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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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The way Will arches into Hannibal's hand is so delightfully needful that Hannibal hums in approval, moving his hand with the yearning motion of Will's hips, slowly flexing his own hips to glide his cock up and down Will's cleft. He enjoys creating a need that he subsequently is often begged to fill, and there are few things more suited to the tactic than sex.

Will's answer makes Hannibal smile. "It pleases me that I will be your first," he croons, then leans in closer, until his lips are brushing Will's earlobe. He twists the tie just slightly.

"I intend to likewise be your last."

Will's eyelashes flutter closed as Hannibal begins to stroke him through his boxer briefs, and he begins to rub against him from behind, their two bodies moving together, neither one directing the speed or rhythm, falling into a natural cadence all their own. Will knows it's dangerous to relax into this in any manner, but even if he doesn't, Hannibal has every upper hand here. There's no benefit for Will to fighting against his enjoyment of this moment.

He's not surprised to learn that Hannibal will find pleasure in deflowering Will in this way; he's already enjoyed getting inside Will in so many other ways, being the first presence in so many corners of his mind.

He also assumes that Hannibal has more than an inconsequential amount of experience with his, sex with men. Hannibal's not beneath using anything at his disposal when he needs to manipulate a situation, and Alana is evidence enough that sex is one of those tools. Will only wonders how often he's used it with another man, what sorts of things he's done in the name of deception, if he's ever engaged in any of it out of something more pure, like desire, or love.

There's like some of that involved here, at least desire if nothing else. Because this isn't manipulation, it's consummation. Will, with an economy of words, has agreed to belong to Hannibal, and Hannibal is simply claiming what's now his. The extra pressure on the loop of fabric around Will's neck is proof of Hannibal's ownership, a threat, and also a promise. A dizzy, delirious part of Will's brain revels in all of it, the idea that his body and his life, in both the literal and figurative sense, are Hannibal's to do with what he pleases.

"Yes," he groans lowly, equal parts acquiescence and encouragement.

Hannibal is pansexual, finding beauty and pleasure and utility in sexual encounters regardless of sex or gender. There have been times when he's seduced men to prey on (or at times relieve them of) their fears of being homosexual. He enjoys exploring the dark recesses of the sexual mind, savoring the many ways that people are aroused, at times finding his own satisfaction in helping patients accept the depths of what society would call their own depravity. He finds beauty in that darkness, and encourages it to flourish, even (perhaps especially) when it results in such things as murder for the sake of constructing a skin suit to become the opposite gender.

For Hannibal, there are few times when sex is done without some utilitarian end. Occasionally he will indulge in desire. But in Hannibal's life, there have been three people he has truly loved: his sister, Abigail, and Will, and the former two were not sexual interests. Now, as he savors the sensations as he and Will move against each other, there is the strange feeling of deep-seated satisfaction of sharing this with his friend. He has not had an experience quite like this with anyone else, in large part because those anyone elses are interchangeable. Will is not. Will matters. Hannibal desires him, but it matters that Will desires him as well. Hannibal is taking his pleasure, but it matters to him that Will is pleasured as well, even when that pleasure isn't a part of a larger campaign of manipulation. Hannibal cherishes Will's presence, his touch, his desire, his regard. He wants to be united by what they do, their souls woven together in this consummation, this communion. Will is his, but he is also Will's, even when he is the one holding the tie around his lover's throat.

He allows their slow, grinding dance against each other to continue until they are both breathless and wound tight with need. Then he stops, steps back, and slowly pulls the tie from Will's neck.

"Remove the rest of your clothes and kneel on the bed," he orders softly.

Despite being held in place by Hannibal's noose, the longer they move together, the more the lines between them blur, the less Will feels like a submissive in this moment and the more he feels like an equal participant. Hannibal's breathing is very telling, the heaviness of it, the way every few breaths catch making a sound like a muted moan. The tenor of it sends hot tendrils of pleasure down Will's spine, his body riding back against Hannibal's cock with nearly the nearly frenzied desire to keep Hannibal making those sounds, to incite him to make more.

