelous untruths about the other. They even took their battles to the courthouse.”

“Did either do time?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. Caravaggio did. His case was not helped by his reputation for violence.”

“I see.” Christ, Hannibal could be heavy-handed with his metaphors.

“It was a brief stint, however, and Baglione later painted the work you see represented before you – to show the world his anger. He used Caravaggio’s own style to mock him. Contorted his depiction of Cupid and cast him to the ground in contempt.”

“He used Caravaggio’s own brushstrokes to reveal his ridiculous delusions.” Will is starting to appreciate the irony. Hannibal did nothing by half-measures – not even in his own self-deprecation. It whets his fascination. He edges closer and peers down at him. As if on cue, Hannibal drops his head back just so and the firelight spills down over his knife-blade cheekbones, pooling shadows into his sensual lips and broad collar, highlighting every swelling muscle and contour in chiaroscuro perfection. He opens his amber eyes and stares up at Will with absolute contrition.

Will doesn’t hear his own gasp. He doesn’t feel his heart skip a beat. “Beautiful,” he says in awe.

“Look at you, vengeful angel. Only you understand pure emotion. Only you love how god loves – completely and without mercy.”

The arrow slides in Will’s hand and for a moment he’s struck with the impulse to impale the beauty before him. He is too perfect for mortals’ eyes. No one can see Hannibal like this but him. No one else can ever know he still walks this earth. Hannibal’s life is wholly in his hands. Forever. Until they are no more.

A sly smile slithers over Hannibal’s mouth. “Baglione painted two figures laying defeated under Sacred Love – Caravaggio’s Profane Cupid was but one.”

“And the other?”

“The devil himself.”

Will matches Hannibal’s devious smile.

“The feathers should be black,” he says of the décor scattered around them.

“Only Caravaggio painted blasphemous, black-winged angels, Will. We’re in Baglione’s vision.”

“Suppose all we are is the profane. Suppose all I want is a fallen angel. What then?”

Hannibal looks at him, naked and open. “Then that poor broken soul should count himself unreservedly blessed.”

Will tosses the arrow aside and falls on Hannibal, searching out his mouth. Hannibal arches to receive him and they moan at the contact – skin over skin, tongue upon tongue, breathe exchanged for fleeting, ragged breath. Will’s attention is furious. He pours every bit of his empathy at him, devouring him with hungry hands and a hungrier mouth. Feathers and fruit go flying, scattered thoughtlessly in every direction. The logs in the fire shift suddenly with a loud crack, sending angry red sparks floating up above them.

“I’m spoiling your pretty picture,” Will pants.

“This is our canvas, Will. Yours and mine.”

“You’d let someone change your perfect design?”

“You’re the only one. It’s only ever been you. The first and last.”

Will rakes a hand through Hannibal’s coif and drags his nails down his sides for good measure. “We’ll be ruined with pleasure by the end of it.”

“A fine way to go.”

“So long as we’re together. Always, yes?”

“Always, Will.”

Will’s next words are unplanned, but he means them wholeheartedly. “Promise me, Hannibal.”

Hannibal’s hands link in his and he pulls Will close. “I promise you. I promise on my sister’s grave,” he swears and time slows for one epic, interminable second. The flicker of flame catches in Hannibal’s bloody eyes and Will feels lightheaded. The bargain has just sealed their fate. There is no going back. There is only forward.

“Take off your armor, mylimasis.” Will sits up astride Hannibal and struggles out of his waistcoat, then his shirt, pausing to paste a trail of kisses down Hannibal’s torso. When he works out of his pants, Will bites his way back up his inner thighs, sending Hannibal grasping blindly at the tousled sheet below them. In an instant, Will is free of his clothes and sets upon Hannibal with renewed determination.

The first time Will takes Hannibal’s length in his mouth, Hannibal spreads his legs wide in wanton pleasure and cries out. The second stroke has him gasping in Lithuanian. On the third, Will brushes a wet thumb behind his taut testicles and makes Hannibal pray to the god of forgotten control.

“Will!” he sobs in shock. Will raises his head from where he was at work, dripping cock lodged deep in his throat.

“What?” he says, releasing him with as rude a pop as he can muster.

