Hi! I hope you feel better now! I DO love how you described the tender relationship between Will and chubby Hannibal, so I came to ask you for another similar fic, I hope you don't mind such an attack by fluff promts.
Over the years of living with Will, the doctor, relaxed and accustomed to comfort, becomes fat (he is not feedee, he just eats well). Will finds his changes comforting and therapeutic, and when he feels that he can't cope with his his empathy, he hugs his husband tightly, enjoying his softness and warmth, feeds him and kneads his soft sides and belly to calm down.
Thank you in advance!
I'm feeling much better, thank you!
I absolutely do not mind fluff prompts at all. Fluff occupies a very special place in my heart...especially kinky fluff.
Short and sweet, but I do hope you enjoy!
Hannibal knew what Will needed the moment he entered the soft sanctuary of their home, though he had not texted nor called ahead. He could smell it, that tang on the air almost like ozone. Like a wire stripped of its insulation and left to degrade, a moment’s neglect from starting a fire.
Will was raw and sparking. It was Hannibal’s job, one he had quite literally crawled on hands and knees to secure, to safely resheathe him.
They both knew by now what was needed, their various parts, their places, as well as they knew the rhythm of one another’s heartbeats. It was a dance whose steps had worn grooves into the floors of their respective souls, although the two were more one by now, joined by the ragged edge they had each carried through most of their lives. So Hannibal left his office, stopped briefly in the kitchen, and was waiting for Will in the sitting room when he entered.
Will said nothing, just went straight to Hannibal where he reclined on the sofa. All of his upper layers - jacket, waistcoat, shirt - had been shed, neatly folded and set aside, and so there was nothing at all stopping Will from falling to his knees between his legs with a soft animal groan, taking hold of Hannibal’s love handles in the manner that the name implied, and burying his face in the soft pile of his belly.
Hannibal had always been lean, and in part, that was because he had always valued control, over his own body most of all. Strict portions, punishing exercise. His body was his instrument and the only thing he could ever truly trust, and he needed it not only to kill, but to create, especially as the tableaux he left his corpses in grew ever more elaborate. He could not risk extra weight. He could not risk damage to his joints, nor his heart, nor any other portion of himself.
But after the Dragon attacked. After his slaying, and the fall from the cliff, and the long flight south had aggravated Hannibal’s wounds and truly made him feel his age and his scars for the first time in his life, there was a long and infuriatingly necessary recovery. Will had enforced the rest he needed, as brutally as required…though the requirement grew less brutal as time dragged on, and Hannibal adjusted to the reality of truly sharing all of himself with someone who reflected him back to himself in a thousand dancing shards of bloodied porcelain.
Once he could, he hunted with Will. He wouldn’t have been able to bear it if he hadn’t. But Will did the lion’s share of the work. And as Hannibal took pleasure in all the things he had before, the music and the art and the reading and his work and especially cooking, as he began to eat more than he’d ever allowed himself to (something that Will’s own unleashed appetites made very easy), as the brass wires that had been wound tight enough in him to hum ever since childhood began to finally loosen…it seemed to him that his body had been waiting all this time for a space in which to bloom to plumpness.
Which was quite fortunate, because it seemed that Will had never quite known a refuge like the large and growing belly that Hannibal had developed, along with all the softening rest of him.
Hannibal felt often like one of Will’s strays. Taken in from the cold, tamed and fattened up. In that context, it seemed a small price to pay, to soothe the master who held him tethered on a velvet leash.
Will did not tell Hannibal what had happened, and Hannibal did not ask. That would come later, after his brain - oversensitive and inflamed, because he, too, was still healing from the effects of so many things - had cooled to the point that the words would no longer cut their way out of him. For now, Will kneaded at Hannibal’s fat, softer than bread dough, and gasped open-mouthed into the warmth of him, and Hannibal reached down to run his fingers through Will’s curls. His touch was gentle, ready to be snatched back if Will snapped at him, the beast they shared painfully close to the surface right now, but he didn’t, so he cupped the soft curve of his skull, pressed it into the softer curve of his gut. With his other hand, he reached for the plate he’d brought with him. Pasteles, made that morning. He lifted one to his mouth.
Will liked for Hannibal to eat during this, and often drink. He craved certain textures to dig his hands into, to press his nose and brow and temples against. The wobble and give of a liquid bloat. The solidity of true gluttony. Perhaps that was one of the reasons that Hannibal had gained as much weight as he had.
Not that Hannibal had been terribly empty to begin with today. After years of hunger, every type, howling inside of him like a blizzard to the point that the hollow spaces of his body were polished smooth as mother-of-pearl, Hannibal had quite grown to like the feeling of being heavy and swollen with food. Full to the brim of the things he had always enjoyed but never allowed himself to truly indulge in. That, too, had contributed to his growth.
He took rather the same approach when it came to Will, denying him nothing, and denying himself nothing when it came to his beautiful, clever boy. They gorged themselves on each other. It seemed only right, after a lifetime of waiting.
Slowly, as Will worked at Hannibal’s fat, the singing tension unknit itself from him, and he loosened. He climbed up off the floor, onto the sofa, and began to inch his way closer to Hannibal, to his lap.
Hannibal ate the whole while. The pastry was crispy and flaky, the interior jammy, tart. As much as he might have preferred to make things himself, they had found a truly marvelous bakery. But even as wonderful as they were, and as vastly as his capacity had increased, a dozen pasteles was still quite a lot. By the time that Will was fully draped over him, chin on his shoulder and face buried in his neck, hands still very firmly on his middle, the platter was empty but for crumbs, and Hannibal’s breath came thin and shallow. Not because of Will’s weight on top of him, although that certainly didn’t help. His stomach was round, had taken on a firm, solid quality, packed full from breakfast, and Hannibal’s snacking, and the gorging of just a moment ago. Hannibal panted as Will worked at him, squeezing handfuls of the buttery layer of soft fat that he could no longer stuff himself full enough to stretch completely out.
It was a long time before either of them spoke. When the silence was broken, it was by Will, much to Hannibal’s surprise.
“Think you need more,” Will muttered into Hannibal’s neck, voice rough, breath hot, and Hannibal smiled.
“I could say the same for you,” he replied, fondly cupping the back of Will’s head and closing his eyes briefly as he stifled a belch. “You’ll need to help me up.”