(no subject)

[adaptevolvebecome]

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.

Comments

[tablewithoutpity]

Every minute detail of Will's agony is precious in Hannibal's eyes, and every tremble, every rough gasp, every shaking touch, is written into Hannibal's memory so that years from now he will be able to unroll the memory like a scroll and pore over it at his leisure. When Will slips his thumbs into Hannibal's mouth, Hannibal's smile deepens as he notes the implied dominance tangled beautifully in trust. It's like a lion tamer placing his head into the lion's mouth. All the powerful lion needs to do is snap those mighty jaws on the man's foolish neck. Will is far from uninformed on what a dangerous creature Hannibal is. All Hannibal has to do is bite down, through skin and muscle and sinew and tendons and cartilage and bone, crunch it all up like a drowned songbird. Will's trust that he won't is a precious thing in and of itself.

And then Will takes the step both he and Hannibal long for, and gives the order Hannibal had challenged him to. Hannibal's eyes sparkle dangerously as he extends his tongue, and slowly laps the shiny pearl of precum from the tip of Will's cock. Then he leans in, taking Will in his mouth all the way, the reflexes of his throat entirely under his control. And here Hannibal is again exquisitely dangerous, the lion with the tamer's head in his mouth. One chomp and he could sever his lover's cock and drink the blood that would come spurting from the wound. It's a glorious image, and Hannibal wonders if Will thinks of it as well. He bites down, just a little right at the base, to remind Will of what he risks, of what Hannibal surrenders. Then he eases up on the pressure with his teeth, and instead pulls back, stroking Will's length with his lips and tongue.

[adaptevolvebecome]

Hannibal's smile is dangerous, the color of his eyes wicked, all of it intended as a reminder of the pain and violence Hannibal is capable of, the vulnerability of the position Will is in, even as the one standing over Hannibal, giving orders. Will can think of at least a dozen ways, just off the top of his head, that Hannibal could kill him right now, still on his knees, with no other weapon than his teeth and his hands. Trusting that he won't could prove to be fatal, but Will does it anyway; Hannibal has let him in, and the deadly expression on Hannibal's face is a gift, a glimpse of what would have been if Will had said no to fleeing with Hannibal to Europe.

When Hannibal flicks out his tongue, tasting the fluid that's collecting at the end of Will's cock, and it's teasing in many ways, but it also makes Will think about Hannibal's skill in the kitchen, of him taking a taste of a culinary masterpiece he's perfected. And, essentially, that is what he's doing; he's trying Will out, savoring the flavor of all his hard work, blood and sweat. Satisfied with the flavor, he swallows Will down, and the sound that breaks free of Will's throat is beyond his control, visceral, drawn from his core and pulled up into the air. Will catches a handful of Hannibal's hair in his fist but he doesn't hold him in place, doesn't direct him. Instead he holds still, his breath hitching as Hannibal's teeth press down around the base of his dick, just enough pressure to feel the points, for Hannibal to feel Will's blood pumping in the thick veins, stuttering.

And then, after another breath, Hannibal releases him, sliding back and smoothing his tongue along the throbbing length of Will. The relief is so intense that Will realizes, for a heady moment, that he actually thought Hannibal might tear him apart. His body is flooded with adrenaline, his head spinning, and he tips his head to watch, to see Hannibal's lips stretched around him, Hannibal's hard, dark eyes turned upward toward him. He looks terrifying and gorgeous at once, and Will sobs, pleasure sparking all over his body, making him shake. And then, at the bottom of Hannibal's next press, Will anchors his hand at the back of Hannibal's head and he thrusts, sharp and shallow, pushing just another quarter of an inch deeper, taking for the first time.

[tablewithoutpity]

That sob is a thing of incredible beauty, Will so overcome by pleasure that he was unable to hold it back, and Hannibal remembers it, and makes a mental note to draw more sobs out of his lover, from now until the moment they are parted, likely by the death of one or both of them. Then Will thrusts, and it is so perfect that Hannibal hums in pleasure, the corners of his mouth, already stretched out around the base of his lover's cock, draw back just a little more. He raises his hands and grips Will's buttocks. Much like Will's initial grip on Hannibal's hair, the intention is not to control. Rather it is an affirmation, that what Will is doing is perfect, that Hannibal is continuing to surrender to his lover's motions.

Hannibal's own cock is throbbing, aching between his legs, untended, and there is certainly the strong temptation to let one of his hands drop down so he can touch himself, find some release from the sweet agony. But he does not, waiting to see what Will shall do, finding pleasure in allowing his lover that control.

Will's cock is deep enough in Hannibal's throat that another, less talented man might gag. Instead, Hannibal swallows, his tongue and throat muscles rippling along Will's length. Any further and Will may cut off Hannibal's airways, which has its own enticements. Hannibal looks up at Will, waiting, challenging.

[adaptevolvebecome]

Will hadn't worried that Hannibal wouldn't want his thrusting, wouldn't be able to handle it as gracefully as he handles everything, but the touch of Hannibal's hands, gripping but not pulling him in, perfectly, beautifully confirms all of those suspicions. There's a longing in Hannibal's eyes, and simultaneously an edge to his expression, daring Will to take this further, to use and abuse his lover in a way he's never allowed himself to before.

Hannibal knows there's a desire there, hidden deep inside, a violence that extends beyond killing, its tendrils reaching out into other aspects of Will's life. Sex with Hannibal is already something other than any other sexual experience Will's ever had, more satisfying, and he knows this is the bulk of the reason why. Hannibal knows what Will wants, what he needs, even when Will doesn't.

