Hannibal texted Will in the afternoon, asking him to confirm that he would indeed be over for dinner. Normally he was not a pest about these things; he made appointments with Will and then trusted Will to follow through. But he explained this time that he was preparing something very special, something exotic, which he had gone to much trouble to procure, and he would be disappointed if he ended up dining alone.
Will confirmed that he would be there. He had to, with a tease like that. When your host regularly prepares and serves meals that include human flesh, what food could possibly merit the designation “special and exotic”?
Also strange was that Hannibal requested that Will not arrive until just before dinner was to be served. He typically welcomed Will's presence beforehand, appreciated the opportunity to chat and to have an audience while he cooked. But Will respected this request, and when he made his way into Hannibal’s kitchen that evening, politely averted his eyes, as Hannibal seemed to be making an effort to conceal one of the ingredients from him.
While Hannibal was busy at the sink, Will excused himself to the bathroom to wash his hands before the meal. A moment later, Hannibal looked up, out the window and into the garden, and saw that it had begun to snow. Just a few flakes dusted the ground, but the sight would surely prompt a sensible human being who had an hour's drive home to leave promptly, before it got any worse. Hannibal made haste to close the curtains in the kitchen and the dining room.
When he heard the footsteps that indicated Will's return, Hannibal let him know that the meal was nearly ready, and that he should have a seat in the dining room. This would allow him to put the finishing touches on the first course without spoiling the surprise.
Hannibal swept into the dining room carrying a cocotte, from which rose bright orange flames and the mouth-watering fragrance of sizzling animal fat. Hannibal placed the cocotte on the table, and Will finally got to see what was on the menu that evening. He gazed at the little lump of fat and meat, still distinctly and evocatively bird-shaped, and waited for Hannibal to enlighten him.
“Preparation callls for the ortolan to be drowned alive in Armagnac,” Hannibal explained. “It is then roasted and consumed whole in a single mouthful.”
“Ortolans are endangered,” Will observed.
Hannibal walked around the table and seated himself, replying, “Who among us is not?”
Will shrugged. “I haven't been gorged, drowned, plucked, and roasted. Not yet.”
With finger and thumb, Hannibal picked up his ortolan from the cocotte, and paused while he waited for Will to do the same. Will was grateful, at least, that they would be forgoing the traditional shroud of embroidered linen, so that he might follow Hannibal's lead and consume the ortolan properly. But he was now forced to watch Hannibal carefully, to risk the eye contact that might result.
Hannibal opened his mouth wide and unselfconsciously, placing the bird in his mouth almost in its entirety, only the head and beak protruding obscenely from between his lips. Will followed suit, regretting it immediately the moment the hot flesh touched his tongue. He inhaled sharply, instinctively, trying to cool it down to a bearable temperature. Hannibal had given no indication that it was still so hot, and Will was at first embarrassed, until he noticed that Hannibal was doing exactly the same thing: taking rapid breaths around the bird with his mouth still open.
It was not long before Will felt a trickle of fat dripping across his tongue and down his throat. He could not so much taste it directly with his tongue, but rather it’s ambrosial scent filled his mouth and his nose, and overwhelmed him in a way that the typical rushed slide of a morsel of food across his tongue could never do.
He had closed his eyes without realizing it, making an unconscious effort to savor this initial stage, but he could not allow himself to drift too far. He glanced back at Hannibal, and flinched as they made direct eye contact; Hannibal's stare was defiant in the face of God's presumptive judgment and filled with the impish delight of someone who has lured another person into wickedness with them. Will could feel how badly Hannibal wanted him to enjoy this. Hannibal desperately wanted Will to enjoy everything that he enjoyed. And suddenly, hearing the snap of the first tiny bone, as Hannibal closed his jaw just enough to begin the long and gratifying process of crushing the bird to bits between his teeth, Will was having a difficult time telling the difference between Hannibal's inclinations and his own.
