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When Hannibal asks Will to come to dinner the night before they're to have their fateful meal with Jack, Will thinks maybe it's one more evening of planning, another few hours for Hannibal to be sure that Will is really ready to do what he says he will in regards to Jack's murder. As usual they talk around each other, neither one admitting anything, touching on things just enough to avoid being untruthful, never really saying anything. But the nothing they say is heavy with intent, and the moves they make are like a game for which neither of them knows the rules.

Hannibal asks about Jack, finally, and the question is framed in such a way that Will can easily deflect rather than answer directly. But even as he says what he does, about Jack's fate being preordained, he thinks that there's a part of him that could do what he's told Hannibal he can, could help Hannibal kill him. He doesn't cherish the idea of murdering Jack, doesn't imagine it will give him the rush of power he felt when he put ten bullets into Garrett Jacob Hobbs, when he nearly shot Clark Ingram in the head, when he broke Randal Tier's neck. But he's started to lose sight of where his reality ends and his deception begins.

Letting Hannibal in, giving him permission (and invitation) to be close, has given Will new insight. There's something in the vulnerability they've shared, even if some of it had been manufactured on Will's part, that makes some part of Will loathe to turn on Hannibal as was his initial design. It's not as if he's forgotten what Hannibal did to him, because he hasn't. But he's starting to understand why, to see the flesh and blood behind a man who is most certainly a monster. Hannibal can be cold and calculating and cruel, but he's passionate as well, he has the ability to be broken hearted, and the capacity for love.

Before he'd brought up Jack, Hannibal had talked about an imago, and the more Will considers it, the more he starts to realize that maybe Hannibal is hinting at something. He has in his mind his ideal for Will, a partner, Will thinks, someone he can share his intellect with, his thoughts, dark and light, someone who can and will understand him. But it makes Will wonder if Hannibal's seen through the cracks of Will's deceit, as fine as they are, if he knows betrayal awaits him when Jack arrives tomorrow night. It makes bile rise in the back of Will's throat, not because he's afraid of what Hannibal will do, but rather because the idea of hurting Hannibal in that way squeezes at his heart in a manner he never thought possible.

Will takes a sip of his wine in an attempt to wash the guilt down, but it sticks in his throat, burns in his sinuses. He can hear the intake of Hannibal's breath, ready to speak, but the words that come out of his mouth aren't what Will expects.

"We could disappear now, tonight," Hannibal suggests, his voice low and honest in a way that Will can feel vibrating in his bones. "Feed your dogs, leave a note for Alana, and never see her or Jack again. Almost polite."

There's a long silence then, spun out between them, and Will's instinct is to deflect again, say something that isn't a no or a yes, just words to fill the space. But, in his heart, all he wants is to agree, to leave all of this behind and run away with Hannibal, for better or worse, whatever that means. Jack would see him as a traitor, a liar, Alana would know it was weakness, giving into Hannibal's designs (because she knows exactly what that feels like), but, besides having to leave his dogs, Will has nothing to lose. He doesn't feel loyalty to the FBI, he doesn't have Jack or Alana's complete trust. He doesn't have Hannibal's either, and there's always a chance that Hannibal will kill him as soon as they get away, but Will suddenly understands that he doesn't care. This life, the one he's been pretending to live these few months, is what he wants. He's never felt more alive, has never understood himself better, than when he's with Hannibal.

"Yes," Will says quietly, his eyes meeting Hannibal's as he nods softly, his gaze clear and unburdened for the first time. "Let's go tonight. I want to," he adds, wanting his intentions to be completely understood, nothing disguised by the veil that usually hung between them.