His own voice is much less restrained, every exhale a rough groan, every inhalation a gasp. His skin beneath his underwear is starting to feel a little raw from Hannibal's firm attention, the cotton fabric damp with Will's sweat and pre-come. His esophagus is swollen from the tension of the tie around his neck, feeling thick with every swallow, his lower lip bee-stung and bitten from the abuse caused by Will's upper teeth.

Will wonders a bit wildly if Hannibal plans to finish it this way, quick and dirty, half dressed and standing in the middle of Hannibal's bedroom. But then Hannibal's hand stops moving on him, pulls away, and then Hannibal's warmth leaves him entirely, and Will panics for a heady second, missing every touch so viscerally it brings tears to his eyes.

The sensation of the tie sliding away from Will's neck causes goosebumps to rise along his arms, his nipples going tight, and Hannibal's command causes a wave of arousal to wash over him with enough intensity that he feels suddenly lightheaded. His fingers are shaking as he bends down to unlace and remove his shoes, then he stands, taking off his pants, then his socks. His back is still to Hannibal when he takes a breath, working his boxer briefs over his erection, pushing them down and stepping out of them, leaving him bare.

Will shivers, able to feel Hannibal's eyes on him as he moves, walking slowly toward Hannibal's beautiful bed. If he didn't know they were leaving this place forever after this night, he'd worry about soiling the expensive duvet, but he knows it won't matter, and the idea of leaving evidence of their coupling behind in this place, in this bed, makes his cock ache with pleasure.

Climbing onto the mattress on his hands and knees, he crawls to the center of the bed, facing the headboard, his back to the enormous, high mounted mirror. Once he's centered, he pushes up onto his knees, back straight, and waits, counting the length of his breaths in order to calm his mounting anticipation.

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.

Will can feel Hannibal's gaze like a physical touch, every inch of his back hungrily devoured. There are faint sounds of Hannibal removing his clothes, only noticeable because Will is listening for them, holds his own breaths for long seconds so he can hear Hannibal's, trying to guess what's happening behind his back. He imagines what Hannibal must look like as he strips, perfunctory and efficient, neat and careful with his clothing where Will was careless with his own. He wishes that he'd sat the other way so he could watch, so he could see what Hannibal looks like this way, naked skin, body hair, muscles, all things of which Will has seen almost nothing and now undeniably desires.

He doesn't hear Hannibal's footsteps, but the sound of the drawer opening is easily recognized, and Will is almost certain what Hannibal's retrieving from inside. He takes a breath as he feels the mattress dip beneath Hannibal's weight, and he's aware then that he can smell Hannibal, his aftershave, whatever products he uses in his hair, his skin, the musky smell of his arousal. Will is trembling with desire by the time Hannibal touches him, their bodies pressed up against each other again like before, but this time skin-on-skin. He can feel Hannibal's bare cock against his tailbone, hard and thick and hot, the tip leaving a wet smear across Will's spine.

It's already almost too much, and then Hannibal loops his tie around Will's neck again, leaving it loose at first as he speaks. Will's own heart is pounding, and he can feel Hannibal's against his back, the heavy thud of it beneath the strong muscles of Hannibal's chest. Hannibal's words sound easy, like everything else Hannibal has ever said to Will, but they're heavily loaded. Will thinks that a normal person might be terrified in this moment, but Will is only all the more turned on. He doesn't know what it will feel like to have Hannibal's big, thick cock inside him, but he knows he wants it more than he's ever wanted anything sexual in his life.

He's shaking, forcing himself to stay still, to not arch back against Hannibal's body, and he knows Hannibal can feel it. The tie pulls tighter across Will's throat and he groans, tipping his head back a few inches, his hands curled into fists at his sides. He wants to touch, but he doesn't know if he's allowed, so he bows his back just a little, pressing his spine into Hannibal's sternum. He swallows thickly and says Hannibal's name, just once, a trembling plea.