The tiny lungs and heart burst between Will’s molars, filling his mouth with the Armagnac that had saturated them as the ortolan had drowned. The liqueur mixed with the taste of his own blood, drawn when the delicate, needle-sharp bones cut the insides of his cheeks. This encouraged him to chew even more slowly and carefully, and made him hesitant to swallow, lest his throat fall victim to a sharp fragment. And so he went on, grinding bones, breast meat, and cartilage to smithereens for his own safety and being thus compelled to savor the rich and varied flavors, many of which were new and strange but no less delectable.
Though he had never deliberately swallowed, eventually every bit of the bird had slid down his throat and into his belly. Will glanced at his watch and found that the entire experience had taken fourteen minutes. And there were several more courses to go. Hannibal excused himself to the kitchen to retrieve the next one. The remaining courses were only a notch less slow and extravagant than the first, and between bites Hannibal told Will about several comparably exotic culinary adventures he’d had, though he seemed to regard the ortolan the most highly.
“After my first ortolan, I was euphoric,” he said. “A stimulating reminder of our power over life and death.”
Stimulating. Why did Hannibal have to use a word like that, that made people think of sex? He was silent after he said this, and Will had the opportunity to turn Hannibal's words over in his mind. He couldn’t help wondering if Hannibal was telling Will that his introduction to the ortolan had resulted in a physical, sexual response, if power over life and death was often sexual to him, if, indeed, the power that he had gained over Will was sexual to him. (Serial killers were inclined to use sex to feel powerful, but Hannibal would be the sort of haughty bastard to separate himself from the crowd by instead using power to feel sexual.) Perhaps the overwhelming, suffocating feeling of attraction that Will felt from him was not a romantic proclivity, but merely the same “stimulating euphoria” that accompanied any control that he exerted over a living being. Will found this supposition of twisted sexual decadence easier to take than the idea that Hannibal Lecter – handsome, powerful, brilliant, self-assured – had a little crush on him.
Will realized that Hannibal was waiting for Will to fill the silence. He had to summon up some similarly grotesque assertion. He thought about how Hannibal did not distinguish between the life of a little bird that could fit in his hand and the life of a human being who had failed to meet his personal standard of worthiness. To him, all life was equally precious, until it wasn't, at which point it was all equally disposable. He took the implication in Hannibal's words and reflected it back at him, explicitly. “I was euphoric when I killed Freddie Lounds,” he said.
This was a lie twice over, for not only was Freddie Lounds still very much alive, but he was also not euphoric at all when he confronted her at his home; he was ill with what he was doing, what he was pretending to be – perhaps because, after all he had done before, from Garrett Jacob Hobbs to Randall Tier, he was holding onto the idea of “only pretending” by the barest thread.
“Tell me,” Hannibal said, affecting a nonchalant tone, “did your heart race when you murdered her?”
Yes, it had. He was compelled to confront this woman who he would have given anything never to see again, to terrorize her and then in the next moment collaborate with her. He had felt as though he were going to vomit every organ in his body in those minutes when he was making her think that all her assumptions were true, that he was going to murder her, and more than that, vindicate her.
All this he kept to himself, of course, and once again took hold of the remorselessness that Hannibal projected at all times. “No,” he said. “It didn't.”
“A low heart rate is a true indicator of one's capacity for violence.”
No, Will thought, violence is a true indicator of one's capacity for violence. Which is why it was no consolation to him that his heart had raced when he killed Garrett Jacob Hobbs, and when he shot Eldon Stammets, and when he sent Matthew Brown after Hannibal, and when he killed Randall Tier.
And yet here was Hannibal, insufferably pleased by everything Will was doing and saying. Will had always been able to feel – and despite his disgust could not deny that he was affected by – Hannibal's conviction that everything he did was right and good. If he was being so resistant to Hannibal's resolve, how was it that he was continuously making Hannibal so happy?
“Blood and breath are only elements undergoing change to fuel your radiance,” Hannibal went on. “Just as the source of light is burning.”
When the lights went out, at just that moment, Will's heart leapt into his throat, but he remained still. He had his sidearm, but found himself unable – unwilling? – to reach for it. What good was a gun against Hannibal Lecter, anyway? It had never done him any good. A gun had not saved Beverly.
