(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

[adaptevolvebecome]

The way Hannibal offers his hand to Will now is like the completion of a circle, one that began when Hannibal made the same gesture as Will sat at Hannibal's table in Baltimore. They're still at the beginning of this journey, their new life together, but it's symbolic, the fact they left their lives in America after coupling, and are now bridging the gap to where they are now, their flat in Paris.

Will takes Hannibal's hand without a moment of hesitation, though he feels more self-conscious about his own nudity once he's standing at Hannibal's side. It's not that he has a problem with being naked, it's more the transition, moving from the bed to the kitchen through the halls of the apartment, past windows that, though they're shuttered, are allowing sunlight in. It reminds Will that this is more than sex, more than something that's happening in the dark, impossible to deny. It's new to Will, being someone's lover, being someone's partner like this, and while it puts him off balance, he finds himself wanting to lose himself in it.

He follows Hannibal to the kitchen, blinking his eyes into focus on Hannibal's broad back, the flex of heavy muscles, trapezius and latissimus dorsi, the tapering at Hannibal's waist drawing Will's gaze downward. He inhales sharply as he realizes he's admiring Hannibal's buttocks, noting the way the skin moves, the smoothing and tucking as it stretches over the rise of Hannibal's ass down over his hamstrings. Maybe it's part of the intoxication he's found in being intimate with Hannibal in this way, but the desire in him flares as his eyes roam over Hannibal's body, attracted to the masculinity, to Hannibal's in particular.

By the time they reach the kitchen, Will can feel his pulse heavy in his groin, and when Hannibal turns to face him Will's eyes fall immediately to Hannibal's cock, thick and flushed and slick at the tip. He licks his lips and raises his gaze to Hannibal's face, knowing how obvious his arousal is, how his eagerness to feel Hannibal inside him again has grown even just in the few feet they've traveled from the bedroom. He exhales a shaky breath, his eyes skirting to Hannibal's lips and back to his eyes again, his stomach tightening.

"I never thought I could want anyone the way I want you," he admits, his voice a husky whisper.

[tablewithoutpity]

Hannibal has far more experience admiring the beauty and sensual power of the male form than his lover, yet for him as well there is something novel, that being the feeling of compassion, love, for the man who held the form. The concept that one's beauty may be enhanced in the eyes of a lover is not foreign to him, yet Hannibal has not before experienced it this strongly. Will is lovely, lithe and slight and well proportioned, yet with the warmth that Hannibal feels in his heart, in his soul, in his entire being, the man is luminous. He can tell that Will is self-conscious, but he still takes a moment to just look, to enjoy the vision that is his beloved.

Will's admission brings a smile to Hannibal's lips. "The sentiment is mutual," he murmurs back, although he suspects that what triggers that sentiment in him is quite different than the one in Will. It is not the physical desire that takes Hannibal aback, but the deep emotional attachment.

Hannibal gestures to the kitchen's preparation table. It is expansive, which makes sense for someone as serious about the culinary arts as Hannibal, yet Will can almost certainly perceive one of the most salient facts about the table's dimensions.

It can easily accommodate the laid-out body of a full-grown man.

"Will you lie upon my table, Will?" he asks, his eyes sparkling with the many implications.

[adaptevolvebecome]

Will isn't expecting Hannibal to return his feelings quite so effusively, at least not verbally, and it makes something possessive and proud flare in Will's chest. Hannibal has the ability to have anyone and anything his heart desires; as a master manipulator with a well augmented toolset all he really needs is time. Even Will was a product of that, at least at first. Now Will knows it's that Hannibal no longer has to manipulate him that makes Hannibal so drawn to him, that has allowed Hannibal to peel back his fallse face and show Will what really lies underneath. The fact that his true self embodies much more than darkness and evil is what has begun to utterly ensnare Will.

When they stop (after Hannibal's had a moment to appreciate Will visually, taking in his slight nervousness but obviously unaffected desire), Hannibal shows Will his table, and Will has a feeling that if he went into any of the flats in the same block Hannibal's is in he wouldn't find a single other kitchen with a table as large as the one Hannibal has here. For the unaware it would come off a bit extravagant, and though it fits quite well in the space, it might appear needlessly massive for an apartment in the heart of Paris.