The way Will's body is reacting is delicious. Hannibal can feel his lover's heart pounding, his muscles quivering, can hear the way his breath catches and the rumble of the groan in his chest. But then Will says his name, his voice trembling, and Hannibal finds his own breath hitching involuntarily. It's a very strange reaction for him. He's heard his name said a variety of ways in a variety of situations, including pleading for one's life, and aside from a certain sense of victory to bring someone to beg, it doesn't affect him. But now, hearing it on the lips of this man, his friend, his lover, he's struck, his heart aching.

Hannibal leans his head forward and tenderly nuzzles into the hair at the back of Will's head, while wrapping an arm around his waist. He doesn't move to touch Will's cock, but rather just holds him close. He is not abandoning his plans to fuck and strangle Will into unconsciousness. Rather he is taking a breath, and addressing that ache by allowing himself to be tender and loving for a moment, and by letting Will know the depth of his affection before the violence.

Will feels Hannibal's breath against the back of his neck, humid and warm, Hannibal's mouth and nose buried in Will's curls. The arm across his waist is an embrace, not a manipulation, and the muscles in Will's abdomen flutter beneath it, something squeezing around his heart.

Hannibal is cherishing him, in this moment. He's showing Will his true self again, the things buried deepest, his ability to be tender, his capacity for love. Will risks moving then, uncurling the fingers of one hand and covering Hannibal's where it rests on his belly. He closes his eyes, savoring the feeling of what he's sure will be a fleeting moment, feeling Hannibal's exhalations against his skin, the tie slack around his throat for the moment. It's quiet, and they're unmoving, so Will can count the beats of their hearts, perfectly in sync now, as are the risings and fallings of their respirations, like they're one being, sharing the same breath and blood.

Will doesn't want it to end, but even if they don't have to hurry, their time here is not infinite, and Hannibal has made promises that Will is ready to have fulfilled. His fingers curl around the width of Hannibal's hand, not moving it, but letting Hannibal know he's ready for more.

Hannibal will remember this, every aspect of this moment held precious in his memory; the smell of Will's hair, his sweat, his arousal, the feel of his skin, the sound of his breath and the beating of his heart. If there comes a time in the future when they part (Hannibal has no plans at the moment to kill Will, but that doesn't mean such plans can't develop in the future) he will be able to conjure this memory when he wants to hold Will again, to cherish him, to love him.

But now it is time to move on.

Hannibal pulls back with the arm around Will's waist while simultaneously pushing Will's head down to the bed via the hand behind Will's neck that is wrapped in the tie. The end result is Will with his chest to the bed and his ass in the air. Once he is positioned Hannibal holds him in place with that hand at his neck, while with the other and his teeth he opens the tube of lubricant. He squeezes a generous amount into his hand, and slicks his cock with a few long, firm strokes. Then he slides his fingers, still with plenty of lube on them, into the cleft of Will's ass, finding his entrance and gently circling the outside with his fingertips. People unfamiliar with the sensations of anal sex can sometimes be overly sensitive, so he's easing Will into it, so that he's able to open up and take Hannibal's cock inside.

"Relax, Will," he purrs, then slides one finger inside his lover.

Hannibal doesn't waste any time, once their tender moment is over. It's not cruel, but it's not gentle either, the way Hannibal pushes Will down to the mattress, his face and chest pillowed against the duvet. Just by the mechanics of his body this leaves Will's ass angled upward, open to Hannibal's scrutiny and his touch. Will wonders if Hannibal finds this attractive, the way Will's positioned, utterly pliant and at Hannibal's mercy, his asshole and genitals obscenely exposed.

Will feels thrilled at the idea of being desired this way. It's nothing like he's ever had with a woman, always in some part dominant, ultimately the aggressor. But here, on his knees, he's subservient, a veritable buffet of vulnerability upon which Hannibal can feast.

Will hears the cap on the lubricant open and his body tenses involuntarily, every muscle clenching. He knows the more wound he is the more uncomfortable this will be, so he breathes deeply, imagining what expression might be on Hannibal's face, if he looks focused, intent, or if there's something more open, emotional, because Will can't see it. The thought that Hannibal might be looking at him with love in his eyes makes something in Will break loose, his body relaxing further even as his heart aches.

