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The hand sliding over his back is cold, the skin no warmer than the other surfaces that have been used against his own skin and yet they burn a path along him, everywhere that they touch. Fingernails trail along flesh made sensitive over hours of this torture. Will can barely resist the urge to pull at his wrists, unsure what the correct course of action is here, lost and alone and blinded to the world, his only connection the feeling of leather against flesh, of heat and pain and the rush of blood with each impact. He holds his breath.

"You're doing well," Hannibal's accented voice says, breaking disembodied through the darkness that Will's world has become. "You're ready."

Will releases the breath, resisting the urge to make a sound, to pass air past vocal chords and give an audible substance to his relief. He's spent what might be hours or not, some indeterminate amount of time with this man, this presence. In the darkness of his muted senses, being made ready, being as good as he possibly can be and yet not quite good enough still.

Those perfect fingers trail along his back, up over his shoulder, a nail scratching along his clavicle, resting a moment in the hollow of his neck. "I want you to look upon me," whispers Hannibal’s voice and then Will hears the rasp of fabric close to his ear, feels the silk against his skin, smooth and yet still too much for his overloaded senses. The room isn't brightly lit but it's all Will can do to hold his position, hands and knees facing the foot of the bed. It’s all he can do not to pull at his wrists, shackled to the end of the bed, in an attempt to hide his face.

Slowly he brings himself to look, eyes catching at the edge of the bed, meeting legs planted apart in front of him in an intimidating pose, eyes catching a moment too long on the fabric covered crotch close to his face. Will allows his head to tilt upwards as he follows the line up, to Hannibal’s loosened shirt collar, his neck, to what might be an amused smirk on his so unreadable face. Will is lost still, floundering in a sea of possible actions, bursting with the desire to do whatever it is that Hannibal wants him to do, whatever that may actually be. Will swallows, his tongue moistening his lips and he swears he catches the smallest shift in Hannibal's eye, looking down at his mouth.

"Are you ready Will?" Will knows it's not really a question, they both know he never will be truly ready, not for this. But it's time nonetheless. Hannibal rolls his shirtsleeves, meticulous and neat, perfect and ordered, and maddeningly slow. "I've been looking forward to this since we first met." Will wants to agree with Hannibal’s statement but it’s a lie, he’s dreaded this from the moment he met the other man, from the moment he knew Hannibal to be the one who would claim him.

Hannibal unclips the chain between Will's cuffs, untethering his wrists from the railing, but Will doesn't dare move. Hannibal's hand rests in his hair a moment, a murmured "Good boy" passing from his lips. His praise is rare and precious, never given lightly. Will does his best to live up to the words by holding statue still.

Hannibal moves around the bed, examining and admiring. Will holds position, he hopes to Hannibal’s standards, near perfection. Hannibal leans against the mattress as he loosens the ankle cuffs as well, the bed dipping under his weight but Will remains as he is, on hands and knees, ready and as willing as he can bring himself to be for this. "It is said that the process of becoming one, of becoming my other, is one of incredible meaning and magnitude for a sub," Hannibal says, trailing fingers along Will's ankle, his calf, up his thigh and over his buttock as he moves back to Will’s front again. "Hundreds of texts about the beauty of what you are about to do for me, to create this...symmetry, for you to match me and truly become mine Will." Will unconsciously shivers. "While I cannot know what you truly will experience, I have seen its effects, have seen great people fall apart." Will tenses and Hannibal moves around him, to stand in front of him once more. One of those elegant hands comes up under his chin, and with the softest of pressures, a single finger lifts Will's chin, forcing him to look up into Hannibal's unreadable eyes. "You will not," Hannibal says, his voice even and calm with reassurance, a promise.

Hannibal moves suddenly, sliding out of Will’s eyeline and moving into the bathroom. Will stares forward, catching his reflection in the mirror against the wall at the foot of the bed. He hears the sounds of clothing rustling and the turning of taps, running water and Will remains still, looking ahead as he’s been taught, eyes staring past his own reflection.

