tidbit (n.)
1630s, probably from dialectal tid "fond, solicitous, tender" (perhaps by influence of tit (n.2)) + bit (n.1) "morsel."
And Will Graham certainly was a tender morsel, Hannibal mused. Hammered by the cruelties of the world, he sat in the leather chair opposite Hannibal's: psychologically naked, in an induced trance. His eyelashes shadowed the soft flesh beneath his eyes; his mouth was soft as he breathed through parted lips.
And here's where things moved in an unexpected direction.
"You will tell me your name," Hannibal commanded, testing his influence over his charge so that he might further explore the caverns of Will's engaging mind.
"Hannibal," the name emerged as a breathy sigh - almost a plea. Were it not for his customary self-control, the psychiatrist might have started back into his seat.
Had he misjudged? Was Will still conscious?
"Hannibal," Will breathed again, the name fluttering against his lips. This time it was amusement, not shock, that registered on Hannibal's face, as he quirked an eyebrow in curious surprise.
"Where are you, Will?" he wondered aloud. Words flickered on the younger man's mouth as he murmured unintelligibly, his eyelids twitching as he surveyed whatever dreamscape lay before him. Hannibal repeated the question.
"Water," Will answered. "A still lake."
Something was agitating the special agent. Hannibal had watched as the lines between Will's dreams and reality had bled together. He may have even deepened the wound, fascinated at the ways in which Will merged truth and symbol, led by his fearful id into intuitive leaps that he barely understood.
"And where am I, in your world?"
The long silence that followed was punctuated by increasingly laboured breaths as Will began to writhe against the leather back of his seat. A quiet moan of fearful desire brought a slight smile to Hannibal's face as he began to perceive his answer.
"Tell me what you see."
Will gasped. "Light. I see light penetrating the water. It…"
No further words followed, as Will arched upwards, his head falling back to expose his throat.
Just one bite...
In a single, fluid movement, Hannibal was out of his chair, moving towards his patient with the sinuous intent of a jungle cat.
Will didn't move. His head lay back over the edge of the soft chair; his neck still arched with frustrated desire; adam's apple shifting with each soft moan that escaped his panting mouth. His brow furrowed slightly, sensing the presence overshadowing his body and enveloping his mind.
Hannibal brought his face to hover over that of the younger man, his nostrils flaring slightly as he breathed in Will's warm, animal breath. Its soft, damp pressure was delectable, and he felt his own lips parting, just millimetres above Will's, almost brushing their mouths together. He felt his cock straining against the confines of his trousers as the heat of their shared breath pooled downwards into his groin.
You must stop now, Hannibal urged himself. Don't betray everything you've worked for in a moment of foolery.
Just one taste, he decided, allowing the pink tip of his tongue to softly brush against the chapped lips of his unknowing prey.
More.
The throbbing pulse of desire drummed its painful beat through his veins. Gently, with agonising slowness, he probed deeper, running his tongue over Will's sharp teeth; alongside the soft inner skin of his bottom lip.
More, more, more.
Hannibal groaned, taking that plump bottom lip between his own, sucking and nibbling the soft flesh; only releasing it to penetrate Will's mouth; to explore the texture of Will's tongue against his own. A groan from Will vibrated through his mouth, eliciting an unintended moan from him in reply.
Sweetness suffused his body, forcing him to withdraw before things went too far.
Things have already gone too far.
Decisions needed to be made. There was a tension in him that needed addressing and, from the look of thing, Will was in equal need of assistance. He could hardly bring his friend to consciousness with an aching erection, amusing though it might be.
Despite the desire breaking through him like waves against a rock, his voice was stern; authoritative.
"Will, would you like me to help you?"
The reply came in a breathy whisper. "Yes."
"Then you must unzip your trousers for me."
Hannibal watched approvingly as Will's hands went to his jeans, releasing the zipper. Without the inflexible denim to hold it down, the young man's cock sprang free, its head pushing out of his soft, loose boxer shorts. Hannibal felt himself twitch in sympathetic desire.
Will's hands feel back to his sides, and Hannibal moved to kneel between his legs. Before he moved in, he unbuttoned his own trousers, gasping softly as he freed his erection, his hands brushing against the sensitive skin.
It had not been his intention to bring his mouth to Will's groin, but the sight of his dick: long, straight, and fiercely erect, moved him as if he himself was hypnotised.
Once again, his tongue ran over Will's fevered flesh, wrapping around his shaft, moving from base to tip. The salty taste of the head wrought a shudder that rippled through his tense muscles. Will whimpered as if in pain, his spine arched in agonised want.
Curiosity sated, Hannibal grasped Will's cock firmly in one hand, his own erection in the other. He squeezed and slid his pianist fingers over their hard flesh, maintaining a rhythm that kept them both in synch.
As his fingers caressed the tip of his shaft, Will's shaft, he watched Will's dark eyelashes flutter against his cheekbones and wondered what he was dreaming about. Oh yes, he knew about Will's dreams.
Does he feel the hot breath of a stag against his loins? Does he feel the shudder of rough hide against his soft thighs?
Touching Will, plumbing his mind. He was deep inside Will; drawing Will into himself. The taste of his precum in his mouth, taking tiny sips of his soul.
His orgasm came in the same white flash that took him when he killed. It was like death. Somewhere, he could hear Will cry out in release.
Will it be even better than this when I take your life, Will?
Although his murderous instincts were spurred by art; by beauty, Hannibal felt his spent groin stir again at the thought.
No. Enough.
Tissues are a psychiatrist's best friend, and Hannibal had the two of them cleaned up and respectable in a matter of minutes. The look on Will's face was peaceful, now, and Hannibal felt that warm line of friendship between them as he lured him back to consciousness.
His next words were a suggestion and a promise for the future.
"Will, you are beginning to wake up."