Still, he jumps very slightly when Hannibal's fingers first make contact with his skin, slick fingertips ringing his hole, a gentle touch to acclimate Will to the sensation. Will's first impression is that it feels good, far less weird than he expected. He trembles as the feeling makes his cock twitch where it hangs heavily between his thighs, goosebumps rising along the backs his legs, his buttocks.

He doesn't jump when Hannibal's fingertip dips into the center, and he takes a breath when Hannibal tells him to relax, holding it during the long drag as Hannibal slides one entire finger into him, not stopping until the width of his hand prevents further forward progress. The penetration feels unpleasant at first, not painful as much as deeply unusual. A place low in Will's belly feels hollowed out by it, raw, and he breathes shakily as he works to isolate those muscles, clenching and releasing around the width of Hannibal's finger until the scraped feeling inside him recedes, heat filling the void.

This is when Will pushes back, just a little, causing a broken sound of pleasure to come from him, the feeling overwhelming. His fingers curl into the blankets beneath him and he shudders, aching in a different way now, suddenly needing more.

Hannibal sees beauty in many things others might think of as profane, and Will splayed open like this, on display and utterly vulnerable, is deeply beautiful. The depth of his trust, the coaxed openness of his body, the needful arousal, it all works in exquisite harmony, and Hannibal watches with appreciation, admiration, and deep affection.

Will's initial reaction to the penetration is not unusual, nor unexpected. Hannibal has deflowered a number of men in this way, and that first touch, that first penetration, is often a difficult thing. Often men have an aversion to being in this position, being the one who will be taken, penetrated, fucked. Their bodies react to the subconscious fears of vulnerability and submission, and they jump or flinch or clench. Will is actually reacting better than most, and Hannibal slowly strokes that one finger in and out as his lover's muscles get used to its presence. When Will pushes back, Hannibal hums in approval, his tone entwining with Will's moan of pleasure. He responds with adding another finger, sliding the two in deep, then stroking gently for a moment before adding another. He works those three fingers in, massaging the muscles inside Will, spreading him apart, widening the passage in preparation.

Each time Hannibal adds a finger there's a new, intense burn that comes with the stretch, and while it's not what Will would consider painful, it's certainly uncomfortable. But Hannibal eases his fingers in with a great deal of consideration, taking his time and waiting until Will's body accepts the width before he pushes deeper, before he adds more. By the time Hannibal has three fingers inside Will's dizzy with euphoria, an undercurrent of discomfort buzzing along his nerves but very closely paced by pleasure, a combination Will's found he enjoys immensely.

He's panting loudly, his entire body shaking, fingers gripping the duvet so hard his hands are starting to ache from it. He's half blissed out already and Hannibal hasn't even moved on to the main event yet. He's never felt so content to give himself up bodily to another person, to stay here in this position, resting heavily on his chest and the side of his face, his knees and hips aching as he holds himself up and open for Hannibal. He makes a sound like a broken sob when Hannibal's three fingers start fucking into him steadily, not rough, not yet, but thorough and firm, working Will's muscles loose.

It's good, it's so good, and Will knows if he can get to a point where having Hannibal's dick inside him feel like this, that there will be no looking back. He's already so ready to give up everything to Hannibal, heart, body, and soul, and he wants to want this, wants to need it like he needs so many other things from Hannibal. He doesn't realize it until he focuses, but he's started to say 'please' with every breath, not even knowing for sure for what he's begging.

Within all his gentleness, Hannibal is also engaging in a bit of torture and manipulation. He's bringing Will to the edge, both to get him used to the sensation and to open his body so that what is to come is pleasurable and doesn't damage him overly much, but also to draw out of him that yearning, that need, that desperation for Hannibal's violent cock. Otherwise Will could, if he chose, block out the sensations of his rough claiming as he could block out any pain. With this, however, Hannibal has sunk deep roots into Will's mind and senses, and he will be all but unable to ignore what is to come, to feel anything less than the full impact. Those whispered pleas are delicious, because it means that he has succeeded in reaching the depths of his lover's sensual psyche. He smiles and begins to murmur back.