Releasing his grip on Hannibal's hair, Will slides his hand down to palm the base of Hannibal's skull, his fingertips digging in as he shifts form slow but rhythmic thrusts to push forward, not stopping until he feels the end of his dick slip into the back of Hannibal's throat. Though the movement is controlled and careful, he knows he's nearly completely cutting off Hannibal's airway, that any amount of air Hannibal might be able to draw won't be enough to remotely fill his lungs. He stays in place for a long moment, moving his hand to brush his fingers over Hannibal's cheek, past the corner of Hannibal's mouth, stretched around Will's cock. He can see Hannibal's body fighting instinctually to survive, though his expression is calm, his eyes beginning to bulge slightly, face going red, and they both know either of them could live or die in this moment, that they both have the will and the power to take the other's life.

But they both know that's not what they want tonight, likely not for a long while. When he feels Hannibal's hands beginning to shake, his fingertips curling to bite lightly against the skin of Will's ass, Will eases back, pulling all the way out of Hannibal's mouth so he can gasp in lungfuls of precious oxygen, can catch his breath before they dive back in for more.

[tablewithoutpity]

It's a moment of incredible trust between them, each of them the lion tamer, each of them the lion. Will could asphyxiate Hannibal, hold him there until his lips turn blue, until he loses consciousness, while at the same time, Hannibal could bite down, shear through flesh, corpora cavernosa, corpus spongiosum. The sudden blood loss would likely cause his lover to collapse, at which point Hannibal could easily move on to the femoral artery. The thought of either possibility is achingly arousing, and Hannibal reflects, even as his hands begin to tremble, as tears come unbidden to his slightly bulging eyes, how curious it is that for most, love depends on the safety the parties find in each other. Not so with them. As Hannibal's vision begins to grey at the edges, he knows that he loves Will fiercely precisely because he knows that Will is perfectly capable, in every way, of ending his life. And because Will knows the opposite to be true, and his heart is likewise aflame with that knowledge.

Then Will's cock is out of his mouth, and Hannibal sags slightly as his lungs reflexively expand to suck in as much oxygen as possible. he leans forward and rests his forehead on Will's hip, his hands again settling lightly on Will's ass. He takes a couple breaths, enjoying the feeling of oxygen being reintroduced into his blood, his muscles, his brain. It's intoxicating, an aphrodisiac well known in medical literature, and one that makes Hannibal remember the night that Will's cat's paw hanged him. He remembers that first gasp after his rescue, the knowledge flooding in that Will had tried to kill him, and feeling only a deepened ardor for his friend.

He lifts his head to meet Will's eyes, his own burning with love infused with lust. His lips part slightly, and without his eyes leaving Will's he slowly brushes them back and forth against the head of Will's cock, waiting for his next move.

[adaptevolvebecome]

It's at the same time humbling and arousing for Hannibal, Will thinks, to be reminded of his human mortality, of the fact that he can not only control life and death for others, but that his can be controlled as well. Of course, as crafty and skillful as Hannibal is, his end will only be met at the whim of a force of nature; Hannibal is an apex predator more so than any of his human counterparts, with the noted expression of the man at whose feet he's now sitting prostrate. If Will isn't the one to take his life, it will only otherwise be unyielding illness, or another such unrelenting act of God.

Will shivers at the sweet, gentle touch of Hannibal's lips against him, and he reaches down to stroke the backs of his fingers along Hannibal's cheek. In that moment he makes a promise, to himself, that as long as he draws breath he won't let Hannibal succumb to a death less than the one he deserves. If he hadn't already planned to spend the rest of his life at Hannibal's side, Will would vow to do so now, if only to be there to snatch Hannibal's end away from the rude, unrepentant hands of fate. Hannibal's dark, unearthly beauty must be shared until his body returns to dust, and Will won't allow something as careless, and dull as cancer or heart disease to carry his paramour from this world into the next.

Likewise he won't let this, the first time Hannibal submits as Will's lover, to occur here in the middle of the floor. It's not that it doesn't have its appeal, fucking on their knees like animals, taking each other wherever they come together, unwilling to spend the seconds required to find a more comfortable location. But Will knows there will plenty of time (and desire) for that later. Tonight he wants extravagance, he wants to build memories of them laid out on expensive sheets, of collapsing heavily and sleeping deeply only to wake up and find each other again.

Hooking his fingers at Hannibal's nape, Will urges him to stand with a slight tug and a flick of his eyes across the room. "Come to bed," he says, his voice husky from lust and lack of use and barely contained patience.

[tablewithoutpity]

Hannibal ponders how this moment with Will illuminates that it is an intimate thing to entrust someone with one's life, but much more so to entrust someone with one's death. While he has a well-defined sense of self-preservation, one that has kept him alive and free all these years, he is also of the firm belief that death can be profoudly beautiful, even his own. Before Will, he has never known someone he would trust so completely with such a precious responsibility as the aesthetics of his own conclusion. He may yet be the one to end Will's life, or perhaps they will end each other at the same time. Regardless, Hannibal has full faith that his lover would give him the perfect end, should that be how fate dictates they be parted.

Hannibal rises as bidden, and nods, stepping to the bed. He moves the bag with their purchases to the night table and takes out the lubricant, discarding the packaging and making sure it is ready for when it is needed. Then he turns and raises his eyebrows, questioning and playful.

"How do you wish me to position myself?"