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When Will steps into the room, he doesn't expect to trip over an extremely excited Papillon. All perky ears and wiggly tail, she is trailing back and forth between him and Hannibal. His usually stoic partner stands in the middle of disarray as if rooted to the spot, with Will's new dress suit crumpled on the floor. His expression reminds Will of a little boy who was caught with his hands in a cookie jar.

Eventually, Papillon settles at Hannibal's feet, her head high, proud of herself and very fond of Hannibal. He, however, gives her both a concerned and murderous look. It seems almost amusing, and Will is a little thrown by the dissonant atmosphere. The mental images of what could transpire here during his absence ran through in his mind, only Hannibal's expression does not add up.

He turns to them, spreads his arms with a quizzical smile, "Well…, what has brought this around? Playing wild?"

"She has ruined your shirt for the evening."

"Ah."

****

Thirty minutes ago.  

With care, Hannibal liberated the contents of the delivered garment bag. The suit was…sufficient for the occasion, not fancy enough for Will to complain about Hannibal stuffing him in rakish clothes as if Will was his personal, overgrown doll. Today was an excellent opportunity to acquire a new shirt for Will as his boy, thanks to their old-fashioned domestic lifestyle, slightly overfilled his old ones. Hannibal smirks with pride.

They purchased the apparel this morning and had it dry cleaned in the afternoon, just before a concertino by the chamber orchestra of the Palau de la Música Catalana. 

With an expert look and pleased smile, he regards the three-piece suit: nothing in fashionista style indeed - a semi-matte graphite grey, cotton, including a waistcoat, a sister shade of Will’s eyes and the perk of this set; a white oxford adorned with the smooth, rock crystal and platinum buttons. The same style cufflinks were enclosed as a bonus.

It takes a bit of intricate maneuvering to extract the shirt from the jacket and not wrinkle the crisp fabric. He wants to see it properly, the shimmer of the crystals. He goes to a large open window where transparent curtains are pulled aside, fluttering in the warm September breeze. The visibility here is the best, in the last rays of natural light.

He extended his arm, leant back, and held the shirt against the evening sun. He worked the buttons free, and shook it, straightening the creases for Will to have it ready when he comes to get dressed, prim, and damp and soft from the shower. But honestly, he wants to admire how the crystal studs glimmer while flowing in waves through the light suffused air. Vain.

That was the last moment he indulged the sight, and when the solid hold on his self-control sublimed into nothingness. An inferno incarnate in a black mop of fur sprinted out from the kitchen door. He did not give her much heed first, but when he waved the shirt once more, it was as if giving her a “catch“ command. She was fast to react, jumped high above the ground, spine curving, her jaws ajar, and then they clamped.

She must have considered it enormous fun to dangle from this flailing thing. The fabric was quickly pierced by her little canines, and she tried to tear out a bigger chunk of it. It did not matter how hard Hannibal wanted to shake her off after his initial mortification had passed, she adjusted to the game. Her body swung and hopped, and her head wrung like a bell. She refused to let go of the shirt.

And then, with the opportunity, a thought came that turned briskly into the action. A familiar thrill passed over Hannibal; it was cold, calculated, habitual. Riddance with one quick flick of his wrist, and she would be gone.

She had let go with the sudden jolt, and the shirt went hurtled out of the window without its four-legged attachment. She seemed so happy about it, so proud of herself, while he dubiously eyed the flying piece of the precious garment.

Hopping around his feet, running around the table, between armchairs and toward the balcony, she coaxed him to see where her new expensive toy went. Perhaps wanting him to pick it up and do the whole funny exercise again.

They both ran to the balcony, looked through and over the railing, knocking the rest of the suit to the floor along the way. There, bending over the rail, from the height of five meters above solid paved ground, Hannibal’s brain finally registered what he had almost done. 

On an irrational impulse, he shut the balcony doors and the window to effectively cut her from falling out. A dog is not a cat, not gifted with the nine mythical lives.

When Will appears in the room doorway with a shocked “oh”, Hannibal finds it difficult to move, finds it difficult to speak. His breathing has slowed, but his emotions are still tumultuous. 

There is a thin line between the feeling of completeness with Will by his side and the haunting loneliness without his love, and he realizes how hopelessly close he had been to overstepping that mark.

Stripped bare of all defences, as he heard a vague anxiety coil inside Will’s exclamation like the dog spinning around his feet (for all he knows, they should have named her Penny Dreadful and not Soph),  Hannibal sees only one way out of this situation. The truth. 

