for Azha, based on this gifset. Hannigram piano sex.
Hannibal is beautiful when he plays piano, his long, elegant fingers dancing over the keys as he plays with exquisite precision. Will assumes, anyway, because it sounds right—though he himself hasn’t played in years and never with great proficiency. As entranced as he is, though, he can’t help feeling a little put-out. Hannibal’s concentration is absolute. Every minute bit of his attention is focused on the piano, and Will is left sitting awkwardly on his sofa and wondering if Hannibal even remembers he’s there.
Well. He can change that.
Will stands up and walks, quietly, to Hannibal’s sign. There’s no indication the doctor knows he moved, and Will wastes no time knocking Hannibal’s right hand aside and straddling his lap. The piano makes an awful sound as his ass hits the keys.
Hannibal gives him an inscrutable look. Will is suddenly nervous. Although he often finds himself squirming under that harsh gaze, Hannibal has never… But he never interrupted Hannibal before, either.
“You’re being quite rude, Will,” Hannibal says, though his hands come to rest on Will’s hips. Will stares at the buttons on Hannibal’s shirt.
“So were you,” he says. His eyes flick up, meeting Hannibal’s gaze head-on. “You were ignoring me.”
Hannibal smiles, a slight tilt of his mouth and deep lines by his eyes. Will clutches his shoulders and leans in, the shift of weight causing another ugly noise from the piano. He ignores it in favor of kissing Hannibal, hard, tongue and teeth and nails across his face ensuring that Hannibal can’t ignore him. Hannibal pushes the bottom of Will’s shirt up and traces his thumbs along the sharp hipbones. He doesn’t fight Will’s frantic pace, but soothes him, eases him into a slow, almost chaste press of lips, and Will is shaking.
“How—” he gasps, pressing his cheek against the palm of Hannibal’s hand. Hannibal just smiles.
“I’m not ignoring you now,” he says. Will nods. Hannibal presses the heel of his other hand to Will’s crotch, and he nearly screams—he didn’t realize how hard he was, how painful his cock feels pressed against his tight jeans. “Do you want my help?”
Will nods again, frantic. “Please,” he whines, squirming on the piano keys, and Hannibal’s eyes flutter shut like he’s listening to a brilliant symphony and not a man abusing his instrument. “Hannibal—”
“Shh, shh,” Hannibal whispers, and lowers the zipper of Will’s jeans agonizingly slowly. He manhandles Will off the piano and into his lap, so that Will can feel Hannibal’s own hardness under his balls, and rubs his thumb over the swollen head of Will’s cock. Will cries out, high and desperate, and Hannibal brings his head down for a kiss. His tongue is gentle, lapping softly at Will’s lower lip and darting shallowly into his mouth. He smirks as Will tries to chase the kiss, but he fails and will always fail.
“Do you like my music, Will?” Hannibal asks. It takes a long moment for the words to reach the part of Will’s brain that can translate sound to language, and longer for him to realize his voice isn’t working. He nods instead. Hannibal’s hand has stilled; Will rocks his hips into the light fist and groans. “But you did not appreciate it. Or you would have let me finish.” Will nods again. He’ll agree to anything, if it makes Hannibal move his hand again. He’s barely getting any friction this way. He needs.
Hannibal’s hands leave him entirely.
“You have been disrespectful, Will,” he says. “Please; take a seat. If you are good, I might let you come later.”
His cock aches. He can’t breathe; can’t think; he’s hard and leaking and desperate and Hannibal is looking at him like he’s a particularly uninteresting houseplant. He whines miserably into the crook of Hannibal’s neck.
But Hannibal is stronger, and he lifts Will off his lap. His jeans pool around his ankles. Hannibal doesn’t make a move to fix them, just sets Will on his knees, on the floor, and rubs his thumb over Will’s wet, swollen lips.
“Quiet,” he says. He ruffles Will’s hair. “Now, listen.”
Every note throbs in his cock, but he is good, and he keeps his hands clenched together behind his back. The sight of Hannibal’s fingers—fingers that had just been wrapped around him—stroking the keys makes it even worse, but he can’t look away. His cock is dripping onto Hannibal’s expensive carpet. His nails are probably drawing blood.
And then Hannibal hits a chord, strong and resonating, and Will can’t stop himself. He screams, throws his head back and writhes, coming hard over his thighs and the floor and it hurts, coming untouched, and he thinks he might have blacked out for a second because the music has stopped and Hannibal is crouched in front of him, pushing sweaty hair out of his eyes.
“Good boy,” he murmurs.
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