There is no hesitation, no refinement, no art or artifice to what Hannibal is doing, to what they're doing together. It is animalistic, pure base instinct, coming from the gut and not from the brain. Hannibal finds great freedom in that, in letting be what will be, in chasing pure physical pleasure rather than a complicated outcome, the sex an end in itself rather than the means. He grunts wantonly into the kiss, teeth clattering against teeth, tongues twining in their own ecstatic battle, and thrusts his hips roughly and without rhythm. The heat between them is incredible, all hot blood and friction, so near to making that fire literal. It doesn't need to be to consume them, though. Already, here and now, they are alight, burning to ash. Hannibal imagines them in the middle of a conflagration, the flames licking upward, capturing and destroying them, and yet they are in the center, fucking each other, that ultimate act of passion worth being consigned to the flames.

And what has Will done if not taken Hannibal's hand and walked into the fire?

As Hannibal nears his climax his hips jerk harder, his groans becoming growling cries as those flames are now licking up his skin, turning it brown then black then bubbling then he is alight and Hannibal roars as he comes, his seed erupting hot between them.