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Interesting how their relationship behind the veil is in some ways animalistic in nature, rutting like desperate beasts, hiding or revealing weaknesses based on whether the other was predator or pack-mate. Hannibal considers the implications as he makes his way to the kitchen in the nude, comfortable in his own skin. Art, sophistication, manners, they are all important, and the rude would still find their way into Hannibal's rolodex and on his menu. One's public face and private face are separate, necessarily. All men are born beasts, but must transcend in order to be worthy of humanity. And yet his friendship with, his love of Will has re-affirmed that it is still pleasant, no, vital, to be able to appreciate, nurture, and share your beast. Murder exists in that strange in-between, the beast expressed through what is typically, at least for Hannibal, a highly aesthetic act. He looks forward to sharing that with Will as well, both of them appreciating, nurturing and sharing their beasts.

Of course, there are many beasts who devour their mates. That thought, of slowly killing Will and consuming his sweet flesh, is to Hannibal quite arousing. He wonders if it is the same for Will, if one day his lover will consume his heart. If one day Hannibal will offer it to him willingly.

The kitchen is well-equipped, a fact Hannibal is sure will shock Will not at all. It is in need of stocking, and a full set of china and silverware, but there are some basics, among which are wine glasses. Hannibal puts the bottle of white in the empty and immaculate refrigerator, takes two wine glasses from where they hang upside down above the counter, then retrieves a corkscrew from a drawer that also held a butcher's knife.

Merely the essentials.

Hannibal returns to the bedroom, and as he sees Will he feels a warmth in his heart that is, for him, unusual. Will is so deep inside him, and there is terror to that but also exhilaration. He smiles, and moves to the bed, setting down the glasses and the corkscrew.

Once Hannibal had departed for the kitchen, Will had settled into the massive, beautiful bed. For now he stayed on top of the covers, figuring it might be prudent for himself and Hannibal to clean themselves at least cursorily in order to not necessitate immediate laundering of the sheets. The duvet is lush and made of fine fabric, so it doesn't irritate Will's skin when he lays back on it, his upper body supported by a cluster of soft, expensive pillows.

Now that he's alone and recumbent, he takes a moment to look around. The flat is decorated in the style to which Will has become accustomed to associating with Hannibal, a richness to everything, an aesthetical purpose. This room doesn't feel comforting exactly, but the way it puts Will on edge isn't to do with fear. It's more like there's a feeling of anticipation, like something could happen here with a moment's notice. It's an oddly sexual energy, and Will wonders if this room has always been decorated this way, or if Hannibal requested someone come and make changes before their arrival. He knows the fact that he's here was never a sure thing, but it had been discussed before Hannibal (in whatever way he did) discovered Will's deception.

There's no high mounted mirror here, however, which Will finds a little disappointing, but he has a feeling Hannibal will be receptive to the suggestion of that addition. Will imagines what it would look like, to be able to lay back and watch Hannibal fuck him from an external position, what his face would look like when Hannibal was pounding into him, the way the muscles in Hannibal's back and ass and thighs would clench with the effort. He's spent and exhausted, but the idea makes heat flash through him, and he closes his eyes to the wave of arousal. It isn't that Will hasn't enjoyed sex in his past, but there have only been a very few instances where he's thought about having it with a specific person outside the moment when he's engaged in the physical act.

Will opens his eyes when he hears Hannibal approaching, his bare feet padding on the wood floor, and when Will turns his head and meets Hannibal's eyes he feels a collision of the desire from before and an entirely nonphysical longing. Hannibal sets the glasses and the corkscrew on the bedside table, and Will has a flash of a vision, of Hannibal getting into the bed and the two of them coming together, everything blurring until it's nothing but a flurry of skin and mouths and touching, the wine open but no glasses involved, liquid being poured into mouths and spilling over, running down over skin, soaking the bedclothes, sex and wine and sweat and come. Will swallows, and he knows Hannibal can see every indication his body is giving of his lust, the flush rising to his skin, the quickening of his breath and hardening of his nipples.

"I'm thirsty," he says, and he knows Hannibal can tell he means it in more way than one.

A slow smile spreads across Hannibal's face. There are so many things that Hannibal finds himself desiring right here and now, ways to explore his lover, or have his lover explore him. Things involving sex and wine and sweat and come, yes, and also leather and rope and steel and blood, soft and harsh words, thirst and hunger and pain and pleading, and all exquisitely beautiful. All of that lay before them, from now into the foreseeable future. At the moment Hannibal cannot see them parting until death, of one or the other of them, or possibly both simultaneously. It isn't something Hannibal is planning, and yet it's a general idea that he finds quite pleasurable.