It's a bit like when he lets himself go at a crime scene, looking past the horror, the blood and gore and entering into the darkness of someone else. When Will loses himself in it, disappears into that other mind, there’s a certain similarity to the disconnect he’s feeling now, except this time he sinks into the nothing of his own mind, rather than the something of someone else’s. Will stares at the other Will in the mirror, listens to the sounds of Hannibal echoing softly from the bathroom and he can scarcely focus enough to remain still and calm, let alone begin to worry about what might happen, what is going to happen. The Will Graham in the mirror might feel otherwise, but this Will Graham is a different sort of creature, one without worry or thought of his own. It's a relief to just be, not having to deal with the darkness when he doesn't have to think. It's just sensation and movement, just being whatever Hannibal asks him to be and it's wonderful.

Hannibal re-enters the room, a vague movement in the periphery of Will’s view. The momentary glance to his right confirms that he’s naked now, as naked as Will has been this whole time. Will’s breath catches a little at the view of Hannibal’s cock, the trepidation creeping back before he clears his head, refocuses, dedicates his whole being to living in the present moment. Hannibal moves to the side of the bed, out of Will’s line of sight. Will can see mirror Hannibal standing beside the bed. Mirror Hannibal looks out of the mirror at him, face calm, serene and expressionless. Will’s reflection, Hannibal’s reflection, it’s not him, it’s not them, it’s a separate entity, one whose face shows an expression of worry that Will isn’t really feeling, isn’t allowing himself to feel. Hannibal reaches his hand out and fingers trail along flesh and nails streak fading pink lines over already bruised skin, each sting and ache a call back to previous moments. Hannibal moves behind Will, kneeling on the bed, hands moving along hips, across buttocks. Will focuses still on the eyes of the reflection in the mirror.

Hannibal's fingertips circle ever closer to his entrance, running down the cleft of his buttocks until that dragging fingertip rubs a dry circle around puckered flesh. Will reflexively licks his lips once more, watching the reflection mirror every movement.

His gaze drifts across to the mirrored Hannibal, looking down intently as he studies Will's most intimate physical areas, pressing fingertips where none but his own have been before.

The oil is cold at first, warming quickly, all more sensations that Will keeps his mind focused on, the new, different touch of the lubricated fingertip circling his hole, sending a shudder through him with each burst of new sensation. He thinks only about what each new moment feels like, as distinct from the previous one, it's all he can do to avoid thoughts of the future, thoughts of the coming pain unlike anything he's ever felt before.

The first fingertip works its way inside and Will would wonder how on earth he can hope to accommodate anything more when it feels like too much already. He would at least, if he could move beyond staring into the mirror, beyond remembering to draw air into his lungs, to hold position, to please Hannibal. The finger explores, sliding around, smoothly running along his insides, Will's body barely adapting before there's another slipping inside, stretching him ever more open. Hannibal works his fingers inside and Will watches the look of calm concentration on the mirror Hannibal's face, as Will's mind drifts he finds himself wondering if mirror-Hannibal is exactly the same as the Hannibal that's touching him, that's making him ready, that's about to claim his body in that most intimate way. Will's mind runs along through fantasy, idle thoughts making way to each new burst of sensation as Hannibal stretches him ever wider, moving up to a fourth finger, turning and rotating, stretching Will's body beyond what he was sure he could take. Will holds onto the pain, using it to bring himself back from the edge, to bring himself back to the now, to Hannibal and what the other man is doing to his body.

Will breathes deep and even, just allowing himself to feel the slight burn and stretch as Hannibal methodically works his entrance wider. It doesn't feel good but it's not bad either, it all just is. Hannibal's fingers withdraw and Will senses movement in the periphery of his vision, but he stares still at his own face, at the slightly worried Will Graham in the mirror. Hannibal moves behind him, moving and picking up items from the bedside locker, settling himself to kneel behind Will. The plug is cool, as cool as the oil had been, but it's just another surface and temperature, just something else touching his body. The tip of the toy is pressed against his anus, the tip sliding in and out a few times as Hannibal twists it, pressing forward and back. Will takes it, keeps position and holds as still as possible, relaxes his body as much as he can, getting ready to take whatever he’s given. Hannibal presses the toy forward, the stretch becoming wider, almost unbearably so, but Will bears it, as he must. The stretch burns, harsher and sharper, more and more, until the base slips past muscle and there's a moment of respite before he's left held open, the base of the plug still wider than Will has even allowed himself to become accustomed to. Hannibal pats Will's thigh gently, a soft tap along his flank. Will feels a prickle of some warm good feeling inside, Hannibal doesn't need to say anything, Will is doing what's expected of him and it feels wonderful.