He braced himself, grasping for words. But Will is the first to speak.

“I told you to be stricter with her. It pays off.”

“I was.” Hannibal’s eyes slip toward the window.

Will frowns and glances between the window and the two of them. He has also caught a subtle cutting note in Hannibal's answer that doesn't match the disaster Soph has caused; which prompts him to ask,

"How s-, how much stricter?" 

"Inappropriately, one could say," Hannibal drawls, and Will tilts his head that endearing way, contemplating, unconsciously mimicking Hannibal's habitual pose. 

"Inappropriate by general standards, or by yours? Given that she was rude..." Will muses aloud half-joking, half uptight, and then... 

Hannibal feels scrutinized, though Will is looking mostly at Soph whirling around him, running over his feet, playfully nuzzling her head and ears against his ankles. His dress pants are covered in dog hair up to his knees, but he does not budge and holds himself carefully back.

They are giving Will mixed signals. It's hard to judge when Soph seems outright being besotted by the man, who just radiates waves of distress.

"Where is the shirt?" Will finally asks. Hannibal's heart sinks low as his look points outside through the casements, now safely locked.

Soph, as if she understood, springs first towards the window with them both in tow. They look down mute, at a single shredded tail of the massacred shirt, evidence of his misconduct. Will must be assessing the force, the weight, the speed that caused the damage, calculating the acceleration and trajectory the object must have taken to reach its destination on the courtyard's stylish masonry. Then he gives one last look at the Papillon at their feet, and Hannibal from behind his shoulder can sense the exact moment when suspicion turns to knowledge. 

Will stilled, his shallow breathing raced up, before he leaps away from the window and into the room, perhaps as far as he can get away from Hannibal. A sharp turn and Hannibal is confronted with a display of pain and panic in his beloved's face, confident that it reflects the expression on his own, though for the reasons that can't be more different, still conjoined by one common word. 

It is the end .

Into his mental turmoil, their persistent dog is pulling his pant leg, pulling him somewhere out to continue what she has perceived as an innocent game and what Will, infallible in his perception of the crime scene, sees as deadly riddance.

Soph stops, startled when the sharp accusation pierces the chilled air between them.

"She's still young and is just acting on her instincts! While you..."

"...while I'm old, senseless, and I was not." Hannibal finishes smoothly, monotone, each word precise in the way of speech when he wants to deliver something important to Will. Despite his effort to sound calm, his whole façade is crumbling down under the weight of desperation, settled heavily in his stomach. He almost feels nauseous.

 "What are you saying?" 

He is reeling toward resentment but is not wholly unapproachable. 

"That I'm highly unpredictable, irrational, and, to general society's standards, lacking common sense, and you… , have every right to be angry with me." 

A fitting characterization for them both. Will's utters a deep, unsteady laugh as the only response, because he is breaking too, though not angry yet, derailed by this alien, frank part of Hannibal's and the fierce dog in a stance, ready to defend him.

The voices, the appearances, and emotions visible are clashing with the reality Hannibal has not even denied. That in nature, he is a cruel methodical killer, who just decided to act on his urges again. The killer Will had long accepted. His.

But the term methodical, here, doesn't fit. And Will's preconceived dimensions of right and wrong blur. 

Even with the bizarre way of Hannibal thinking, Will must have realized that this was a slip. An accident. For Hannibal himself, a cardinal lapse of self-control, almost resulting in a cardinal sin of Will's. He touched what was sacred.  

Hannibal feels betrayed by his own refined faculties of a hunter (perhaps neglected for too long), aware, and afraid as well that thanks to a low, inexcusable impulse, he might push Will's limits of acceptance over the cliff again. 

Hannibal wants to take it all away, the devastating hurt, not of deceit, but of a wasted illusion Will had let himself temporarily fall in. Will has not seen him cut loose since they decided to keep a low profile, and it claws on him, scratches him raw. It feels like he is dealing Will another wound.  And he wants to bring him back together, take back what he has done, but he can't… so at least, he desperately wants to comfort him.

He steps forward as Will steps back.

An echo of past losses reverberates through Hannibal.  Fear and loss; two phenomena he never experienced as interconnected until they became associated with Will.

"Will. I am sorry...I don't know how else to approach my misstep." His voice finally broke, his eyes teared up. He needs Will to help him dispel this unbearable distress. Wanting Will to need him doing the same.