Will swallows, and he thinks about who else might have been on this table, and what state they might have been in, and he finds himself tasting the bitterness of jealously in every scenario he conjures. Licking his lips, he meets Hannibal's eyes, seeing the glint of mischievousness there, and he can't help the was his own slight smile surfaces in response. He glances back to the table, bare but elegant in its empty state, and while he's going to find himself laying on it like a slab in a mortuary or an operating table, the idea doesn't leave him feeling anxious or cold. In fact he finds himself thinking about the surgery Hannibal will eventually perform on him, taking his kidney, the thought of that and of the sex they're about to engage in coming together in Will's brain and making him flush.

There isn't a graceful way to get onto a table clothed, and Will finds the act even less graceful while naked, having to sort of pull himself up backward with his arms to sit on the surface. His naked skin sticks to the finish, so moving to center himself isn't a sexy display either, but he has a feeling Hannibal would need to see something pretty unpleasant to ruin the mood for him now. Will stays seated for the moment, nude in the middle of Hannibal's table like some kind of living art centerpiece, thighs splayed and cock mostly still hard between them.

"Are you going to prepare me now?" Will asks, unable to resist the double meaning.

[tablewithoutpity]

It would perhaps please Will to know that he is the first man to grace the table. And that Hannibal fully intends for the first death on that table, aside from le petit mort of orgasm, to be one that he and Will are equal parts in. However, the sight of Will there, naked and vulnerable even in his beauty, brings exquisite thoughts to his mind. As he crosses the kitchen to retrieve the olive oil from its cabinet, he imagines again how he would kill, prepare, and cook Will. Perhaps not in that order.

"Preparations will be simple," he remarks, closing the cabinet and turning toward Will, bottle in hand. Extra virgin olive oil, the pure, unadulterated stuff. Hannibal's preparations demanded quality.

He comes closer, his eyes again traveling the lines of his lover's body. "You look delicious just as you are. Some olive oil will merely bring out your flavor."

[adaptevolvebecome]

Will knows as well as Hannibal does where their trains of thought are going, have gone, and Will finds himself less and less surprised at how often they cross paths perfectly. He inhales deeply through his nose, able to smell the subtle scent of the olive oil even before Hannibal opens the bottle, and Will wonders if Hannibal would cook him in it as well as use it the way he plans to now. He knows all about Hannibal's proclivities where cuisine is concerned, has wondered idly since he knew what Hannibal was if Hannibal had a dish in mind for him. But the comment Hannibal makes here leads Will to imagine that when Hannibal does finally eat him, it will be a simple preparation, something that will leave Will's true flavor shining through.

Right now, however, all Will can think about is how Hannibal is about to touch him. He just felt all of this not that long ago, but it feels like days rather than hours, and this time he'll have the benefit of seeing what's happening, the gift of getting to watch Hannibal's face. The hours between the last time and this time have tied them closer together than Will had imagined, and Will doesn't feel the slightest bit detached or anxious. All he feels is heated anticipation.

Will's eager to see how Hannibal will go about getting him ready, if he'll stand at the side of the table like a chef or climb onto it like a lover into a bed. Will's eyes move to Hannibal's hands, and his legs fall wider apart, ready to feel Hannibal's long, elegant fingers inside him again, making space inside for more. "I'm glad I taste good to you," he says simply as his gaze moves up to Hannibal's face. "Right now that all I want."

[tablewithoutpity]

Hannibal imagines what it would be like to prepare Will for roasting. He rubs the oil into Will's skin, along with salt and sage. Will is watching, smiling at him, and Hannibal smiles back. He watches Will's skin shimmer, then redden, then crackle and brown, all the while his eyes remaining alert.