Hannibal removes himself from the bed, walks in front of Will again and Will's view of the mirror, the eyes of the other Will that have been holding his gaze, keeping his attention are blocked from his view and he's forced to look at what his present state of thinking hasn't allowed him to consider, Hannibal's impressive girth. Will swallows, eyeing the half erection in front of his face. Hannibal moves closer, his own delicate hands cupping his cock, bringing it to Will's lips. Will opens his mouth by reflex but Hannibal just moves the tip of his cock along Will's lower lip, smiling down at him. Will finds himself unable to look anywhere else but up into Hannibal's dark eyes. Hannibal presses the crown of his cock into Will's mouth, against the flat of his tongue, just barely inside and already Will must open his mouth wider. Hannibal slides the head along Will's tongue, sliding along, stopping just short of the back of Will's mouth. Will stares up at Hannibal, eyes unseeing, his mind going to this simple act of keeping his breathing controlled, hoping and fearing that any moment now Hannibal will thrust forward and cut off his breath, that he'll choke, that he won't be good enough. Will breathes through his nose, his eyes watering at the first bump to the back of his throat, his jaw getting ever more sore, his mouth forced wider still, wider than is possible as Hannibal gets harder, his cock more impressive in size with each shallow thrust.

Will slips nearer and farther, keeping himself focused on just being while thoughts of what’s happening, what’s going to happen threaten to invade his mind. Hannibal’s cock slides deeper, blocking off Will’s airway and Hannibal’s hands are on his face, sliding up his cheeks, cupping his face before sliding into Will’s hair. The pull against his scalp is a sudden warm tug of burning pain surrounding Will’s head as Hannibal uses his grip to hold Will’s head still, Hannibal sliding further and further with each deliberate thrust into Will’s mouth.

It’s difficult for Will to breathe, his eyes watering and his world getting even smaller with each pull of hair, with each slide deeper of Hannibal’s cock. Will knows he’s not going to choke, knows that his body will adapt, will take whatever Hannibal gives him, but for every fleeting moment that he simply can’t breathe, for every moment that he wants to draw air in almost as much as he wants to please Hannibal, he feels that stab of fear.

Will's world narrows down to a single point, the push and pull, the stretch and burning in his jaw, the drag and taste and movement. It could go on forever and Will finds himself okay with that, with letting go and becoming just this forever from this point onwards. It's so simple, would be so simple, the only thing he needs to do is breathe and hold still, just be as Hannibal uses his mouth, as Hannibal's cock slides into the back of his mouth.

With each stretch of Will's jaw it becomes easier, or perhaps it's just that Will is becoming used to the straining pain of opening his jaws wider than would normally be comfortable. Will is both aware that this is it, this is the change while also simply not thinking, it's knowing without needing to analyse, without needing to think and react to what is happening to his body, without needing to think about how his throat can take it, how Hannibal's cock can slide into his throat without him gagging, without the urge to vomit brewing up. The edges of Will's world are getting dark and Will feels lightheaded, floating and hazy and wonderful as he allows this to happen, as he has no choice but to take it.

Hannibal pulls his cock free, fingers loosening in Will's hair, the release from his scalp bringing a different kind of burning pain to Will's head. A line of drool hangs from Will's mouth, parting from Hannibal's cockhead and dripping along Will's face and Will can feel the itch, the urge to wipe at his face but he doesn't move, he just is. Will holds position and looks up at Hannibal's face, at the subtle turning up of the corners of Hannibal's lips.

Hannibal pats Will's head, his hand resting a moment on top of Will's head before he moves, his cock slick with spit and glistening, moving out of Will's view as he moves around the bed, climbs up behind Will.

Will watches the mirror, mind still fuzzy, shut down and lost and yet here for this. He's no longer afraid, the nervousness gone and lost and buried far from the Will that's here now, presented and ready and so willing for this to happen.