And so Will did not move, but accepted his fate and waited for the end. He had done everything he could to deceive Hannibal, but he had apparently failed, and this wicked meal was not a celebration of Hannibal's imminent victory over Will but a fond farewell before Hannibal disposed of yet another human being who had outlived their usefulness to him.
It then occurred to Will that he'd had enough time to think all these thoughts, and yet he was still alive. Hannibal, too, remained seated where he was, glass of Bordeaux in hand.
“A little power outage,” Hannibal remarked. “Very well-timed, if one had to occur, since we have just finished the final course of our meal.”
“Very well-timed, indeed.” Will rose from the table and went to the window, drawing back the curtain to find that his suspicion of Hannibal was unfounded: the outage was not limited to the house. All the windows and street lamps in sight were dark. Only the moonlight reflected off of the snow which now blanketed the ground.
“Oh, shit,” Will muttered. “Looks like it snowed two inches while we were eating.”
Hannibal got up to look. “Did it? I'm sorry, I had no idea.”
“And it's still coming down. I better go.”
“I can't let you do that,” Hannibal said, placing his hand on Will's shoulder to keep him where he was. “The snow would make the journey dangerous enough, but there are probably downed lines in the streets as well, if the power's gone out.”
“I've seen worse,” Will said, slightly offended by the implication that he was incapable of driving in less than pristine conditions.
But Hannibal was not interested in hearing a word of protest. “I insist you stay here tonight,” he said. “The master bedroom has a fireplace for heat.”
Will raised an eyebrow. “Is there a fireplace in the guest bedroom?”
Hannibal didn’t blink. “No.”
Will had wondered for several months now – ever since his first inkling that Hannibal was miserably enamored of him – whether he might find himself facing this situation. Not a blackout, specifically, but the invitation to share Hannibal’s bed. Was he willing to go that far to see this thing through? Back in his cell at BSHCI, lying in his bunk, imagining his various plans, he had found the idea distasteful, and reasoned that he could do just as well to turn down Hannibal’s advances, to make that a part of the game.
But much had changed since then. He was in a new place now, not one where he would chase down the opportunity to go to bed with Hannibal, but rather one where he moved towards that situation just as he moved towards anything in life that seemed inevitable. He had been brought to this place by Hannibal's relentless ardor, by his abundance of attention and validation, and most of all his insistence on understanding Will, on sympathizing with him, justifying his very existence, in a way that no one else had ever even attempted.
Nonetheless, he mustered an ironic glance at Hannibal, to make it clear that he knew exactly what was going on. Not that it was necessary to do so. Hannibal knew that Will was not some naïf that could be duped into such a thing. Will would have sex with him, or not.
Hannibal had two battery-operated lanterns in the kitchen for such an occasion as this. He gave one to Will, and explained to him where the master suite was upstairs, where he could find some pajamas, and where the library was if he wished to find a book to read for the rest of the evening. In the meantime, Hannibal took the other lamp and set about cleaning up the dishes.
Will made his way upstairs, stopping in the library first. The room was modestly sized but crammed with books, on shelves which could be rolled aside to reveal more shelves. Volumes so ancient that they looked to Will like they might disintegrate if handled stood side-by-side with more recent books on similar subjects. He perused the spines; the words The Psychopathic God caught his eye. Was there ever a book with a more Hannibalesque title? Will pulled it from the shelf and saw that it was in fact a biography of Adolf Hitler, and it immediately became less interesting to him. On the shelf below was a copy of Alone Against Tomorrow, Harlan Ellison's collection of short stories on the theme of alienation. Will carried it with him to the bedroom.
He hesitated as he set the book and the lantern on one of the bedside tables. Which side of the bed did Hannibal usually sleep on? The whole room was pristine; there would be no way to know without snooping. So Will snooped. He slowly pulled the drawer from the bedside table nearest him. It was empty. He went around to the other one, and found that it contained a book, a notepad and pencil, a box of tissues, a neatly-folded towel, and a bottle of lube. That was the side he slept on, then. Will left the lantern and book where they were and had a look at the fireplace. It was gas, and with a flick of the switch by the mantle, flames sprouted inside.