The image fades into the reality of his lover sitting before him, his arousal as clear in his face as it is in cock. Hannibal meets those pupil-blown eyes and his smile deepens, love swelling in his chest. As appetizing as the fantasy is, the reality is what he is hungry for. To enjoy Will, consume him, the oil preparing his lover's flesh in a different way. He comes up close, at the edge of the table, then opens the bottle and pours some oil onto his fingers. He reaches out and slides his hand slowly up the inside of Will's thigh, the oil leaving a slick, fragrant trail. Once he reaches Will's groin, he circles the base of his lover's cock with his fingers, then caresses his testicles, then moves down further, slow, deliberate, his eyes on Will's as his fingertips finally circle his lover's entrance.

[adaptevolvebecome]

Fat, heavy droplets of oil spatter the surface of the table when Hannibal coats his fingers in it, and Will wonders if Hannibal has ever been so careless when preparing a meal, from slaughter to carving. Will had seen Hannibal's kitchen in Baltimore many times, and every single one, even when Hannibal was in the midst of cooking, there hadn't been a surface that wasn't immaculate. Of course this isn't the first mess they've made together, just the first one in the kitchen, and Will finds a giddy part of himself hoping it won't be the last,

Will shifts to lower his back to the tabletop when Hannibal reaches for him, his breath shuddering out of him as Hannibal's fingers trace the line of his inner thigh, his following inhalation rough and audible when Hannibal's touch wanders over his genitals, paying service to each part of him before dipping lower, finding the tight bundle of muscles below Will's balls. Licking his lips, he tries not to arch into the touch, wanting to feel Hannibal make the decision when to push, giving Hannibal every ounce of control. His head is tipped so he can watch Hannibal's face, can see the hunger and the lust, the desire and love in his darkened eyes. He blinks and he sees images of Hannibal, moments in Hannibal's office, at the FBI, on site at a crime scene, and it's all fractions of that same expression, a yearning long held and finally realized.

It's the same for Will, though he didn't really understand it at the beginning. Hannibal has been opening him up since the day they met, preparing him for this, leading him down a path that had the potential to bring them here. There are other outcomes, of course, if Will had taken a left where he gone right anywhere along the way things could be very different. But as Hannibal's oil slickened fingers trace over one of the most intimate parts of Will's body, Will is more than a little grateful their decisions have brought them to this place, one of love and equality and trust and knowing, sex and companionship and so much more on the horizon. Will doesn't speak, but he hopes Hannibal will see all those things he's feeling in his eyes, in the way his breathing shakes and his body trembles, wanting more, needing everything.

[tablewithoutpity]

His beautiful Will has been opening to him since the beginning, allowing him inside, deep inside, and while others may well think of what he has done to the man as fucking him, Hannibal sees it quite differently. All this time, when he realized it and when he didn't, he has been making love to Will Graham, making love to his mind, to his soul, to his sense of self, to what lay in his depths, to the dark beauty waiting to arise. And Will has been reciprocating, to various degrees and with various levels of awareness. At times their lovemaking has been rough, painful, left scars. But is that not an indication of the force to which they cleave to each other? Hannibal suspects (perhaps even knows) that they will be in this meta-coitus for the rest of their lives, that the culmination, that world-destroying orgasm, will be the destruction of them both. However far, it's an experience Hannibal looks forward to.

Hannibal watches Will quiver in need, sees the desire and devotion in the dark of his eyes, and Hannibal thinks of the lamb, led to slaughter, laying trustingly on the altar, vulnerable to either a gentle or a cruel hand. Will is doubtless aware of the many ways Hannibal could cause him lethal pain instead of loving pleasure, and yet he trusts him. He wants him. He loves him. And for a moment Hannibal can only gaze in wonder at the man he loves, as if he is gazing at a heartrendingly beautiful work of art.

Then slowly he presses one finger against that knot of muscle, gentle but unyielding, willing his lover to relax, to open up, to let him inside.

