Hannibal doesn't balk in telling Will exactly what he wants, every word a layer peeled away from the things Hannibal would find pleasure in doing, getting Will drunk, bathing Will's body in French wine, nourishing him with it, and with the lifeblood of another. Will knows enough that Hannibal doesn't mean a pig's blood, at least not outside symbolically. It would be someone Hannibal had caught, a fresh kill, or, and in this moment Will believes it more likely, Hannibal's own blood.
Once Will had seen his first glimpse of Hannibal he'd had many thoughts about how Hannibal might murder him, by what means he would extinguish Will's life, how he'd carve Will up, what picture he'd leave behind. He had dozens of theories about what organs Hannibal might harvest, his heart, certainly, his brain, maybe his eyes or his tongue, his genitals. Or something darker, his prostate maybe, or just his testicles. Will's not sure how much of that is actually edible from a human, but the considerations have been made.
Will remembers a time he came into Hannibal's kitchen while Hannibal was cooking, spinning a salmon colored liquid in a processor. Hannibal had told Will it was cow's blood, that he could make something of a sauce from the plasma. Thinking back now Will wonders if it was the blood of a cow or not, but he also realizes Hannibal wouldn't do that with his blood, he wouldn't want to take the red cells out before he drank it down.
He smiles a little, at both the idle thought and Hannibal's reticence to changing the sheets, a sentiment wholeheartedly shared by Will. He watches Hannibal's hands as he opens the wine, his attention entirely on the corkscrew as he twists it slowly into the cork, the imagery just the slightest bit sexual.
Will considers Hannibal's question, calling to mind a vision he'd created in his own head at Hannibal's insistence, Hannibal hanging in Mason Verger's meatpacking plant, feet bare, strapped into a straight jacket. In his mind Will had cut Hannibal's throat, a temptation for the pigs who would devour him alive, and Will had realized even at the time how erotic the image had been, Hannibal's arterial blood spraying from his severed throat, a cascade of it over Will's face and throat, like a bukkake of blood. He hadn't imaged drinking it at the time, but tasting it, his tongue sliding over his lips, licking it away.
"Yes," Will replies, his heart beginning to pound in his chest again. "I've imagined tasting it," he amends, wanting to be entirely truthful. "Licking it off my lips."
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Date: 2016-03-14 06:22 pm (UTC)Once Will had seen his first glimpse of Hannibal he'd had many thoughts about how Hannibal might murder him, by what means he would extinguish Will's life, how he'd carve Will up, what picture he'd leave behind. He had dozens of theories about what organs Hannibal might harvest, his heart, certainly, his brain, maybe his eyes or his tongue, his genitals. Or something darker, his prostate maybe, or just his testicles. Will's not sure how much of that is actually edible from a human, but the considerations have been made.
Will remembers a time he came into Hannibal's kitchen while Hannibal was cooking, spinning a salmon colored liquid in a processor. Hannibal had told Will it was cow's blood, that he could make something of a sauce from the plasma. Thinking back now Will wonders if it was the blood of a cow or not, but he also realizes Hannibal wouldn't do that with his blood, he wouldn't want to take the red cells out before he drank it down.
He smiles a little, at both the idle thought and Hannibal's reticence to changing the sheets, a sentiment wholeheartedly shared by Will. He watches Hannibal's hands as he opens the wine, his attention entirely on the corkscrew as he twists it slowly into the cork, the imagery just the slightest bit sexual.
Will considers Hannibal's question, calling to mind a vision he'd created in his own head at Hannibal's insistence, Hannibal hanging in Mason Verger's meatpacking plant, feet bare, strapped into a straight jacket. In his mind Will had cut Hannibal's throat, a temptation for the pigs who would devour him alive, and Will had realized even at the time how erotic the image had been, Hannibal's arterial blood spraying from his severed throat, a cascade of it over Will's face and throat, like a bukkake of blood. He hadn't imaged drinking it at the time, but tasting it, his tongue sliding over his lips, licking it away.
"Yes," Will replies, his heart beginning to pound in his chest again. "I've imagined tasting it," he amends, wanting to be entirely truthful. "Licking it off my lips."