Will went to the chest of drawers, where, as Hannibal had promised, he found pajama bottoms in the second drawer down on the left. There was a mason bench at the foot of the bed, on which he could have sat and undressed in front of the fire, but he chose instead to take the lantern with him into the bathroom, locking himself in to undress. He guessed that if he opened one of the drawers under the sink, he would find a toothbrush still in the package. He was right, so he brushed his teeth, and washed his face as well. As he was replacing the taste of dinner in his mouth with an artificial semblance of mint, he suddenly remembered what he had been doing before the power went out: crushing a liqueur-drowned endangered bird in his mouth. It was still in his belly.
On the other side of the door, he heard Hannibal enter. Will folded his clothes into a tight roll and took them with him out into the bedroom. The hardwood floor was cold under his bare feet. Hannibal was placing two large candles, in tall glass cylinders, on the bedside tables.
“I hope you don’t mind if we use these instead. They’ll last longer than the batteries in the lanterns.”
“And they’re more romantic,” Will said dryly, pretending like the implication was entirely a joke, and not a distinct possibility. Hannibal said nothing.
Will was wondering if Hannibal would undress then and there, if for no other reason than to demonstrate once again that he had a sophisticated European disregard for modesty. But once Hannibal had selected a pair of pajama bottoms from the bureau, he took them into the bathroom, and emerged ten minutes later wearing them. By then, Will was under the covers in bed, propped against the pillows with book in hand. Will snuck a look; Hannibal was much less bulky than he appeared when he wore that wool three-piece suit; he had a slender frame, but his toned arms and the thick hair across his chest kept him looking distinctly masculine, and without the suit as a distracting status-marker, the more ambiguous aspects of his facial features seemed to give way to those more particularly male.
As Hannibal slipped into bed beside him, Will tensed up in anticipation. But Hannibal stayed on his side, leaning away from Will momentarily, in fact, to take the book he was reading from the bedside drawer. He settled himself against the pillows and opened it, and Will had to stop glancing at him, and keep his eyes on his own book, because he was starting to look like the smitten one.
Hannibal turned the pages of the book rapidly – no doubt he had taught himself in his youth to read with perfect comprehension at a superhuman pace – and after five, then ten minutes went by, with no advance made, Will was finally able to become absorbed in his own book, though a long day and a big meal resulted in the reading making him drowsy. He slid down little by little in the bed, until he was nearly horizontal, struggling to keep the book propped up on his chest. He also managed to utterly fail at being filled with dread, by reading the grotesque existential horror contained even in those first few pages. His eyelids were heavy, and he closed them every few words, until finally, the book fell forward and he drifted off.
Will’s doze was interrupted when Hannibal gently hooked two fingers under the book on his chest to pick it up. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was, and came fully awake to look around before he remembered all that had happened that evening.
“I apologize,” Hannibal whispered. “I did not mean to wake you. I didn’t want the pages of the book to get crinkled.”
Will grunted to acknowledge that this was sensible, and then lapsed back into a half-stupor. He turned over on his side, away from Hannibal, and pulled the covers up and over his shoulder. “C’you turn the fire up? S’cold.”
Rather than do this, Hannibal spooned up behind Will, wrapping one arm around his waist to tuck Will right up against him. “Is this better?”
“Hm, I knew it,” Will mumbled. “Knew it all along.” But he did not resist in the least this cozy, warm embrace. Will would never have admitted it, but he had pictured himself like this when he had contemplated the possibility of being seduced, had imagined being rubbed and groped and fondled by Hannibal, being treated like the sexual being that he never presented himself as.
Imagining was one thing. But when Hannibal dragged one lazy hand across Will's chest and belly, Will twitched under the unaccustomed attention. And when Hannibal pinched affectionately at the smidgen of fat around Will's belly button, Will laughed reflexively and slapped at the hand, shrieking, “Don't grab my pudge!”
Hannibal had his nose in Will's hair, and said with insouciance, “Why shouldn't I?”
“Was your dinner satisfying?”