[adaptevolvebecome]

The look in Hannibal's eyes undoes Will for a moment, and his breath hitches in his chest, rough and broken. He remembers one moment in Hannibal's office, the air in the room thick with intent, with Will's very real desire to kill. It had lent itself as a means to the end Will was pushing Hannibal toward, but it was the most honest he'd ever been with Hannibal about those urges, the most truthful he'd been with himself. And Hannibal had known it, encouraged it, stoked the flame that burned low in Will's belly, the look in his eyes dark and hungry like the one he has right now.

Will didn't know before it was offered to him how much he needed this, to be close with someone who understands him intrinsically, intimately, to give himself over to his desires, the dark ones coated in blood, and the hotter ones, the ones that are more about flesh and sweat and saliva and come. He whimpers wetly when Hannibal begins to press inside him, the blunt tip of Hannibal's finger just slightly nudging in, and he has to clench his jaw against his impatience. It wants everything, and he wants it now.

Taking a breath, he works to make himself relax, his eyes locked on Hannibal's as he arches and rolls his hips. He wants to beg, the words right on the tip of his tongue, but he bites them away, pushing his shoulder blades against the polished surface of the table, his chest bowing upward. He knows everything he feels is plain in his eyes, in the twist of his lips and the halting cadence of his breath. Hannibal is too far away, only touching him by his one finger, and he knows he'll have more soon, but the seconds and minutes until then, stretching out, have begun to feel like torture.

[tablewithoutpity]

Hannibal sees the need in every bit of Will's being, in the ripple of his muscles and the tightness of his jaw, in the way his body works around Hannibal's finger and the way his breath is ragged. Hannibal knows how torturous this is for Will, this slow pace not sating Will's thirst for physical contact, if anything making it more acute. Hannibal has no intention of making it any less torturous. In fact he slows, just a little, watching how Will's squirms increase, how his moans are made louder, more broken. Will must be screaming inside, must be just on the cusp of begging, pleading for mercy, for release.

"Tell me, Will," Hannibal says, warm and curious if somewhat detached, the sort of tone her would use in psychotherapy. The words might suggest to Will than Hannibal wishes him to beg, and that's the impression Hannibal intends, but not the true meaning. He pours a little more olive oil on his fingers, then pushes two inside his prostrate lover. "Tell me how it feels." Hannibal is directing Will to give his full attention to the pleasurable agony, not allowing him to merely drift. He wants to know, wants to know what's in his lover's mind, what Hannibal's attentions are doing to him. And he wants to see his lover writhe even more, knowing that getting what he wants, what he needs, will be all the more intense the more intense the agony that precedes it.

[adaptevolvebecome]

Hannibal knows, he sees, and he takes advantage. It's Hannibal's way, as ingrained and automatic for him as breathing, well trained in knowing out to read people and manipulate them for his own purposes. In this instance, however, Hannibal's purpose and Will's are the same, and even as Hannibal slows his movements, gives Will less of what he wants, Will knows the end result will be worth the torture Hannibal is putting him through here and now.

Hannibal's voice, when he speaks, is the one he uses in his office, even and curious and calming as if he isn't working two of his fingers up Will's ass, gently easing the stretch of Will's hole so he'll be loose enough to take Hannibal's cock. The question he asks is simple enough, but it's not easy to answer, the sensations difficult to make into words. His first response is a rough sob, letting his head roll center as he presses his eyes closed, his muscles aching a little as he bends his knees more deeply, the soles of his feet anchoring on the tabletop as he arches down to feel more of Hannibal inside him.

"It, it's like..." Will tries, his eyes fluttering open to stare up at Hannibal's ceiling, lashes clumped and spiky with saline. "Like the itch, at the back of your throat," he says, and it's not at all like an itch, the way it feels, the tight ball of desire pulling in at Will's center, but the sensation of not being able to reach is similar.

"Where my body is clinging to you," he says, starting from somewhere else, "it feels good, your fingers feel wide, I like it, I like the stretch. It doesn't hurt, but it aches, I want more." Will swallows hard as he finishes, takes a deep breath. "But it's... I want to be touched," he groans, his voice edge with a whine. "Deeper, something deeper, I need more in me, I need more of you," he attempts to clarify, and it's not begging exactly, but it's extremely close.