"Yes Will. Yes."

Satisfied with the preparation, that Will's body is not only able to take but also hungry for his cock, he withdraws his fingers and positions his cock, the head nestling at Will's opening. He takes hold of Will's hip in a crushing grip, and flexes his hips, once, twice, the head of his cock rubbing against Will's entrance.

Then, with one quick, hard, brutal thrust, he impales his lover.

The tone and timbre of Hannibal's voice resonates through Will's entire being, bringing back memories of recent moments shared in Hannibal's office, the discussions they've had about Will's becoming, the low and visceral admissions Will made about his true nature. And while in the moment Will had allowed those things to surface as a means to an end, he hadn't invented them, hadn't been falsifying the guttural reaction he'd had to Hannibal's encouraging replies. Some of those words had been haunting Will for weeks, sinking more and more deeply into his psyche, allowing for the eventual rewiring that lead them to this moment, to Will craving this life so deeply that the last tethers of his morality had broken loose, leaving him broken open for Hannibal's ministrations.

Will manages to silence a cry when Hannibal pulls his fingers free, squeezing his eyes shut at the sensation of being stretched and empty, suddenly cold and gaping. He knows what's coming before he feels Hannibal's hard grip on his hip, before the slick, blunt head of Hannibal's cock bumps against him, and he's stretched enough that it sinks just a bit even before Hannibal presses against him.

The first few pushes are careful, the very subtle feeling of shallow penetration, like a tease. It makes Will feel a little strange, the same sort of anticipation before a not quite pleasant medical procedure widening in him, causing a hollow feeling in Will's belly, an ache in his jaw. But it doesn't last long, Hannibal's fingers digging into Will's flesh hard enough to leave bruises as he tenses and pushes all the way inside without a single additional moment of caution.

This is painful, enough so that Will is unable to fight his instinct to retreat, his spine caving as his body tries to get away from the stinging hurt raiding out from the point of penetration. Will grits his teeth, cutting off the injured whine he's making, the sound like a wounded animal. He pushes up on his arms just slightly so he can move his head, press his crown against the duvet and breathe, his body shaking hard as the intensity of the pain fades out until it's just a steady throb around the girth of Hannibal's dick inside him.

Taking a shuddering breath, Will shifts his perception, imagines what it must look like from Hannibal's vantage point, Will's hole tight and clinging around the width of the base of Hannibal's cock. It's dirty, pornographic, and it makes Will groan, his inner muscles fluttering, squeezing, feeling every inch of Hannibal inside him. He swears roughly, and a fierce wave of pleasure rolls through him, making him moan wetly, tides undeniably turned.

As Will's body fights the pain, Hannibal keeps him in place with the tie around his neck and the fingers digging into his hip. He breathes, waiting for the reflex to subside, for his lover to surrender to the pain and let the pleasure come crashing through. When Will finally swears and moans, Hannibal smiles in triumph. In that moment Will is his, entirely his, body and mind. And he will take such great pleasure in taking him, body and mind, right up to the brink of destruction.

Hannibal winds the tie in his hand, tightening the loop around Will's neck. He does it slowly to give Will a few moments to contemplate the situation Hannibal is putting him. Hannibal leaves unspoken, yet heavily implied, that he could kill Will right here, right now. He's already told Will that he will fuck him to unconsciousness. There is nothing keeping him from fucking him to death. For Will it would feel exactly the same, the last of his consciousness obliterated by the crash of his final and most intense orgasm. All Hannibal would need to do is keep the tie tight for those extra moments that would starve Will's brain of oxygen to the extent that he would not resume breathing when the tie is released.

Then, just as Will has had sufficient time to contemplate his fate, Hannibal begins fucking him, hard from the beginning, his cock powerful and merciless.

Will's moan is acknowledged by the tightening of the fabric across his throat, gently tugged tighter and tighter until Will's breathing is hindered just a little, the act of swallowing likewise encumbered. Otherwise Hannibal doesn't move, his cock buried deep inside Will's body, his breathing measured and even.