For here and now, though, Hannibal tilts his head, regarding his lover with his eyes glittering.

"Tell me what you're thirsty for, Will." He wants Will to confess to him, to put his desires, his wants, into words. Perhaps at some point Hannibal will have him plead. For now admission is sufficient.

The way Hannibal asks, it brings back memories of many a conversation in Hannibal's office, seated across from each other in matching chairs or leant against Hannibal's desk or his book cases, pacing his floor. Back then Will's answer would have been carefully constructed, concealing as much as he was revealing, never enough to truly satisfy Hannibal's curiosity. It was a game between them, it always had been, like chess, giving a little, making it seem like a bigger sacrifice than it was, baiting and bluffing, thinking three moves ahead.

There's no reason to play here, not anymore. Laying in Hannibal's bed in Hannibal's Parisian apartment, Hannibal is inviting Will into his confessional, asking Will to admit to his desires, to those sins of the flesh he's considering committing with Hannibal right here, if not tonight then on another one not too far into their future. There's a vulnerability to it, but the rewards definitely outweigh the risks in this scenario.

"Wine," Will answers simply, the corner of his mouth twitching into the beginning of a wicked smile. "When you brought the glasses for some reason I thought of you bathing me in it," he goes on, lounging back against Hannibal's pillows, loose limbed and pliant. "Right here, pouring it down my throat, letting it run over my skin, almost red enough to be blood." It's not thick enough, obviously, but there's an aesthetic parallel.

"You," he adds after a moment, his eyes moving over Hannibal's naked body, lighting for a long moment on Hannibal's genitals, his flaccid cock hidden entirely inside his foreskin, the heavy sway of his scrotum. "I'm thirty for you," Will repeats, his eyes lifting to Hannibal's face. "I've never desired a man before," he admits, though he knows it isn't a revelation for either of them. "I want to learn how to pleasure you, what you enjoy the most, how you like to be touched."

His tone is indeed close to, if not exactly like, that he would use in a therapy session, and there's a good reason for that. He is plumbing the depths of Will's psyche, and he possesses tools to that purpose, those he has been trained to use and those he has developed himself in his many years of study and experience with uncovering the minds of his subjects for manipulation or his own interest and amusement. Will's answers draw a smile from him, and he picks up the wine, considering the bottle for a long moment.

"Almost red enough." He glances up at Will. "I'm sure you're quite aware of the parallels between those two thirsts. You want to pleasure me. There are many things I take pleasure in." His smile is deceptively mild, the sharp hunger in his eyes. "I would enjoy pouring wine down your throat. Pouring it over your body. Watch you become drunk on it, reveling in the excess. And I would love to forego the symbolism of the wine, and give you blood."

The image of Will drinking blood, letting it spill over his lips into rivulets on his chin, on his chest, is quite thrilling. He could imagine licking that blood off his lover's skin, or perhaps Will licking it off Hannibal's chest.

"However, when it comes to being bathed in either blood or wine, I must ask that we delay. If only because it would necessitate remaking the bed."

He picked up the corkscrew and began to twist the spiral into the cork. "Tell me Will," he said without looking up. "Is it ever my blood you imagine yourself drinking?"

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."

Hannibal has imagined many ways of murdering Will, of preparing him for consumption, of putting him on display. He has thought of every organ, every cut of meat, and considered what recipes would be best, would truly do justice to the man who had supplied the key ingredient. From the beginning Hannibal has admired him, has thought him worthy of something truly sublime. At the moment he imagines that, were he to decide to consume Will, he would do it slowly, much as he had done to Gideon. Piece by piece detached, prepared, and shared between them, enjoying the experience together until Will's body would regrettably be unable to continue. Then Hannibal would prepare and consume his heart. It is perhaps a sentimental cliche, but still, he thinks, an appropriate one.