They both move at once.

Will feels suspended like a doll in his crushing embrace, loose; his arms dangling by his sides, his chin on Hannibal's shoulder, taking in all Hannibal's emotions, probably trying to sort them out. Seeking release through the other's aid, he finally puts his hands at Hannibal's back, mimicking the hug and asks,

"Where has this come from?"  

Hannibal tightens his hold, securing Will's labouring chest to his own.  When he finally answers, his voice is but a soft murmur next to Will's head. 

"A fear. The time we entangled ourselves in a net of lies and pretending, I ended up alone in a glass cell, but you… you tried to kill yourself. He releases his love, leans back to look him straight into the eyes, wants to give his words the proper weight. "Will, I can't…I can't…"  

Banned from usual ornate language, he learnt, over the years, how to twist his speech to communicate the depth of his thoughts and love to Will, but, for all his resolve and practice, he cannot finish the sentence. It's not even necessary, as Will also learnt -  to read Hannibal.  

The muscles under his arms relax as Will settles into the familiar embrace. An ideal way to soothe his distress. Something that has grown as a habit over the years, even when the source of comfort is also the source of his stress. His head lies peacefully on Hannibal's shoulder, his eyes mellow and seeking nothing. Still, his question holds a reproach, and Hannibal can smell bitterness rising from his pores when he accepts the apology and is contemptuous toward himself because of his weakness in the wake of mental exhaustion.  

"What would you do the next time?"

"My inner motives shall act as brakes on my…questionable desires," Hannibal states, shaky, albeit determined.

"...inner motives?" repeats Will, gives it his typical cynical bite from years ago, but it sounds weak.

"You. All of them."

Of course he knew; he just needed confirmation. Will lets out an affirmative hum and doesn't move otherwise, feeling comfortable leaning against Hannibal, who doesn't mind the dampness from Will's hair soaking his new crispy shirt for the night, nor does he heed his tone.

"Without any exaggeration, from the moment we met, I have never been in charge, Will." He speaks into the flyway curls now. "Have I? Ever?"

Not entirely , Hannibal thinks in his defence when Will pulls away. Will cups his face in his palms, and something else sparkles in his eyes other than wariness and detached curiosity. "What am I going to do with you?"

Hannibal holds his gaze, reaching out sincerely. "I only wish for what you've been doing... and feeling in the past five years. Even if it meant your ultimate vulnerability, your drive to love cloaked in ignorance and fear, yet it was never destroyed by betrayal of your ungrateful lover. I'll return the sentiment."

Strangely enough, Hannibal has always done the same. Will chokes out laugh rife with the broken affection. 

"How can you say such things? Hell, any of what you said today?"

"I thought it was obvious; it's fear." Hannibal states, his look solemn, "Besides, I remember what you once said ' do not lie to me, Dr. Lecter.' "  

"And you've just decided, just like that," Will said, scoffing in disbelief, "to follow what I've asked you for?" 

Hannibal shook his head, "Not just now and not just like that, I have said my reasoning twice already, you don't seem to be paying attention, Will."

"Hannibal-" Will starts mutinous and increasingly impatient, then stops himself, and after a short pause, he twists his tone into the serious, craving an enhanced answer. Reassurance perhaps. 

" As a therapist, shouldn't you be speaking sweet nothing to me in a situation like this?"

"You mean, as an ungrateful lover?"

"You want a pillow talk now? 

Against his best intentions, amusement is unmistakably slipping into Hannibal's concerned voice. The exasperation in Will erupts.

"I, I don't know what I want at all!"

Hannibal covers Will's fingers with his. "In this regard, I can assure you, I'm quite clear." 

Given Will's crackling reactions, he dares to hope that Will has made up his mind about what to do with him on an emotional level. On a moral one, he is waging war alongside all the righteous principles he should follow as a rational and reasonable course. Yet, he has never won on this front whenever Hannibal has been involved. It's impossible not to falter after five years spent together, and also impossible to think that Hannibal would come out of the battle intact.

They lapse into silence for a moment.

"Ah," comes without a streak of anxiety now. At last, the war between despair and hope is yielding, Will's fine-boned features are becoming suffused with the warmth of tenacious acceptance again. Will, has chosen the correct meaning from Hannibal's equivocal answer: them .

It's his turn to draw Hannibal down, into a crushing hug and clumsy smash of mouths, to share the maelstrom of emotions only actions can convey.