He hasn't changed his mind, Will knows that without question, and he's not planning to kill Will, at least not outright. But there is a tacit understanding that he could, that in this position Will wouldn't even be able to fight him. Hannibal is exhibiting his power here, his ownership of Will's continued existence. However this proceeds, Hannibal's already said how it will end. Almost everything in Will trusts that, once everything goes black, eventually he'll reawaken, they'll dress and feed Will's dogs, then disappear together. But there's a flicker of doubt, the part of Will that knows how easily Hannibal can lie and deceived, how willing he is to change his mind halfway between point a and point b. And Will won't be able to do anything to stop it if Hannibal decides to deprive Will of oxygen longer than he's said he will. He'll just never wake up again.

Maybe this is a moment for Will to make a choice. Perhaps if he says he can't do this Hannibal will stop, though, considering how far they've gone, he can't see it happening. It's more likely a pronouncement, time for contemplating the situation Will's let himself come to be in. So he takes a breath, and he lets resignation fall down around him. These might well be his last moments on Earth, and there's no turning back, so he might as well let himself enjoy the pleasure of the sex they're about to have.

Hannibal must be able to sense that he's come to terms with what this might mean, because his fingers go tense on Will's hip and he begins to move. The first withdrawal is easy, but that's the last moment it is, the thrust forward brutal and bone wrenching, each one afterward just as hard. Hannibal's pelvis collides with Will's ass with enough force to bruise them both, the width of Hannibal's cock splitting Will down the middle. At first it's all splintering pain, burning as his body is abused, but as before the pain begins to give way to pleasure, and soon Will is calling out with each new penetration, his voice catching as he chokes on the tie around his neck.

He feels like he's outside himself, detached enough to hear Hannibal's harsh breathing, each exhalation a grunt of effort and ecstasy, to feel the way his dick and balls sway each time their bodies collide, the tense and aching muscles in his thighs, his shoulders, pushing back to meet Hannibal every time. And of course the stretch, his hole swollen but clenching around Hannibal's cock inside him, the rub of Hannibal over internal parts of Will that feel almost as good as touching himself. The pleasure of it all is wrapped tightly around him, and between the headiness of the endorphins flooding his system and the short supply of oxygen Hannibal allows him, Will's orgasm is dangerously close to the surface already, even without a single touch to the erection throbbing between his thighs.

Hannibal is intimately familiar with the human body and its limits. He knows how long it will take Will to lose consciousness based on how tight the tie is around his neck. So as he continues slamming hard into his lover, he slowly winds the tie tighter, tighter, tighter, still leaving just enough space for Will to drag in a small amount of air. He is saving that last twist for right before orgasm, which he suspects both he and Will shall share.

Simultaneously, Hannibal revels in the pleasure of fucking his lover like this, with no restraint, no facade, merely vicious, brutal animalistic rutting. Everything about how Will is reacting - the cries after each thrust, the ripple and clench of his muscles around Hannibal's cock - is ratcheting up the pleasure, whipping it into a frenzy. He's able to keep his intellect in sufficient shape to monitor the strangling and how close his lover is to orgasm, but only just. Otherwise he's in ecstasy, drinking in the sensation, letting it fill him, making every nerve in his body sing.

As he feels himself coming nearer and nearer to his own climax he leans over, hips still jerking hard into his lover, and wraps an arm around Will's waist.

"Now, Will," he grinds out. "Now."

He wrenches the tie, closing Will's throat completely, and grips Will's cock, stroking it with frisk urgency.

Will's consciousness gets more and more spotty the harder it is for him to breathe, but it only narrows his attention, only enough focus to feel the way Hannibal is taking him apart, the stretch and the pounding of Hannibal's body against him, into him, deep and hard. He pushes up onto his forearms, his head tipping as he fights to breathe, his vision blotchy and his ears ringing, sounds around him muffled. He barely understands what Hannibal says when he speaks, but he doesn't need to hear it, the way Hannibal's hand wraps around him tells him what's next.