But Will's death is at this moment no more than a mere fancy. Even if the thought does cause his groin to warm and his cock to stir.

The idea that Will might kill him first is also one that gives him a flush of arousal. Will had come so close to killing him a number or times, either in person or by proxy. He had said that killing Hannibal with his hands would feel righteous. He wonders if Will is aware how much that encounter aroused him, how much he would return to it in his mind palace. Will's revelation that he had imagined tasting Hannibal's blood was not a surprise, of course, but it garners a deeper smile.

Hannibal pulls the cork out of the bottle and fills the two glasses halfway. He sets the bottle down, cups the glasses in each hand, and goes to the bed.

"Wine for now," he says, extending one glass to Will. "Perhaps something less symbolic soon."

Will notices the minute physiological changes as Hannibal considers him, the pigment of the skin along Hannibal's throat pinking just a little, the peaks of his nipples hardening, the flesh in his groin flushing and swelling. Something Hannibal is thinking about is turning him on, and Will has several ideas what kinds of thoughts they might be, almost certain none of them are directly sexual.

He has half a mind to ask, but he waits as Hannibal pours them each a measure of wine, reaching across the mattress to hand Will his glass before he climbs carefully into the bed beside Will, arranging himself back against the headboard, mirroring Will's position. Will takes care to hold the wine up so he can test the nose first, inhaling deeply and keeping the scent at the fore as he takes his first sip, letting the flavors roll over his tongue before he swallows. He closes his eyes, thinks about a glass like this with a sample of Hannibal's blood, not enough that Hannibal would even miss it, given freely as an offering, warm and coppery on Will's tongue. The thought makes him shiver, and he wonders if Hannibal would be willing to do something like that with him, each of them tipping a taste of their life into a glass to be shared with their lover.

His eyes fluttering open, Will's gaze comes into contact with Hannibal's, a moment of warm, nonverbal communication blooming between them.

"What were you thinking, just now?" Will asks, licking the taste of wine off his lips. "When you were standing by the bed, before you poured the wine?"

Hannibal does the same with the wine, inhaling the scent first with his eyes closed. It isn't the finest of wines, but it does have some interesting notes. When he takes a sip he nods in approval. Not terrible. Of course, with what they have been talking about, he can taste copper undertones that only exist within his own imagination, an alluring hallucination. He opens his eyes and turns to Will, and their eyes meet in a warm, shared gaze.

Then Will asks the question, and Hannibal smiles, pleased that Will is so in tune with him that he noticed that his thoughts must have been significant, doubtless because he was aroused by them. Hannibal could lie. Not tell Will that the thought of precipitating Will's death, or Will precipitating his, is pleasurable. But it doesn't make sense to withhold the truth. If they are to be partners, and for a very long time, then Will shall find out about these thoughts at some point or another.

"I was thinking about how I would kill you," he says, matter-of-fact. "And how you would kill me." He decides he needn't be specific that he finds such thoughts arousing. Will doubtless already knows.

The admission doesn't surprise Will but the way his heart trips in his chest does, just a little. When he'd said yes to doing this, to running away with Hannibal, Will had accepted the eventuality that he will die at Hannibal's hands. He has a feeling Hannibal doesn't mean to do it soon (unless Will does something to deserve being murdered ahead of Hannibal's schedule), but eventually Hannibal will see fit to kill him.

That Hannibal finds arousal in considering it, in considering Will doing the same to him in return, excites Will. He takes a measured breath, knowing Hannibal can see the way this conversation is affecting him, not trying to hide it.

"If you were to kill me right now, how would you do it?" Will asks, swirling the wine around in the bottom of his glass for a moment before letting it settle and taking a drink.

It's foreplay now, this topic they're discussing. It's not a therapy session, or an invitation to act out whatever's going on in Hannibal's mind. Will finds he simply wants to hear it, the details that Hannibal's thought of, the tone that Hannibal's voice will take when he describes them.