“You know it was.” Will put his hand over Hannibal's on his belly. “I'm stuffed.”
“Good. It pleases me to hear that.” He patted and rubbed Will's tummy while murmuring in his ear: “It would please me even more if I knew that your destination every night would be my bed, and I would consider it a duty and an honor to send you there every night with a full belly.”
“I'd be at the gym three hours a day,” Will sighed, “to balance out all that rich food.”
Hannibal nuzzled behind Will's ear and said, “So long as you leave a little bit of pudge for me to grab.”
What was so intoxicating about Hannibal’s touches was that they were fueled by abject adoration. Hannibal was not providing Will with a few perfunctory caresses to get him warmed up for the “main event.” He was, rather, worshiping Will’s body, savoring it in a way that only someone who had been waiting eighteen months for the opportunity could. And that was fine. Will was quite certain that it was safe for him to be here. It was like he was underwater but only barely below the surface, and could lift himself up and out at any time. He was in no danger of drowning; surely he could resist any current that meant to carry him down, though he absolutely felt the force of them.
It was obvious to him how badly Hannibal wanted to touch, kiss, taste every inch of his body. Will knew that if he were able, Hannibal would press the tip of his tongue to Will’s sclera, or crack his ribs open and squeeze his heart just to feel it beating. But until the day came when he could convince Will to attempt these things, Hannibal seemed willing to console himself with more mundane touches. He did not hesitate to push his hand down into Will’s pajamas, though once he had, all he did was play around a little with his fingers in Will’s pubic hair and along the sensitive flesh over his hipbone. He deliberately avoided Will’s cock, which made Will feel stupidly needy.
“Shall we have these off, then?” Hannibal said gently, sliding his hand free and plucking at the waistband of the pajamas.
Will cooperated, curling up in the fetal position just long enough to push them down his thighs and over his knees and then free them from around his ankles. When he had them off, he balled them up and tossed them onto the floor. As he stretched out, Hannibal spooned him again and it became clear that he had done the same, himself; with no fabric between them, he could lay his heavy, uncircumcised cock against the cleft of Will’s ass.
But he still seemed less concerned with Will's private parts than he did with every other part of his body. His hands sought everything within reach, and he had his nose pressed to the back of Will's neck like he needed the scent to live, uttering a low, nearly inaudible groan with each exhalation.
“I'm sorry,” Will said, “I didn't shower today. I'm probably pretty rank.”
“You're incredible,” Hannibal said. And then, like the single dislodged stone that allowed a dam to break, something more passionate in Hannibal was unleashed, and he mouthed at Will's neck and ear with more ferocity, not at all embarrassed to lick and suck at all accessible skin as he grabbed at Will's belly, his hip. As he did this, he brought himself to full hardness pushing his cock against Will's ass, sliding it out from between his cheeks and squeezing it up against the bulk of his firm but yielding gluteal muscles. He grabbed Will's chin and tilted his head to the side, so that he could reach Will's mouth, and kiss it. His tongue touched all those sore places inside Will's mouth that had been pierced by the ortolan's bones, perhaps to taste a hint of blood that might still linger there.
Will wanted to ask something, and at first he waited for Hannibal to relent, so that he would have room to make the words. But just as Hannibal retreated a fraction of an inch, he spoke first, begging Will to excuse him for the briefest moment. Suddenly the heat of him was gone as he rolled away, leaving Will somewhat bereft. From behind him, Will heard the bedside drawer being slid open. He did not bother to turn to look; he knew what was going on. A moment later, Hannibal had returned to him, though not yet pressed as closely to him. Will heard the click of a flip-top bottle being opened, and then the low squelch of lube being applied to skin.
Hannibal didn’t bother with fingers first, he just pressed the head of his generously-lubed cock against Will’s hole. He was not rough, but he was insistent, and pushed until Will opened to him. Will grunted when the glans popped in, and Hannibal stopped, pulled out, and began again, giving just the blunt tip over and over, waiting for Will to ask for more. And even then, he insisted that Will should push back instead. “Show me how much you like,” he commanded.
