It should probably feel strange, the level of calm Will feels face to face with a man who can speak about removing the flesh from a human body with a very intimate level of experience behind his words. Beyond his lack of fear, Will feels drawn to the beauty behind the imagery, a picture painting itself in his mind of Hannibal holding his wrist, forearm bare as Hannibal draws the tip of a knife along the skin, splitting it. In his mind's eye Will sees Hannibal cutting flesh away from bone, the blood in vivid contrast against Will's pale skin, against sinew and fascia and cartilage, tendons and nerve fibers. It's beautiful, like a blooming flower, petals of his tissue fanning out beneath the deft carving of Hannibal's blade.
He's drawn from the image when Hannibal touches his cheek, and he watches as Hannibal stands gracefully, smooth and sleek like a cat, rivulets of water chasing down his body like a second skin being shed. Will continues to sit for a moment, eyes turned up to Hannibal from his feet, again almost like a parishioner knelt at the alter of his god. Will feels sacrificial, devout, and he wants to worship Hannibal with his hands and his mouth, he wants to lick every drop of water from his skin, inch by inch. He's hungry, thirsty, famished, parched, desperate, and he knows the ache in his belly is intentional, that patience is obligatory.
He also knows, when his fast is over, the feast that will be laid before him will be more than worth the wait.
Letting his eyes linger on Hannibal's genitals where they hang before his eyes for just a moment more, Will grips the edges of the tub and stands as well, his eyes meeting Hannibal's warm, dark gaze.
"We should probably make it a cold one," he says, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Or I suspect we'll be back into the olive oil again."
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Date: 2016-07-25 11:16 pm (UTC)He's drawn from the image when Hannibal touches his cheek, and he watches as Hannibal stands gracefully, smooth and sleek like a cat, rivulets of water chasing down his body like a second skin being shed. Will continues to sit for a moment, eyes turned up to Hannibal from his feet, again almost like a parishioner knelt at the alter of his god. Will feels sacrificial, devout, and he wants to worship Hannibal with his hands and his mouth, he wants to lick every drop of water from his skin, inch by inch. He's hungry, thirsty, famished, parched, desperate, and he knows the ache in his belly is intentional, that patience is obligatory.
He also knows, when his fast is over, the feast that will be laid before him will be more than worth the wait.
Letting his eyes linger on Hannibal's genitals where they hang before his eyes for just a moment more, Will grips the edges of the tub and stands as well, his eyes meeting Hannibal's warm, dark gaze.
"We should probably make it a cold one," he says, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Or I suspect we'll be back into the olive oil again."