A rhapsody of anger, surrender, rebellion, and, most important, love.

The overwhelming relief, like the peaceful trickle of a forest stream, surges through Hannibal at the exact moment their lips meet. They kiss until the urgency to reconnect the broken link of their relationship subsidies, and their breaths calm, and then some more, until their heartbeats quicken again, and the incoherent gasps escape Will's mouth, making everything else fade into insignificance.

Hannibal reaches out toward the wall, palming it blindly, and, when he finds the switch, the lights go out, leaving them hidden from the onlookers, behind the reflection of the gold and orange sun on the window glass.  

****

A sudden rush disturbs the stillness of twilight. Clicks of metal blend with hisses of leather and a soft rustle of fabrics hastily discarded. 

"I want you to take me inside." Will's voice is a soft mutter between kisses; his arm already stretches out towards a cruet set sitting on the sideboard, but to his misfortune,  he knocks it to the floor. 

After the week of chasing around Barcelona's marvels, art, architecture, dining, and culture, only to drop half-dead into their bed afterwards, who could blame him for such a primal, impulsive reaction to stress?

He pushes at Hannibal's shoulders when they slide down along the wall to kneel. Hannibal's legs spread like eagle wings over his thighs, the space between them open and inviting, for Will's wandering hands. Without anything at hand to ease the way, Will decides to improvise, tears his lips from Hannibal's, inserts the two of his fingers in between and sucks. It is unconscious, nothing obscene, yet Hannibal's arousal flutters to life, no doubt, aching too to be claimed with Will's dewy mouth. The glint in his eyes soars uncontrolled, visible even with the absence of light. 

Will feels powerful, giving and taking what he wants from his lover. He curls his hand into a loose loop around Hannibal, like velvet over hardening steel, and gives his cock a lone stroke, from root to tip, then back down, feather-like stimulation Hannibal likes. Hannibal's head sinks to his shoulder in surrender, face burrowing, his staggering hot breath smothered against the side of Will's neck. With a satisfied sigh Will swivels his head back to accommodate him, loses himself in this, by pleasure triggered subconscious closeness between them. With a surge of desire, even his untamed feline wants to cling.

Nuzzling into silvery hair, he trails kisses down from the crown of Hannibal's head, as he seeks to dip between those lips again, as he enters Hannibal with a single digit. Smooth and slow, Will crooks it inside teasing, and turns intrusion into delight. When he adds in a second, his lion curls to him with an intensity bordering on pain, and Will absorbs the fine tremors of his agile frame, his musky scent, the fresh smell of his crispy button-down. The right combination that sends rampant signals of want straight in between his thighs.

He likes Hannibal half-dressed when they make love. Clad in white, bare, just a shirt, front and cuffs unbuttoned, loose and haphazard on him. He looks more innocent, more vulnerable to claim—a proverbial fallen angel. With rapture Will delves under the shirttails, cups his waist over the heated skin while he tugs his lover atop of himself to sit astride his hips.

He likes to admire the dichotomy of his nude body with touch rather than with sight. His palms journey over Hannibal. He's lithe and graceful, like a dancer, and yet strong and wiry, perfectly muscled, like a hunter.

Will’s apprising fingers slide up his toned chest, then down the strong back; soft and languid, they sweep over the mounds of his ass, feel over the flanks of his tights. Hannibal holds still with closed eyes, for Will to take his fill, savouring each possessive touch. Only when Will urges him, by the mere pressure of fingers, does he guide himself onto the moist, leaking head of Will’s shaft, using his thumb to spread the fluid that pools atop his slit.

The expectant tension in Will escalates to an intoxicating feeling, the overwhelming tightness and heat. Hannibal’s tapered fingers stroke up and down the rest of his length, coaxing him into the solid hardness while adjusting to the growing fullness inside. 

Will is more breathless than Hannibal, who takes air in and out in ample gulps, as if banishing the flinders of pain from his mind, allowing in only the nips of pleasure. Trying to help, Will stretches out and reaches under the sideboard to retrieve the lost vial, then resumes his caresses over Hannibal’s loins and legs, the long strokes through the dust of fine hair, through the fine sheen of cooling sweat, while the oil makes them shiny, silky and wonderful way slippery.  

“Good?” He prompts Hannibal, because, above all, he likes his husky, sex-strained voice. 

“Move.”

