The look in Hannibal's eyes undoes Will for a moment, and his breath hitches in his chest, rough and broken. He remembers one moment in Hannibal's office, the air in the room thick with intent, with Will's very real desire to kill. It had lent itself as a means to the end Will was pushing Hannibal toward, but it was the most honest he'd ever been with Hannibal about those urges, the most truthful he'd been with himself. And Hannibal had known it, encouraged it, stoked the flame that burned low in Will's belly, the look in his eyes dark and hungry like the one he has right now.
Will didn't know before it was offered to him how much he needed this, to be close with someone who understands him intrinsically, intimately, to give himself over to his desires, the dark ones coated in blood, and the hotter ones, the ones that are more about flesh and sweat and saliva and come. He whimpers wetly when Hannibal begins to press inside him, the blunt tip of Hannibal's finger just slightly nudging in, and he has to clench his jaw against his impatience. It wants everything, and he wants it now.
Taking a breath, he works to make himself relax, his eyes locked on Hannibal's as he arches and rolls his hips. He wants to beg, the words right on the tip of his tongue, but he bites them away, pushing his shoulder blades against the polished surface of the table, his chest bowing upward. He knows everything he feels is plain in his eyes, in the twist of his lips and the halting cadence of his breath. Hannibal is too far away, only touching him by his one finger, and he knows he'll have more soon, but the seconds and minutes until then, stretching out, have begun to feel like torture.
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Date: 2016-04-25 04:58 am (UTC)Will didn't know before it was offered to him how much he needed this, to be close with someone who understands him intrinsically, intimately, to give himself over to his desires, the dark ones coated in blood, and the hotter ones, the ones that are more about flesh and sweat and saliva and come. He whimpers wetly when Hannibal begins to press inside him, the blunt tip of Hannibal's finger just slightly nudging in, and he has to clench his jaw against his impatience. It wants everything, and he wants it now.
Taking a breath, he works to make himself relax, his eyes locked on Hannibal's as he arches and rolls his hips. He wants to beg, the words right on the tip of his tongue, but he bites them away, pushing his shoulder blades against the polished surface of the table, his chest bowing upward. He knows everything he feels is plain in his eyes, in the twist of his lips and the halting cadence of his breath. Hannibal is too far away, only touching him by his one finger, and he knows he'll have more soon, but the seconds and minutes until then, stretching out, have begun to feel like torture.