He chokes, strangled sounds coming from his throat as he struggles uselessly to take a breath, his hands fisted in the duvet, body jerking as survival instinct fills him with adrenaline, panic crashing in. He still feels Hannibal thrusting, short, deep stabs, completely lacking rhythm now, frantic and wild, and Will's body bucks back as he comes with an intensity unlike anything else he's ever experienced in his life. He can't moan, can't make any sound now, and he feels his face flush hot and then go completely cold, his arms and legs flexing as his orgasm barrels through him, shaking him until the darkness that's been pressing in at the edges closes over him, and everything goes black.

Hannibal holds him tight as he bucks, as he struggles, knowing that it is his body fighting for life instead of his mind. He keeps thrusting, his own climax building with each forceful stab, each jerk of his lover's body. And then Will comes and Hannibal can feel it, can feel the muscles gripping his cock, can feel Will's prostate spasm, can feel his lover's cock pulse in his hand as his seed spills out, spatters onto the duvet below him. It's what Hannibal needs to push him over the edge, and he roars as he comes, thrusting deep into Will and holding there as he empties into his lover, the bright ecstasy washing everything else away for that one perfect moment of pleasure, of unity.

Then Will's body goes limp, and Hannibal follows him down, releasing the tie, laying over him for a moment as Hannibal catches his breath. Once he's collected his wits again he withdraws from the unconscious Will and moves so he can roll him over onto his back. He presses two fingers to the side of Will's neck to check his pulse, then lays a hand on Will's chest to feel it moving breath by breath. Satisfied, he lies down on his side facing his lover and gazes at him, gently stroking his cheek, until he wakes up.

Will's hands are covered in blood. In the place at the head of the table sits Jack Crawford, but he's only sitting because gravity allows his body to stay in the chair, but his throat is slit, his head tipped back, eyes open and staring sightlessly. The knife is in Hannibal's hands, the table and the place setting covered in arterial spray. It's quiet, the only sound in the room is Will's breathing, shaking with the excitement of the kill, of doing it with Hannibal, clearing the way for them to escape together.

Looking up, he meets Hannibal's eyes across the table, sees the ferocity there, but also something else, a tempestuous desire. For Will.

Hannibal leaves the knife on the table, and they meet behind Jack's chair, Hannibal's hands on the sides of Will's face, their mouths crashing together, rough and wet, kissing desperately. Will can taste blood, Jack's blood, and he groans into Hannibal's mouth, their bodies crushed together, heat building between them. Will feels Hannibal tearing at his clothes, needing him to be bared completely, wanting him entirely.

Will gasps softly when reality drops back over him, bringing him to full wakefulness. He swallows and his throat hurts, and he turns his head, blinking his eyes into focus and seeing Hannibal's face, pillowed next to him on the bed. The dream falls further away and Will's memories resurface, on his hands and knees with Hannibal buried inside him, fucking him ruthlessly, coming harder than he had in his life, hearing Hannibal's voice as he followed Will into ecstasy, and then nothing.

A quick self assessment proves his memories are true, soreness in all the right places, a light pain across the front of his throat, his asshole stretched and swollen, wet with lubricant and Hannibal's come. He can still taste Hannibal's kiss on his lips, and Hannibal's eyes hold something fond and loving, Will's heart clenching again until the gaze. He licks his lips, taking a breath and realizing this is real: he and Hannibal are running away together, they belong to each other, and Will doesn't want anything more.

Hannibal smiles as Will awakes, still stroking his cheek. As much as Hannibal would like to hold Will and let him recover, perhaps sleep together, they don't have the time. So he's luxuriating in the moment, quietly enjoying Will's presence, his scent, the sound of his breath and the beat of his heart. Still, there are things he should do to make sure Will is all right. While he's confident in his abilities to render someone unconscious without causing permanent injury, he is still responsible for ensuring that things have not gone awry, that he hasn't inadvertently deprived Will's brain of too much oxygen.

"Tell me who and where you are," he says softly, brushing Will's hair back from his forehead and peering into his eyes. It's an echo of the litany he recommended for Will when, unbeknownst to him, his friend was still under the sway of encephalitis. It's a good way to test his mental capacity, as well as bring his mind soundly into the present.