Hannibal’s mouth drops open and he blinks hard to steady himself. “You’re…you’re positively wicked. Where…or…how…”

He smiles and licks a long stripe up the side of the dick in his hand. “I worked vice when I was on the force. Sometimes I didn’t have the heart to bust the nice ones.” Hannibal makes a strangled sound and drops back flat on the ground. He is done for.

“Oh you didn’t know, did you?” Will abandons his groin and works elsewhere, realizing he’s moved too fast, taken Hannibal too far to the edge, too soon. He falls into a deliberate pace, discovering Hannibal’s body, giving him delicate tingling pleasures and nibbles here and there. He kisses his palms, those hands that bring such beauty and horror. He kisses the scars on his wrists, the scornful love note he sent via Matthew Brown. He sinks his teeth into the gunshot scar on his belly, imagining he can taste salt and blood and kidney.

“You fancied me an innocent. A pliable boy for your strict training.” He inches down, licking and sucking the flange of Hannibal’s hip. Every inch he moves lower keys Hannibal’s body up another note. Hannibal’s keening now, close to begging. As if reading his mind, Will says, “You’ll have to ask for what you want.”

“Please,” he murmurs. Dissatisfied with the answer, Will gives Hannibal’s balls a firm tug. “Ah…Yes, please.”

He licks between the hot globes of his ass.

Mano meilė, prašome…Please!!”

“I didn’t say to ask nicely, Hannibal.” He pauses and pushes his tongue inside. Hannibal is incoherent, knees drawn up, words drowned in sensation, arms twisting in divine agony. Will slides a wet finger in place of his tongue and strokes, breaching his most sensitive place. He adds a second and Hannibal grows even more nonsensical, waggling cock leaking all over his abdomen and writhing under Will’s touch.

Suddenly the pressure is gone. “Will!” he bellows.

“What is it?”

Hannibal sits up, wild eyed and nostrils flaring. “You fuck me this instant you rude, kinky boy!”

Will smiles in triumph. “I’ve been waiting years to hear that delectable mouth utter something so filthy. All those filthy things you put into it on a daily basis. I can’t imagine a more perfectly obscene thing finally coming out of it. All. Because. Of me.” He rolls back on his ankles and stretches out, slicking his rock hard erection with a free hand.

“Lascivious, wretched -”

“Shut up and have me, since you’ve asked so well.”

Hannibal is on his hands and knees in a flash and is crawling over Will, looking like a lion on the hunt. He first licks into Will’s mouth then dips down and sucks messily on his cock.

Will groans, grabbing a hank of Hannibal’s hair. “Oh fuck you’re good at that!”

“Shhhh, rude one. Please.” Hannibal drizzles a lubricant on him and straddles Will’s lap. He kisses the fingertips of each of Will’s hands, letting their arousal slide together, and then drops to cage him in with muscular arms. Will gazes up at the powerful beast. He is taken aback by how tenderly he nuzzles him, how reverently he kisses him, how carefully those deadly teeth are sheathed just for him.

“You’re so beautiful,” Will whispers.  Hannibal cups his face and rolls his hips and sinks down, inch by blessed inch, to take everything Will has to offer.  

When their bodies conjoin, there is nothing and no one else. Neither can breathe, the contact is so intense. Neither can think, the sensation is so complete. Words aren’t enough. A lifetime won’t be enough.

It seems like an eternity passes before Hannibal cants his hips slowly and Will’s eyes roll back. He tightens his grip around Will’s shoulders to bring him back into the present.

“Is this okay?” Will asks.

Hannibal is so overcome he cannot speak. He simply closes his dark eyes in agreement.

“Show me, Hannibal. Show me how wrong I was.”

Hannibal starts making love to him at a torturous, heartrending pace. This is no display. There is no artifice, no tableau. It is simply Hannibal, growing slick with sweat at his efforts to please his lover. Hannibal, a man apart from all others. Hannibal, full of uncomposed need and desire and lust. Hannibal, finally surrendering himself completely.

Will slowly traces his hands over Hannibal’s strong back, down to his hips, over his round ass. He presses into him and Hannibal lets a soft moan into the shell of his ear. The sound goes straight to Will’s groin and makes him even harder, if that is possible. He matches the movement again and Hannibal groans louder. 

“Harder,” he asks.