Hannibal trails nails along Will's back, tracing the line of his spine down into the cleft of his ass, running along the hard edge of the plug inside him. Will's breath catches as Hannibal tugs at the plug, pulling and stretching for a fleeting moment before Hannibal lets go, continues to trail his fingers down one thigh. Will feels the firm grip of hands moving his knee, working with the gentle touch to reposition his weight, to widen his stance on the bed a little. Will is looking ahead, staring past the mirror, past everything, he's not even seeing any more, just feeling as Hannibal pulls and twists at the plug inside him, slides it in and out, forward and back in Will's wet hole.

The pain starts fresh, the burn of muscle being stretched beyond comfort. As the plug is pulled free, the widest part pulls him open yet wider and Will winces, knowing that he's going to be stretched even further still when Hannibal does what this has been leading to, when he uses Will for what he's meant for.

Will subconsciously digs his fingers into the expensive quilt, braces his knees as best he can while holding position. The bed rocks slightly as Hannibal positions himself, the burning hot dampness of his cock sliding along Will's crack. Hannibal lines up and Will can feel the wet bluntness press against him, far too wide than is ever going to fit inside his body. The fear creeps in, gnawing at him once more, telling him that it's simply not possible, despite what all the books say.

The press of Hannibal's girth against him, the fingertips that stray to Will's left hip, resting there, two points of contact between their bodies. Hannibal's fingertips rest lightly against the thin skin of Will's hip, resting against bone, not holding him still but their contact enough to force Will to remember his position. It burns and hurts and Will feels his eyes start to water once more, questioning if the head of Hannibal's cock can make it past the ring of muscle, but then there's a pop, a sudden slide as the first ring of muscle is breached and Will lets out a gasping breath, catching himself before he makes more noise, before he vocalises his tiny measure of relief in forbidden sound. It's not much relief though, as Hannibal gives Will no time to pause and adjust, no time to simply marvel at the burning pain, the heat, the sensation before Hannibal pushes forward further, stretching Will wider, pressing deeper and sending a shooting pain up Will's spine, a stabbing spear up inside Will's body. Will squeezes unseeing eyes shut, finds his resolve fall apart as he becomes aware of his surroundings, becomes conscious of the fact that he's on Hannibal Lecter's bed, with Hannibal Lecter's cock breaching his ass. Will wants to pull away, wants to scream, wants to say this is all a mistake, that he's changed his mind, it would all be so easy.

As if on cue, Hannibal speaks, a soft "Good boy Will, you're doing well."

It's exactly what Will needs, a simple reminder of why they’re here, a moment to get him back, take him to where he needs to be, to be the good boy that Hannibal wants.

Will holds still, breathes through the pain as Hannibal presses forward, the burning growing ever more intense, the stinging pain inside, the tearing and shifting, all something Will needs to take. Will wants to be a good boy, he wants Hannibal to keep him.

The drag and press and stretch go on forever, the moment drawn out to infinity as Will floats somewhere between sharp clarity and drifting nothingness. The fear and horror of what is going on is so close to the surface as Will feels the stretch inside his body, as Hannibal presses in, pushing Will beyond his physical limits. There’s a stinging, needle sharp, and Will reasons that he’s torn, that there’s no going back now, they must continue this process to completion.

The first rock of Hannibal's hips is a slow agonising tug, pain bursting with each shallow thrust. It's not long before Hannibal is picking up a rhythm, working himself into Will's overstretched hole over and over. Will feels his control slip with each thrust, feels his grip on the serenity and calm that he's been attempting to cultivate slip away from him and a whimper escapes from his lips. The sound shocks him, as though another is breaking, someone else, the terrified crying Will in the mirror perhaps. Hannibal's hips still a moment at the sound before finding their pace again, the rhythm driving ever faster, a slow beat increasing in speed. The perpetual motion of it all is agony, each burning thrust renewing the stinging, tearing agony in Will's body. The ache up along Will's spine becomes more acute and Will finds himself holding his breath, willing himself to be quiet, telling himself over and over to be good, to be good for Hannibal.

There's a whining, a moaned "please" in both their ears and Will realises his own mouth is forming words, speaking from his raw throat and betraying him without conscious thought or permission. "Please Hannibal, it hurts."