Hannibal's eyes are dark and handsome, the lines around them only enhancing the effect, and Will realizes that he's almost always felt at ease meeting Hannibal's gaze, having no need to look away. The same is true now and he watches Hannibal's eyes as Hannibal strokes his cheek, allowing himself to enjoy the fondness he sees there, the tenderness.

And then Hannibal speaks, and Will can't help the soft laugh that comes out of him when he contemplates his answer, old memories rising to the surface of his mind. Even the way Hannibal touches him, palm against his forehead, pushing his curls away, is intensely reminiscent of a time not so long ago, the first moment of shifting tides between them.

He licks his lips, his eyes still smiling. "My name is Will Graham," he says, his voice a low murmur, his swollen vocal cords giving it a rough edge. "It's probably about eight PM, and I'm in bed with Hannibal Lecter," he adds with a bit more of a smile before he finishes, "in Baltimore, Maryland."

Hannibal smiles back at Will, his lover. He's not exactly relieved, since he wasn't truly worried, yet he's still pleased that Will seems to have surfaced with his intellect intact. Will's answer to his call is precisely what he was looking for, and the fact that Will seems happy at the memory is interesting. Will had been in the midst of the most intense of Hannibal's manipulations when Hannibal had him say those words to bring himself fully in the present. And yet it is also a part of their history, a part of their friendship, of Hannibal's growing fondness and growing vulnerability. Someone else might think Will crazy for thinking fondly of that time, but they didn't understand Will, Hannibal, or their relationship. Their history even includes mutual murder attempts, and yet even that has drawn them closer.

Hannibal finds himself most pleased by the idea that Will's place is in bed with him, at his side. There are places where Hannibal feels he belongs, but more often than not he is in an exile with no true home. Even his birthplace is tainted so much that he can never return. But now he has a place. A home. He belongs at Will's side, as Will belongs at his. He has never considered himself as belonging to anyone, and in truth would have resisted the idea, finding utility in being completely independent. But, as in so many ways, Will is different.

"Are you feeling well?" he asks, his hand coming to rest on Will's cheek.

Edited 2016-02-07 21:17 (UTC)

Will inhales deeply, testing his breath, and though it hurts, nothing feels further encumbered. He feels lucid, remembers everything, and there's something intensely comforting about the realization. There have been so many times when his reality has felt clouded where Hannibal's concerned, where Hannibal's words and gestures and manipulations have cast a heavy shadow of doubt over Will and what he truly feels.

But now, in this moment, in Hannibal's bed, he feels like he can take things at face value. Hannibal's expression isn't meant to deceive, it's genuine. The fondness in his eyes, the concern for Will's wellbeing, they're not an act. Finally, with Will's confession and Hannibal's forgiveness, with the physical act of consummation they've just experienced, they are equals, partners on the same path. When they leave this place together they'll cease to be two individual entities, heading in opposite directions, and instead they will be united by common desires and and mutual love, trust, and respect.

"My throat hurts," he tells Hannibal, being honest, his voice rasping. "And so does my ass," he adds, just the spark of a smile in his eyes. He takes a breath, his eyes darkening as he prepares to go on. "I can feel your come leaking out of me," he says, his voice dropping in tenor, clearly aroused by the sensation.

Hannibal is far more deeply relaxed than he typically is able to be in the company of others, not needing to spend the effort of playing even the most seemingly effortless of games. Only now it isn't only that he wants to be seen by Will; he knows he is seen. He and Will are deeply united, as he has never been with anyone else. Respect he has had for any number of people before, but trust has been rare, and love all but nonexistent. Now Will has all three.

When Will's eyes go dark, the smile that spreads on Hannibal's face is slyly amused, and he hums his approval, his hand leaving Will's cheek to trail his fingers along his side. The idea of part of him still within Will, drawing out the pleasurable effects of their encounter for the next few hours, pleases him.

"Both your throat and your ass will recover with time, although it may be twenty-four hours or more. If we are expedient, we may be in Paris by that time."