Will's arousal, so clear in the shuddering breath he takes, makes Hannibal's own heart race. He has had victims who found a thrill in their demise. Indeed, Gideon had enjoyed the meal that Hannibal prepared for him out of his own leg. But there is a difference between a thrill, sexual or no, and a desire to share, to commune to experience death together. In a strange way, it doesn't matter which one will kill and which one will die. Perhaps they will ultimately do both at the same time.

"I would take you apart," he says, his voice a low purr, "piece by piece." He leans down, reaching out with the hand not holding the wine. "Shanks," he murmurs, his fingers caressing Will's calf, smoothing upward to his thigh. "Round." He slides his fingers under Will's ass, and squeezes it gently.

"Rump."

Will's eyes lose focus as he listens to Hannibal's voice, enjoying the touch Hannibal applies to each portion of his leg, the brush of Hannibal's fingers just heavy enough that Hannibal can feel his muscle beneath his skin, feel the firmness of the meat. When Hannibal reaches for his buttock, Will bends his knee more deeply, giving Hannibal space to test him there as well, and Will wonders which cut of meat Hannibal would enjoy the most, which would taste the best.

He swallows, blinking the blurriness from his vision so he can meet Hannibal's gaze. "Would you butcher me alive?" Will asks, knowing Hannibal has the skill to do that, to take Will's sections from him without killing him. He remembers Gideon, how he was found in Frederick Chilton's basement, limbless, freshly deceased but full of enough fluids and morphine to have kept him alive until it was no longer necessary.

"Would I get to watch you as you cooked me, as you ate me?" Will continues his queries, his pulse fluttering in his throat, rapid and heavy.

Will's flesh is firm yet supple, and Hannibal can easily imagine how he would prepare it, as well as how it would taste. Will would be delicious. Hannibal notes Will's tone, thick with arousal, and finds himself swallowing as well, his pulse heavy, his cheeks flushing slightly, his cock beginning to ache. His mouth is watering, but it's not merely from the hunger of his belly, but also of his heart, of his soul. There is more going on here than merely a reaping of a life for the sake of an aesthetic experience. More than merely the creation of something beautiful out of darkness and death. No, there is an intimacy here that Hannibal has never before experienced, and it is at once exhilarating and humbling. Consuming Will would be an act of deep love, something greater than himself, than either of them. Even if it never happens, even the thought is something spiritual.

"I would want to share it with you," he answers, his voice smooth, even though the thread of tension, of desire, underneath is hardly hidden. "The butchering...the preparation...I would even want you to taste the results." He moves his hand up from Will's rump cut and brushes his fingertips back and forth atop his lover's thigh. "I would want you with me, for as long as possible."

Edited 2016-03-16 20:58 (UTC)

Will isn't surprised that Hannibal would want to share every part of the experience with Will, up to and including the consumption of Will's flesh, and Will can't say he's not curious what he would taste like, what Hannibal would taste like. The muscle in his thigh flexes a little beneath Hannibal's touch, and his cock fills out a little more, the vestiges of a new erection. He has a thought, wishing there was an easier way to give Hannibal what he wants, to truly take Will into himself in a way no one else has (or ever will), because he doesn't imagine living with a missing limb would be very pleasant, even knowing he'd be capable of it if he had to be.

Licking his lips, Will moves his eyes from where he's watching Hannibal's fingers tracing his vastus lateralis and his rectus femoris, finding the line between the muscles in a way only a former surgeon could, up to Hannibal's eyes. "If I offered, would you take a part of me without eventually killing me?" he asks carefully, feeling a little lightheaded himself at the consideration. "Something sooner than later, something I could live without?"

Hannibal's fingers cease their travel along the musculature of Will's thigh as Hannibal meets Will's gaze, his head tilted and eyebrows slightly raised. What Will is offering, he believes, is more than a mere body part to satisfy Hannibal's hunger. And it's also not mere appeasement, that Will is offering up some non-vital body part if only Hannibal has mercy on him. Will understands how much Hannibal wishes to be with him, even when eating him. If there were some magical way that Hannibal could keep Will alive even as he consumed every bit of him, he would. Will's suggestion is a compromise, then...Will offers his flesh, that they may prepare and share together, without Hannibal needing to lose Will at all.