Will tilted his hips, deepening the hollow at the small of his back as he invited Hannibal’s cock deeper inside. He wiggled his behind a little, until he found an angle at which the head brushed his prostate. Only then did he begin to rock back and forth in earnest, slowly, so that he might maintain that nice angle. It felt so cozy and pleasant, not at all intense, and Will thought that, given enough time at this pace, he might inadvertently rock himself to sleep on Hannibal’s cock.
But after a few minutes, Hannibal had a firm grasp of Will’s preference, and took the lead again. He returned his hand, still sticky with lube, to Will's hip, and held him still, pushing into him with shallow, patient strokes. “Like this?” he said.
“Uh huh. That’s about how deep I like it,” Will said, somewhat apologetically.
“It’s lovely,” Hannibal reassured him. “But let me know if you want more.”
Hannibal was big; even without having seen it, Will could tell. But he’d used so much lube, and taken things very slow, and Will had been so relaxed and sleepy, it had all just slid right up inside him. He thought about that now, and felt a little filthy for having been able to accept all that cock so easily.
He remembered just then that he had not asked his question yet. With Hannibal's grip on him as powerful as it had ever been, Will breathed, into the darkness: “Have you ever fantasized about eating me?”
“Hmm, not consuming you, precisely,” Hannibal mused, between kisses to Will's neck. “Never that. I only ever wanted a little taste.” He pressed his lips to Will's ear, and gently sucked the lobe into his mouth. After a lingering nibble, he released it and laid a trail of kisses along the back of Will’s neck.
“So has it been everything you dreamed of?” Will asked blithely.
“Would you even say...euphoric?”
“Yes,” Hannibal answered, without irony. Will's laugh turned comically into a moan when Hannibal returned to thrusting in earnest.
Though Will's cock had softened during the initial penetration, it was hard again, and throbbing now. He wanted to touch it, to soothe the ache, but at the same time he felt like he should resist the urge. If he made himself come, it would be over, and he would be denying himself further minutes or hours of pleasure. He was insanely curious to know what more Hannibal would do to him, given enough time.
And indeed, it wasn't much longer before Hannibal decided that he had grown tired of the way they were situated. First, he reached down to grab Will's leg just under the knee, and lifted it up. This resulted in a high, startled ooh as Will felt himself being spread open. “What about a little deeper?” Hannibal suggested.
“Yeah,” Will said, trying not to let his voice thin out into a whine, “I can take more…once I get going.”
Hannibal gave him a few deep thrusts, which provoked the most beautiful shocked noises, but he slowed down considerably as he bent his legs and began to rotate his body, carefully, so that he wouldn't slip out. He pushed Will's leg yet higher, then bent himself and got his own legs under him; now he was kneeling, perpendicular to Will, with Will's ankle on his shoulder.
From here, he had more leverage, and a better view. He gave Will a few strokes in this position, but it was still not quite what he wanted. Will was grabbing the pillow, burying his face in it, to help himself deal with the new, deeper penetration. But Hannibal wanted to see that face, not have it mashed into a pillow. So he gently took Will's leg, his thumb to the back of Will's knee, and lowered it to the bed, so that he had moved from spooning to missionary without having needed to disengage.
Now Will could see Hannibal's face as well, and watch the way his body moved. Despite his fervent rhythm, he retained a certain grace, and the flickering candles illuminated the elegant angles of his face. For a brief, surreal moment, he appeared to Will like a deep-sea fish, beautiful and terrifying in the brutal, abyssal darkness.
Hannibal was fucking him deeper now, and Will's little pleased grunts had become a torrent of uninhibited noises, moaning and whimpering. And what made it even more exhilarating for him was how intensely he could feel Hannibal's eyes upon him; never once did he close them to relish his own physical pleasure, but determinedly he drank in every inch of Will's body, reveling in each little sound, as if the only reason why he put his dick in Will was that it was the most effective way to get Will to moan, tremble, blush, and squirm.