He takes another deep, shuddering breath, his eyes falling to Hannibal's face. He knows his skin is shining with sweat already, darkened with a flush, that tears are collecting in his eyes, pupils blown wide. "How does it feel for you?" he asks, his body trembling, his words breathless.

[tablewithoutpity]

Hannibal takes a deep breath as Will's words settle aching and warm in his groin. Will wants Hannibal, wants him deep, and Hannibal wants dearly to be deep within his lover, to feel as Will's muscles cling to his cock instead of his fingers, to be flesh-on-flesh and feel every gasp, every twitch, every moan, instead of merely seeing or hearing.

Will's question makes Hannibal's smile deepen warmly. He pauses for a moment, considering his answer.

"When one has an experience of beauty," he finally says, his fingers again moving, stroking, scissoring, "one is either the creator or the witness. It is somewhat rare to be both. And yet, here I am." His tone is fond, controlled...and yet there is sentiment beneath it that is powerful, and against which Hannibal himself has (somewhat distressingly) little control. "You are beautiful, Will," he continues, voice softer, that sentiment more apparent. "And I consider myself fortunate to have brought that beauty forth."

[adaptevolvebecome]

The honesty in Hannibal's words is written in his eyes, the heat of his gaze, the tone of his voice. The meaning is deeper than any physical attraction Hannibal has for him, much deeper, more about what Hannibal has seen inside Will, has fostered and brought into the light. It's not just what Will is on his own, it's what they are together, partners, kindred spirits, friends and lovers, and Will can feel that too, Hannibal's affection for him, how it twists him up in a way he's never experienced before. Will feels fortunate that he's been able to bring that out in Hannibal, that they're under each other's skin, intertwined in a way that's leaving them inseparable.

Will's eyes move over Hannibal's face, the lines and angles, the bow of his lips, the intensity of his gaze, and Will sees beauty there, too. Hannibal is dangerous, his mind wicked and sharp, but he sees art in the morbid, in decay, in blood and death. And he sees it in Will, in their coupling, in their conjoined becoming.

"Hannibal," Will murmurs lowly, his pulse racing as his body hums under Hannibal's touch, heartbeat throbbing where Will's stretched around Hannibal's shifting fingers. "Please," he says, just the edge of begging, needing Hannibal close to him now.

[tablewithoutpity]

It's curious, how the two of them, solitary creatures in their own way, have found something so beautiful, so precious, together. As Will's body hums, Hannibal's hums in harmony. Will is needful, vulnerable, at Hannibal's mercy; and yet Hannibal is just as needful, just as vulnerable, just as at Will's mercy. Will pleads, and it for what both of them hunger for.

Hannibal pours more oil into his hand before putting the bottle on the counter. He clasps his hard cock in a loose grip and coats it thoroughly, his eyes on Will's as he slowly strokes, his desire smoldering. Then he moves closer, reaches out to his lover.

"Sit up for me Will."

[adaptevolvebecome]

The fact that Hannibal doesn't draw things out further, that he reacts with Will's first pleading word, it's all a reflection of how equal they are in this, their desire for each other. Hannibal's eyes don't leave Will's as he slicks himself with olive oil, more of it splattering to the wood floorboards, dripping down Hannibal's wrist, trickling over his balls and onto his inner thighs. By the time they're done Will's sure the oil will be everywhere, spread onto their skin, pooled on the tabletop, mingled with their own fluids, another tableau of their commingling.

Will inhales deeply at Hannibal's command, and he sits up as directed, shifting closer to the edge of the table, moving toward Hannibal. The way Will's seen the other man has shifted and changed so many times, from an unwanted observer to a trusted confidant and friend, then a murderer, a betrayer, an enemy, and now recently something much more intimate, a partner, and a lover. The way he stands at the end of the table now, tall and broad, is proud and confident, and Will finds himself admiring Hannibal's body, his strong shoulders and well muscled chest, lean abdomen and legs, and his cock, thick and shining with slippery oil, glistening in the ambient light and making Will's mouth water.

