Hannibal watches his lover, his gaze caressing Will's body, savoring the lines and curves, the play of shadow and light, the ripple of muscles beneath skin. He has long contemplated what Will might look like were his clothing shed, were he to stand before Hannibal in the quiet glory of nakedness, and now, seeing him, he was not disappointed. Of course, he only sees Will from behind, and with what he's intending, he will not have the opportunity to drink the aesthetics of his front, his chest, his shoulders, that exquisite cock that Hannibal has only yet experienced by touch, and that shrouded in cotton. However, he also intends for this encounter to be far from the last, and he knows he will be able to enjoy the frontal view soon enough.
As Will moves to the bed, Hannibal's view of him shifts. He becomes the Wound Man, pierced and clubbed and stabbed and slashed, the weapons still in motion. Then he separates into parts, butcher's cuts, his round and rump and flank and shoulder bloodlessly separated. And then as Will crawls onto the bed, he becomes the magnificent Stag, blood-black with quivering raven's feathers.
Once Will is kneeling, Hannibal slowly, soundlessly, removes the rest of his clothing, shirt slipped off, shoes carefully unlaced, then socks, then trousers, then at last silk boxers. He folds everything as a matter of course, and leaves them in a neat pile. Then, tie in hand, he approaches. When he passes his dresser he pauses, slides open the top drawer, and retrieves a small tube of lubricant.
Once he reaches the bed he moves to kneel behind Will, his body pressed warmly into his lover's, and sets the lubricant down beside him. Slowly, almost reverently, he once again wraps the tie around his lover's neck.
"I am going to fuck you," he murmurs, his voice smooth and cultured even with the profanity, "unlike you've ever been fucked before. Once I am inside you I will fuck you without mercy, until your orgasm is the last thing you feel before you fall into unconsciousness."
As he murmurs the words, he slowly draws the tie tighter, and pays attention to every little reaction from his lover, from trembles to gasps to moans.
no subject
As Will moves to the bed, Hannibal's view of him shifts. He becomes the Wound Man, pierced and clubbed and stabbed and slashed, the weapons still in motion. Then he separates into parts, butcher's cuts, his round and rump and flank and shoulder bloodlessly separated. And then as Will crawls onto the bed, he becomes the magnificent Stag, blood-black with quivering raven's feathers.
Once Will is kneeling, Hannibal slowly, soundlessly, removes the rest of his clothing, shirt slipped off, shoes carefully unlaced, then socks, then trousers, then at last silk boxers. He folds everything as a matter of course, and leaves them in a neat pile. Then, tie in hand, he approaches. When he passes his dresser he pauses, slides open the top drawer, and retrieves a small tube of lubricant.
Once he reaches the bed he moves to kneel behind Will, his body pressed warmly into his lover's, and sets the lubricant down beside him. Slowly, almost reverently, he once again wraps the tie around his lover's neck.
"I am going to fuck you," he murmurs, his voice smooth and cultured even with the profanity, "unlike you've ever been fucked before. Once I am inside you I will fuck you without mercy, until your orgasm is the last thing you feel before you fall into unconsciousness."
As he murmurs the words, he slowly draws the tie tighter, and pays attention to every little reaction from his lover, from trembles to gasps to moans.