Will sits up and wraps his arms around Hannibal and thrusts. Hannibal’s head falls back and Will feeds off his greediness, pounding into the hot heat gripping him. Hannibal braces on Will’s knees and starts shamelessly grinding onto his pelvis.

“That’s it. Ride me.”

He does.

“You like that cock?”

“Oh yes.”

“Take all of it, Hannibal.”

He lets out a guttural growl. “More. Say more.”

“Oh you like your filthy, rude boy?”

“Uh huh.”

“You want me to be your nasty boy?”

“Yes, yes….”

“I’m yours, Hannibal.”

“Mine…” Rivulets of perspiration slick the places where they are joined and Will isn’t sure, but Hannibal might be weeping from pleasure.

“I’m going to fuck you until all you know is my name.”

Hannibal’s response is something akin to an inarticulate howl. He clenches down on Will so hard he nearly wrings the orgasm out of him right then and there. Will holds him and turns them over, placing Hannibal’s hands around his hips. Hannibal guides him, pulling him, moving him faster and faster.

“Hot and fast, baby?”

“Yes.”

Will gives him just that, balls clapping loudly.

“Tell me,” Hannibal pants.

“I’m going to make you come.”

“Yes. God, yes.” Hannibal is most definitely sobbing.

“Ask me.”

“Will…”

“Say ‘Fuck me, Will’.”

Hannibal is too far gone to make the words. His mouth tries and comes out with disorderly sounds.

“Say it.” Will pulls all the way out and Hannibal’s eyes go wide.

“Fuck! Yes, okay Will? Please!”

Close enough. Will slams into him just right and Hannibal’s nails go straight into his back.

“Will!” he chants. “Oh, Will…Will, Will…” he tries to warn him.

“Oh god, Hannibal, I’m…”

The tension and the heat and passion draw out to the breaking point and they crash, exploding into orgasm. Hannibal is paralyzed by the shock, huge waves of cum jetting between their bellies, Will’s own release filling him up. Will’s heart is pounding in a crazed rhythm and he’s wrapped around Hannibal’s limp form like a second skin. He’s so overwrought he thinks he might die just like this. Hannibal is in the throes of nothing short of rapture.

When Will finally slides to Hannibal’s side, they lay there together, limbs tangled and eyes locked. Will runs his fingers through Hannibal’s hair, taming it back into place, resetting the mask he took off only for him. Hannibal strokes Will’s cheek over and over.

“Tell me something true,” Will mouths in near silence.

Hannibal lets out a soft sigh. “You came from a place beyond my wildest dreams.”

“Blindsided by me.”

“Very much so, yes. In the best of ways.”

Will traces the sensuous bow of his mouth and kisses him slowly, tongue curling in to taste him. “I’m in love with you, Hannibal. I have been for many years.”

He closes his eyes at the admission. “Sacred or profane?”

Will laughs. “Both. All. More than those words can contain.” He falls silent for a moment when Hannibal doesn’t respond. “Thank you.”

“You are most welcome.” There is hesitation in his voice. “Has this been revelatory?”

“Sinfully so. Although part of me hopes you think I have other misconceptions which need clarifying. Plus, I am going to need you to train me a little if I’m to handle…all of that.” He waves at the thick length still half-hard between Hannibal’s legs.

“Is that right?” he snorts.

“This was gorgeous. And you…” He drops a kiss on the tip of his nose “…you were magnificent. I’m not sure I can surpass this.”

“Perhaps all the illusions have been shattered. Perhaps now we need only weave fairytales.”

Will settles a hand on Hannibal’s chest. “Let it be a fairytale, then, mano meilė.”

Hannibal pulls back, stunned.

“What? You thought the Lecter heir wouldn’t trouble himself to pick up a bit of the family language?”

Hannibal kisses him hard, uncaring that they are sticky and rolling on the ground in the ruins of their lovemaking. He reaches for the bottle of Lecter Dvaras port he’d brought upstairs.

Will grabs it for him and pulls the cork out with his teeth. “What shall we toast to?”

“To family, I should think,” Hannibal says.

“To family – and to fairytales.” He takes a swig straight from the bottle and feeds it to  Hannibal from his mouth.

 

~THE END~

 

 

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To the Sequel

Giovanni Baglione, Sacred and Profane Love (1602)

Baglione

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