Breathing in deeply, Will turns his eyes up to Hannibal's face, meeting his heated gaze, eager to be devoured.

[tablewithoutpity]

Hannibal is a man who has absolute confidence in himself, and yet that look that Will gives him makes his heart swell with pride. He cups his lover's face, stroke his cheek lovingly, enjoying that eager, hungry gaze. Then he steps closer, grips one of Will's thighs, and gently lifts it, drawing it up and to the side. With his other hand he guides his cock to Will's entrance, both prepared, hot and slick and ready. Gently he eases himself inside, his eyes on Will's, looking for his reactions. Once his hips are flush with Will's he takes Will's other leg and guides both up and around his waist. Once Willl's legs are secure, he wraps his arms around Will and kisses him, gentle yet firm.

[adaptevolvebecome]

The way Hannibal penetrates Will this time is the exact opposite of the way he did it the during their first coupling, so gentle in this moment, tender and loving. Someone who didn't know Hannibal as well as Will does might start to wonder how Hannibal could be two things simultaneously, brutal in one instance and sweet in another. But Will knows there are so many other versions of Hannibal too, and that each and every one of them is genuine in the occasion. Hannibal is taking Will this way now because it's exactly the way he should, the way they both want and need it to be.

Will moves as Hannibal guides him, wrapping his legs around Hannibal's waist, his arms around Hannibal's neck, and they so close together that neither can move. Hannibal's cock is seated deeply inside Will's body, Will clinging to him, savoring the feeling of being stretched, of being filled, his pulse beating heavily around Hannibal's girth. Hannibal presses in snugly as they kiss, their mouths coming together wetly and hotly, tongues pushing deep and twining, lips rubbing. Will fills Hannibal's mouth with his moans as well, pouring himself into their connection, lost to it, to Hannibal, to their life together.

[tablewithoutpity]

Their coupling in Baltimore had been about claiming, about marking, about domination. He needed to establish, especially in light of the impending betrayal, that Will was his. He doesn't need that now. Despite the short time since then, Hannibal is certain now. Certain that Will is not only his, but that he is Will's. That their relationship, their partnership, is deep and powerful, far deeper and more powerful than any other Hannibal has known. So this coupling is unlike any other he has known. He's not claiming Will, or manipulating him. This is communion. This is love.

Hannibal moans into Will's mouth as well, letting himself act as the spirit moves him instead of in a calculated manner. Slowly, tenderly, he begins to move his hips, just a little, gentle thrusts.

[adaptevolvebecome]

Will can feel the difference already, not only between how he and Hannibal had been together before but also between this and every other sexual encounter Will has ever had in his life. It's not that Will hasn't enjoyed sex before this, because he has. But the act has never been meaningful before this, had never been anything beyond sating a physical, biological need. And though Will still needs this, needs it more than he's ever needed anything before, it's not just sex, it's about so much more than seeking sexual gratification.

They're in love. It's a strange concept only in that Will's never been in love before, and he's not sure Hannibal has either. Hannibal's affection is so often a tactic, a false face used to manipulate, and Will has never bothered with it, finding no comfort in it or yearning for it. But when Hannibal starts moving, the gentle way he pushes deep, rolling his hips and grinding in, goosebumps rise on Will's arms and his stomach twists and clenches with emotion. He makes a broken sound into Hannibal's mouth as they continue to kiss, his fingers catching hold of Hannibal's hair and twinging in, holding tight as he tips his pelvis to change the angle of penetration and making them both moan thickly. Will's heart is pounding and he feels Hannibal everywhere inside him, not just the girth of Hannibal stretching his ass, filling him up, but Hannibal's smell is flooding into his nose with every sharp inhalation, the sound of Hannibal's breathing, the soft little grunts of effort he's making, all of it crashing around Will's ears like waves breaking on the beach. He swears he can feel Hannibal's pulse in time with his own, and he imagines they're sharing one circulatory system, Hannibal's heart pumping blood into Will's veins, Will's heart sending it back.