And this was, in its own odd way, comforting to Will. If Hannibal had just been using Will's body to make his dick feel good – or worse, to satisfy his despicable ego – Will would have been affronted. But that Hannibal was instead using Will to please his eyes, his ears, his mouth, and his nose was more acceptable, even appealing. Hannibal was clearly working hard to please him; this in the past had been off-putting to Will, who would become overwhelmed by the burdensome feeling of a lover making a great effort. How rare it had been for him to feel free to enjoy the results of all that toil. But Hannibal was obviously deriving so much pleasure himself, and that was all that Will felt now, a passion both artful and sincere.
After many minutes of listening to Hannibal's low, rumbling noises of gratification, Will was startled from his reverie by some actual words: “Your beauty and magnificence have overwhelmed me,” Hannibal said, his voice rough and sweet, “so much so that I fear that I may reach completion before you, which would be unspeakably rude.”
Will struggled to parse these words, then finally realized – oh! Hannibal was asking him to come. Quite some time had passed since he'd even thought of doing so. He'd been so thoroughly satisfied with just letting Hannibal do whatever he wanted. The entire evening, come to think of it, had been hour after hour of going along with everything that Hannibal had suggested, initiated, or placed in front of him. And everything had been so wonderful. It made Will think about how nice it would be, to just let go, just let Hannibal take control of everything...
Finally, he replied, “Will you...? I want you to do it.” He arched his back, then flung his arms above his head to prove that he had no intention of touching himself. Hannibal sat up straight, situating himself so that he could, with the greatest possible ease and vigor, stroke Will's cock, and view the proceedings while also continuing to thrust.
Hannibal handled Will’s cock as skillfully and intuitively as he might his own, and Will happily surrendered to the touch, at first. But he soon felt his climax approaching, like an enormous cresting wave, and his anticipation turned to panic. He clamped his thighs more tightly around Hannibal's waist, certain that anchoring himself thus was the only way to safely ride out his tremendous orgasm. When it came, it was unbearable light in his brain and syrup in his veins, a kicking, screaming cataclysm that swept from his balls down to his curling toes and up to his parted lips, and left him sweetly, joyfully weak.
Will returned to awareness just in time to watch Hannibal pressing one hand between his own body and where Will’s legs were still spread wide, sliding his fingertips around the hot, wet place where their bodies were joined. Hannibal’s eyes fluttered shut and he trembled, granting himself these few seconds to be selfish and take his own pleasure. Will felt the twitching of Hannibal’s cock inside him as he spent. And when Hannibal was all through, he indulged himself one last time by collapsing upon Will's own sprawled form.
Hannibal's weight on him was pleasant at first, but Will soon began to wriggle beneath his overwhelming heat. “I'm roasting,” he complained, and Hannibal obediently – though slowly – lifted himself and rolled to one side, muttering, “Forgive me.”
Hannibal waited patiently for Will to cool off a little, and seek the heat of his body once more. In the meantime, he took the towel from the bedside table and tidied up the dampest, stickiest parts of the two of them. Will laid still and allowed himself to be cleaned. “I’m sorry,” he said, his head lolling to the side, “I must have sounded like an idiot, doing all that yelling. I probably screamed right in your ear about ten times.”
Hannibal smiled fondly. “No need for apologies. It was immensely gratifying to me, that you were so affected.” He gave Will a soft kiss on the forehead. “I got to enjoy two little songbirds tonight.”
Will blushed anew at this. He knew he had been well-fucked and no doubt looked thoroughly sated, and that Hannibal was relishing seeing him that way. But he also couldn't help but feel a bit smug; it seemed that in Hannibal's eyes he could do no wrong. As vulnerable as Will felt, he knew that he’d compelled Hannibal to let his guard down, too.
He scooted closer to where Hannibal had settled himself, and cooperated with Hannibal's effort to get one arm under his neck and around his shoulders. As he began to fall into a deep slumber, he thought about how, despite the modicum of power he wielded, Hannibal had triumphed over him that evening, and he had not taken advantage of every opportunity he might have had, to exploit Hannibal when he was susceptible. But he just could not bring himself to care. It was wrong to let Hannibal win, even just this once. It was a failure on his part to allow Hannibal to be right. But God, it was so much easier.