If he accepts, though, he would be agreeing to not kill Will, not only now, but perhaps ever. And that is the most profound implication of Will's offer. While there are people that Hannibal chooses not to kill, there has never been anyone for whom killing was completely off the table. Even with his deeply protective feelings for Abigail, he was still willing to kill her. Could Hannibal grant Will that protected status? Could they become so deeply entwined that he could not kill him lest it also kill himself?

"Yes," he says, his voice quiet and his eyes dark and deep. "I would."

It's the most profound agreement he's ever made. He wonders if Will realizes it.

Hannibal pauses in a way that makes Will pay attention, his eyes shifting and losing focus. Will's seen Hannibal in this sort of contemplation before, trying to figure Will out, his motivations, and Will guesses he's doing that again now, trying to see what Will's angling for here. Will wonders if Hannibal thinks Will's bargaining with him, trying to secure his continued existence, and as much as he'd like to remain alive at Hannibal's side, it's more about giving Hannibal something he truly wants, a gift for giving Will a new life, the one he's meant to be living.

When Hannibal meets Will's eyes, he sees nothing but dark sincerity, and he can hear emotion in Hannibal's voice that goes beyond fondness or desire. Hannibal is giving Will a gift in return, a promise; as long as Will is faithful, as long as he is Hannibal's partner and not a threat, they will only die together.

"When we're sure we're safe," Will says, a promise in return, reaching up to touch the edge of Hannibal's jaw. "You can choose, because you'll know best what to take," he goes on, his fingers trailing down the side of Hannibal's throat, feeling his pulse jumping there, quick and heady.

"Do you know what you'd take?" Will asks, his voice deep with emotion, love and want, turning his head to take another sip from his wine before he shifts closer to Hannibal.

Will's touch makes Hannibal's heart beat all the faster, and his voice makes Hannibal take a long breath, his body's heat rising. He wonders if there will ever come a time when this relationship, this love, isn't so strange, so surprising. Somehow he doubts it. And perhaps that is why he can truly love Will with a depth and breadth he's never before experienced; their relationship will always be fresh, new, different. He takes a slow swallow of his wine, then puts the glass aside. He half-turns toward Will, and lifts a hand to caress his cheek.

"It is possible to survive with only one kidney," he muses. "And the French have many fine dishes that call for it."

He wonders how Will will react. In horror? In curiosity? In submission? In arousal?

Will's chest lifts, pressing out as he fills his lungs with a deep breath, and he can't help the way his lips curve, his teeth sinking into the lower one as he blinks and meets Hannibal's eyes. He presses his wine glass into Hannibal's hand to set aside, and once it's out of the way, he dips his thumb into the hollow of Hannibal's collarbones, tracing down along the line of Hannibal's sternum.

"Do you enjoy the taste of human kidneys?" Will asks, his palm smoothing over Hannibal's heart, the steady, heady thrum of it echoed in Will's chest. His kidney had been on Will's list, things he thought he could give up and survive normally. Kidney, spleen, gallbladder, part of his liver, all considerations Will had quickly made, parts of himself he didn't need to go on living.

Turning his hand, his fingers graze Hannibal's tight, hardened nipple. "What recipe do you think you might use?" Will asks further, rubbing at the nub beneath his fingertip, his voice deep and thick, the idea making his insides clench.

"They are an organ meat I am particularly fond of," he murmurs, his voice steady even as his breathing deepens with Will's touch, as his nipple hardens further. He's quite pleased with Will's reaction, how he meets even the increasingly specific plans of removing and consuming a major organ with arousal. Hannibal's hand goes to Will's side, brushing his fingertips up and down along his lover's flank. "Émincé de Rognon avec Chartreuse would be enjoyable...braised in chartreuse and red wine..."