Hannibal doesn't slow down, his hips snapping forward, each thrust as firm and deep as the last, the tempo ever increasing. Will's eyes are burning now, fingers grip the bedclothes and his toes curl. Will drops his head down, perfect posture forgotten, it's all he can do to simply take what Hannibal is giving him right now.

Hannibal's rutting grows faster, his constant rhythm growing the slightest bit irregular, as he nears what Will hopes is his completion. With the completion of this act, this will end, they can move on to something else, something other and new, Will has to remind himself. Will's vision is blurry now as his burning gaze sees nothing but the subtly patterned quilt below him, he watches a drip of snot from the end of his nose hit the quilt, leaving a perfect dark spot of damp on the fine fabric. Hannibal's hands grip hips, fingers digging into skin so tightly Will swears the man wants to snap bone, break skin, wants to sink his hands into Will's very flesh, wants to fuse them together in an all too different way. Will's own dick hangs flaccid between his legs, unfeeling and forgotten, this whole exercise not so much sexual as simply necessary for Will.

Hannibal pushes deep, holding Will firm, Hannibal's measured control breaking for just a moment as he grunts out his completion, driving himself deep inside Will's body as he comes. It stings and hurts, the pain and ache of what has happened settling over Will like a suffocating blanket. Will's breath shudders out burning his aching throat as he allows himself to breathe.

Hannibal leans over Will, fingers loosening from bruised hips to slide along Will's side. "Good boy," Hannibal whispers. And it's worth it for that.

Hannibal slides free and the air of the room, the loose wet feeling between his legs, his openness and vulnerability hits Will all at once and he feels a new wave of tears hit him, driven more from emotion than pain. Hannibal gets up and moves from the bed and Will can't do anything more but collapse forward, arms giving out after too many hours of holding position, his face falling against Hannibal's fancy quilt, the worry about his tears staining the fabric forgotten. Will's breaths come in shuddering lungfuls as Hannibal moves around him, producing a warm damp cloth, wiping Will's body, up his thighs and around his hole and coming away stained.

It's with uncharacteristic tenderness that Hannibal lifts Will, wipes his tears and brushes dry lips against his forehead. Will can barely control his body to help Hannibal get him tucked into the bed. When Hannibal slides up against Will's back, curls around him and blocks him in with strong arms, Will can barely react, the tears and shuddering breaths bringing him some measure of relief with each gasp and rolling tear.

"You did well, very well."

Will doesn't respond at first, soaking in the praise, letting his breathing slow. “It…hurt,” Will whispers, not sure if his voice will even work until the sounds leave his mouth. “I thought it would feel different...would be more like...a change.”

"Oh?" Hannibal sounds surprised, hand sliding to Will's front, grasping his hand, sliding fingers together with Will's hand and tugging his fingers back, sliding around and down to Will’s ass. Hannibal guides his fingers back, slides his hand along and Will takes the cue to touch himself there, to run his own fingers along the aching pain in his backside. "the pain will fade quickly, what you've done for me is so much more than a small bit of pain Will, you're different now." Will stares ahead, at the edge of the pillow, at the sliver of the bathroom through the door. It's true, what Hannibal says, his body is different now. Will can't help but bring his other hand to his front, pressing in on the front of his lower stomach, as though he will somehow be able to feel where his body has changed, where there's space where there was none before.

He's now the mirror to Hannibal, the other piece that fits.

"It won't hurt next time," whispers Hannibal, his breath hot and ticklish against the back of Will's neck, "not unless I want it to." Will let’s his tense muscles unclench, allows his aching body to sink into the soft mattress under expensive sheets as Hannibal lies behind him, pressed close. It should be comforting, the strength and heat of a dom, one who has claimed him, pressed up behind him. It should be but there’s still something missing, their connection now more formal in a merely physical sense but the mystery and distance between them a wide and empty chasm.

He allows his fingers linger on the outer skin of his body, thinking about the changes below the surface, as though if he concentrates hard enough he’ll be able to sense the shifting of organs, be able to feel the changes occurring in his body, changes that have already occurred. He thinks of their interlocking bodies, of how he's now Hannibal's for as long as he'll have him and that will have to be enough, for now at least.