As close as they are, Will can't help wanting to be closer, his fingers twisting in Hannibal's hair, other hand splayed on Hannibal's back, fingertips gripping Hannibal's shoulder blade. He works his body down against every push of Hannibal inside him, his heels digging into Hannibal's lower back, and the sounds he's making are raw and wet and wordless, the vocalization of want, of need and desire, of love given with abandon.

[tablewithoutpity]

Hannibal has enjoyed sex before, of course, like he would enjoy a fine meal, or a well-played chess move. But in those cases the joy was not in the person he was coupling with, but rather the physical act itself, or the ends it served. But this, this is something entirely different. This is taking deep pleasure, and more than pleasure, in this man in his arms. Hannibal and Will have long been dissolving into each other, and now, his arms entwined around Will as Will's are entwined around him, Hannibal can feel, can imagine, them physically merging, their skin growing together, splitting apart, merging, their rib cages opening to clasp each other, their hearts combining, stitched together, beating together, as the creature that is more than merely Hannibal and merely Will, writhes in ecstasy. They are of one mind and one body and one heart and one soul and one blood and one heat and one love, one love, one love. Hannibal has loved in his life, but not like this. He has never been in love like this. Has never felt with such absolute certainty that another human being held a piece of his soul that he never knew he had lost.

Hannibal moans as Will moves against his thrusts, drawing them deeper inside him. and Hannibal, encouraged, begins to move his hips with a little more force. Yet still it is not the violent, frantic rutting of their previous experience. It is tender, loving. He holds his lover steady, one arm across Will's shoulders while the other is anchored in the small of Will's back, steadying him to take Hannibal's cock deep.

[adaptevolvebecome]

Hannibal's movements become progressively stronger, harder, but there's no violence in it, nothing meant to cause pain, only pleasure. The sound of their bodies coming together rings through the room, skin on skin, their harsh breathing and guttural noises of effort and satisfaction. Hannibal's thrusts are powerful and deep, and Hannibal's hands on Will are possessive and firm, claiming. Will can feel the vibration of their pelvises connecting, all the way through his body, along his spine and into his jaw, and he pulls Hannibal in harder with his legs tugging around Hannibal's waist.

The slide of Hannibal's cock inside him is still slick and easy, the oil not going tacky like lube would have by now, and when Will tilts his hips to push a hand between them to cup his own erection the angle causes a spark of intense pleasure with Hannibal's next thrust. It's powerful enough to make Will call out Hannibal's name, and he tosses his head back, every muscle in his body clenching down, gripping Hannibal inside tightly. Will takes a breath, sobbing at the feeling, his hand pressed down over himself as he rides Hannibal's plunging cock, losing himself completely to what they've become, not two separate people but one beautiful entity, connected utterly inside and out.

[tablewithoutpity]

Hannibal moans out Will's name, breathless, and moves his hand from the small of Will's back and slides it between them to clasp over Will's cock as well. He pulls Will close with his other arm and begins to thrust with abandon, surrendering to the the pleasure, physical, mental, spiritual, that is searing away everything that is not this, this moment, this man. Surrender is such an alien thing to Hannibal. Even when he appears to surrender, it is almost always merely a way of convincing his target that what was actually a tactical move on Hannibal's part was somehow their victory. This is true surrender, not only to the swiftly mounting pleasure but to Will, giving him everything, stripped bare before him in a way deeper than mere nudity.

Hannibal's breath becomes jagged cries, his thrusts irregular, and then he groans lowly as he comes deep into his lover, his cock pulsing, his body shuddering.

[adaptevolvebecome]

Hannibal took to calling Will by his first name the instant they met. At the time Will figured it was the psychologist in him, attempting to construct a sense of trust, a familiarity that would allow Will to be open with him. Since that first meeting the tone Hannibal uses to say Will's name has only ever slightly varied, and even when Will refused to call Hannibal anything but Dr. Lecter, Hannibal never stopped calling him Will. Hannibal's said his name hundreds of times, but it has never sounded the way he says it now, breathless and caught in pleasure, broken and completely genuine in emotion.