He leans in and gently kisses Will, tasting how he and red wine might mix. He pulls back, just enough to open his eyes to gaze into Will's with a smile.

"I believe it would be quite enjoyable."

Edited 2016-03-21 00:55 (UTC)

It's foreplay again, pillow talk, this back and forth between them, but it's more than that too. Now that Will's made this offering, and Hannibal's accepted, there will be no taking it back, not for either of them. Not that Will wants to renege on his promise; he's already thinking about the act, about where Hannibal might perform such a surgical procedure, a drape over the long, mahogany dining table, Will laid out nude upon on it. He doubts Hannibal has the equipment here to do anything laparoscopic, and even if he did Will has a feeling he wouldn't want do it that way. Doing an open surgery, will the healing process will take markedly more time, will leave a much more satisfying scar.

Following with that idea, Will thinks about the anesthesia Hannibal will use, knowing something general would require intubation and careful monitoring in order to keep Will alive. A spinal block seems more likely, and if Hannibal is light with the sedatives Will could watch it happen, could see Hannibal work. Will remembers the night Hannibal saved a man in the back of an ambulance, his kidney partially removed, his graceful surgeon's hands knowing just what to do. The idea of having those hands inside him makes something hot break loose inside Will, egged on by Hannibal's very real touch in the exact same place over his skin, Will's abdomen going tight as his cock surges up harder, his breath gasping out of him.

"Yes," Will pants, his voice thick with desire, agreeing with Hannibal's sentiment, his arousal about giving that part of himself to Hannibal plain and obvious with every reaction of his body. "Will you allow me to taste it?" he asks just before he leans in for another kiss, his mouth hot and trembling against Hannibal's, sure he knows the answer but wanting Hannibal to confirm it.

Hannibal's vision of the surgery is closely similar to Will's. He imagines the room as far more dining than operating, with soft candlelight, classical music playing in the background, Will naked and lying on the table. He would be entirely conscious, a spinal block rendering insensate his body from the waist down. The tools would be neatly and inconspicuously laid out, almost like a place setting for a fancy dinner party. Hannibal would wear an apron instead of a gown. And the surgery itself would be akin to a sexual act, penetrating and claiming. He imagines Will's eyes on him as he deftly removes the kidney, imagines Will's chest rising and falling with breath quickened not by fear or pain but by desire.

The thought of it all, so clear in Hannibal's head, is likewise making him hard, and he hums into the trembling kiss, just shy of a moan in its need.

"Yes." His hand slips around Will's waist and draws him closer to kiss him a little more firmly. "I would prepare our meal within minutes after the removal, and you and I would share it together."

He kisses Will again, then moves, straddles Will's hips, and leans down to capture his lips again, flexing his hips, his cock sliding alongside his lover's.

It's incredible how intensely the thought of doing this affects Will, the knowledge of his own incapacitation completely secondary to the idea of watching Hannibal open him up and take part of him, Hannibal's hands inside the warm, living cavity of his body, Will's blood pumping, staining Hannibal's skin. And then, once Hannibal's stitched Will back together, Will imagines he'll lay on the table while Hannibal prepares their dinner, Will's kidney so fresh it won't have the chance to fully cool before Hannibal has it in a pan, Will able to smell the aroma of it while his legs slowly regain feeling, the ache of his newly rent flesh a testament to what he's gladly given to his partner, his lover. Before they eat Hannibal will dress Will, for partaking in this meal is more profoundly ceremonial than any other they've shared, even that of the ortolan bunting, or Will's offering of human flesh supposedly taken from Freddie Lounds.

Will is already so enthralled by the vision of what will be in his mind that he doesn't feel the shift in Hannibal's body weight until Hannibal's sitting down over him, pressing their erections together and startling a rough moan from Will that he pours into Hannibal's mouth. His arms go around Hannibal's neck and he pulls their bodies even closer together, thinking about Hannibal's mouth, his teeth, being consumed by him. Hannibal's body feels so hot and firm against him, solid and reassuring, and Will can't get as close as he wants, can't get enough, but it doesn't stop him from trying, kissing more deeply, bucking and arching and grinding, his fingertips digging into Hannibal's shoulders.

