There may well come a time when Hannibal again manipulates Will, when there will be some end that he desires, either for his own sake or for his lover, that will only be achieved with Hannibal's own brand of truthful deception. But that time is not now. He has no agenda aside from what is right here and right now, aside from this man kneeling before him like a supplicant. Will is his friend, his lover, his disciple, his creation, and this moment is as much coming into his true being as was the moment of Randall Tier's murder. Because there are no machinations, no moves to plan out in his head, Hannibal's mind is quiet of everything save this, this sensation, both physical and psychological. It's very unusual for him. The pleasure, the love, is able to bloom fully without check, and as Will explores, as his tongue runs along the tip of his cock, Hannibal closes his eyes, slowly exhaling as the warmth fills him, body and soul. When Will takes the head of his cock in his mouth Hannibal draws in a breath and opens his eyes, meeting Will's, so dark and hungry.

"My Will," he whispers, running a hand fondly over his lover's curls, caressing the side of his face. He's entirely open, entirely vulnerable, his heart as tender and exposed as his genitals, and yet there is strength in that, strength in the trust he has in this man, the trust they have in each other.