The sounds of it makes Will's heart clench and skip, and he moans in sympathy, their hands twining around Will's cock, not even moving just holding as the rocking of their bodies does all that needs to be done. Will's wild eyes are locked on Hannibal's as they move together, rough and erratic, racing toward the edge of their world and eager to plunge over. Will can see it as it happens, the way Hannibal's face changes, how he fights to keep his eyes open as his climax closes over him, dragging him under, the expression splitting across Hannibal's face the most exquisite thing Will's ever seen.

Will feels the burst of Hannibal's come flooding into him with a pooling of heat, an added slickness, a stuttering of Hannibal's hips, and he barely has a chance to take a breath before his own orgasm is pulled out of him, his cock spasming between his and Hannibal's palms, his body clenching down around Hannibal's own, still twitching member. Will's vision flares white like a flash of light, then cascades into black blotches, his every muscle strung and shaking, Distantly he hears his own voice, the heavy gasps of his breath and the low, rough shouts of pleasure. The arm around Hannibal's neck clings tightly as he starts to sag, exhausted, sated, lost in a sea of overwhelming satisfaction, unable and unwilling to let go.

[tablewithoutpity]

Hannibal doesn't know what expression Will is seeing because he's not controlling it. That seems to happen so frequently with Will in particular. Hannibal has on a number of occasions found himself unable, or unwilling, to mask his emotions when they came to Will, perhaps because those emotions had surprised him. He had not been prepared to have feelings for the man, this slight, strange, shy, fascinating man, this medium for Hannibal's masterpiece of psychological sculpture. Perhaps the first time he used Will's first name the intent was as Will suspected. And Hannibal can't say exactly when it was that the meaning of that name on his lips took on such weight, such significance. But now, that name has been broken open, revealing all the raw emotion within. And Hannibal has been broken open, and his full self laid bare for the eyes of his lover.

The two of them gasp and moan and pant out their climax together, Hannibal appreciating the ecstasy on Will's face as if he were appreciating a Michelangelo. And together they begin to sag in exhaustion. They have given up the last of their strength, and it was well spent, but it does mean that Hannibal hardly has the strength to make it back to the bedroom, and somehow doubts Will is much better off. So once he has his senses, he carefully pulls out of Will, then wraps his arms around him and pulls him along as Hannibal climbs up onto the table and lies down on his side, Will wrapped in his arms. The symbolism is, in his weary mind, quite beautiful, that the both of them have been consumed by each other.

[adaptevolvebecome]

Will doesn't expect Hannibal's shift, and he's more than a little impressed that Hannibal has the strength to pull himself up onto the table, especially considering the amount of energy he just expended fucking Will out of his mind. Will feels like he's out of phase with reality, his skin damp with sweat but chilled as his heart finally begins to slow, making him a little shivery despite not really being cold. It helps immensely when Hannibal gathers him in his arms, the two of them tangled together in the center of the tabletop like a sacrifice, or the subject of a renaissance painting. The room is quiet now, still but for the sound of their heavy breathing, the heaving of their chests. A wistful part of Will's mind wishes there was some way to see what they look like from above, the image they make, flushed skin, sweat streaked hair, the mess of olive oil and Will's semen smeared between them and over the surface of the table top.

The whim doesn't last, however; despite how unforgiving the mahogany is beneath Will's shoulder and hip, the pillow of Hannibal's upper arm supports Will's head well enough, and Hannibal's even breathing is already lulling Will toward sleep. He's beyond exhausted now, they both are, drained from traveling and sex, the intensity of their feelings for each other, and Will thinks they could sleep probably in the middle of a busy highway at this point. There's a part of Will that wants to vocalize what he feels, to tell Hannibal what's in his heart, but he realizes as he tries to find the words that he doesn't have them. What he feels for this other man in intangible, unexplainable. Moreover there's no need to tell Hannibal, because it's something Hannibal already knows, the same way Will knows about Hannibal's feelings for him.

So Will let's go, allowing the warm insistence of sleep to drag him under, cast adrift into the sea of unconsciousness in the arms of the man he loves.