Will's need is delicious, and Hannibal holds him close for a few moments, kissing him deeply, meeting Will's bucks and grinding with a steady roll of his own hips. His desperate motions remind Hannibal somewhat of the ortolan bunting, in resemblance if not in purpose, his beating wings a struggle toward captivity rather than against it. Will has spoken of being bathed in wine, and Hannibal imagines what it would be like to drown him in it, holding him down as he fucks him, watching the bubbles rise to the surface as the air in Will's lungs is replaced with wine. Those wine-soaked lungs would make an excellent dish.

He breaks the kiss and pulls back, smiling gently at his lover. He has made a promise, and it is one he will keep. It does not mean that he will not fantasize.

"Shhh," he hushes, stroking his lover's hair to calm him, the gentleness of a shepherd stroking a sheep that is nervous before the knife. "Shhh." He reaches up and carefully untangles Will's arms from around his neck. Thus freed, he leans in and brushes one last gentle kiss on Will's lips. Then, very slowly, he begins to travel downward, kissing his lover's neck, nipping at the pulse point, then running his teeth along Will's collarbone. He moves lower, finding one nipple with his mouth and suckling at it as he circles the other nipple with his fingertips. At once he bites down on one while pinching the other.

When Will meets Hannibal's eyes again as Hannibal eases himself back, Will can see the thoughtfulness of Hannibal's expression and he wonders what Hannibal's thinking, if he's still considering what it will be like to take Will's kidney from him, or if there's something else there, ideas of what he'd like to do to Will, now or in the future. The shine in his gaze makes Will think Hannibal's mind is somewhere else, a fantasy, taking Will apart, taking Will's life, and Will whimpers under the scrutiny.

He wants to hear about it, but he's too interested in what Hannibal's about to do to ask. He has a feeling tales of Hannibal's current idea of how he'd murder Will are going to quickly become part of their lovemaking, dirty things Hannibal whispers into Will's ear as he's fucking him, while Will's sucking Hannibal's cock. For now, Will relaxes back against the pillows, his desperation tempered by Hannibal's gentle shushing, and he finds himself baring his throat, opening himself up easily, willingly to Hannibal's warm, wet lips and sharp teeth. When he inhales, he's careful to keep it slow, not wanting to cause Hannibal to stray.

He should be expecting it, but when Hannibal's teeth clamp down, when his fingers twist, both of Will's nippled caught in the onslaught, Will cries out vividly, wordlessly, his chest arcing up. He has a fist in Hannibal's hair before he realizes he's moved his hand, his body shaking as he groans, cock ached hard and leaking between his thighs. He gasps, pressing his head back into the pillows, his vision filled with spots, and when he says Hannibal's name the tone is wanton and pleading.

Hannibal looks up as Will moans his name, his eyes darkly seductive. Controlling and manipulating others has long been one of his most enjoyable pastimes, and this, drawing such cries from his lover, making his cock swell and ache and drip, is such an exquisite form of it. He releases Will's nipples from his teeth and his fingers, and very slowly licks Will's nipple, soothing it, tasting the sweet bitterness of his skin, the tang of his sweat, while brushing his fingertips lightly over the other one.

"Do you know how long I've wanted to taste you?" he purrs, moving further down, lips and breath hot on Will's chest, then down to his abdomen. He smooths Will's skin beneath his hands, reveling in the feel of his lover's flesh, his warmth. "How long I've wanted to have you here, like this, enraptured? To give you pleasure in this way, like I have with food, or with the hunt?"

He finally comes to his lover's erection, and takes a moment to gaze at it, to appreciate it in all its yearning. Then he raises his eyes to Will's face, leans down, and slowly licks the underside of his lover's cock, base to tip.

Edited (Ack! Those last words weren't supposed to be there...) 2016-03-24 00:05 (UTC)

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(I'm sorry this is so late! Weekend was a bit crazy.)

No worries!

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