Oh, and Will does. He clamps his fingers to Hannibal’s thighs, rolls his hips up while Hannibal pushes down, takes more of him, and Will sheathes himself to the hilt. Too enthusiastically. Too fast. 

The two long-drawn sighs pierce the room, Hannibal’s close to a hiss.  Will momentarily halts, reprimands himself and reaches up in need to comfort his lover. He combs long strands from the amber eyes aside, looking for tell-tell signs of pain. None. They are well concealed.

“Is this a punishment, Will?” Hannibal starts deceptively casual, presses his cheek into Will’s palm.

“Punish you with sex? Impossible.” He gives a toothy grin and an experimental nudge up, that this time, to his relief evokes a breathy gasp.

His ability to produce contradictory feelings resurfaces in most unforeseen moments, so it’s no surprise that, despite being protective, Will also feels a bit vindictive. He told the truth; any desire to hurt or reject Hannibal melted away when faced with Hannibal’s unusual distress, and their pup’s happy infatuation with his ‘ungrateful lover’. No real harm was done… but deep inside, he is angry yet. Which is pointless, soon to be defeated and buried under the layers and layers of warm-hearted sentiment, and desire greater than his free will. And that is just as fine. 

“It’s for me to calm my nerves.”

"Inconsiderate to my knees," Hannibal objects half-heartedly, attentive to the writhing of Will's balls skin-tight against his buttocks more than to the hard parqueted floor under them.  

"Alike to my back." Will wiggles, and Hannibal swallows hard.

"To her." At last, Hannibal flicks his eyes toward the corner of the room. 

Will cranes his neck for a better view. There she is, the real concern behind the confrontation, curled into a mini ball of fur. Eyeing them, blinking lazily, already falling asleep. Their volatile, clever imp that remarkably deconstructed Hannibal's vices and wreaked havoc on his conscience, undeterred by nobody and nothing except Will, until now. Unforgivable.

He bestows her an appraising smile. "She's seen worse."

Will turns to a view of Hannibal's lush mouth, assembled in such a defiant pout that his own tongue darts out to flick hot at his upper lip with a sudden urge to invade them, and he curves his hand around Hannibal's nape, then tugs. His man does not yield.

Well, as it seems, a further conversation cannot be avoided even with Will's dick throbbing and agonisingly hard, buried deep in him. 

Soft, broken, and vulnerable, the manipulation from their early years together, won't work on Hannibal anymore. So, Will opts for different means to readdress the matter and trigger more genuine reactions from his partner. Wants to confirm where he stands with his cautious thrust, although he has already forgiven him. 

" Trying this one, isn't she? I am amazed you haven't killed her yet; I mean that in a purely theoretical sense."

"Will... do not tempt me." Hannibal's hands land on both sides of his head, stilling their distractive movements. But that is just a bluff. Their bodies are well attuned to the pleasures of escalating tension between them. Hannibal contracts around Will, a blissfully impulsive grip, while the swollen head of his cock ghost over Will's stomach. The sensation was an oncoming inferno, like during their old macabre game, and Will cannot resist probing more. 

He clasps his hands over the slender wrists and starts to massage Hannibal's forearms, up and down at a lazy pace, rucking up the sleeves along with the movements. Hannibal's smooth skin breaks into goosebumps. Undoubtedly, he smirks to himself, because he does the same to Hannibal's ass with his cock, harder now than before his verbal jab.

"The last time she snatched the first bite from your "Beef in Ashes," and ruined your romantic dinner," he continues, a little breathless around the words, provoking Hannibal with a heavy-lidded gaze, "and today, she chewed  my shirt and ruined your concertino night."

Hannibal's eyes gained that darkly aroused glint, and Will could feel his muscles rippling softly inside.

Beautiful.

A feral lion lurks from behind his mild features when in rising fury, he dips his head and lets his thick accent take over the calculated words.

“I see you are back to yourself, with a healthy penchant for exploring my limits.  Surely, it brings you a certain satisfaction. One would say you’re training my self-control on her.”

“Am I?” Will counters back, in the replica of an answer dangerously close to the memories of the fatal night a decade ago in Baltimore.

The dangerous surge in the amber slits instantly retreats. Their bodies come to a standstill. Hannibal clamps his mouth tight, his throat working hard when he looks absently away from Will, as if listening to advice from some ethereal being Will could not see. He then regards Will, misty-eyed from under the eyelashes, mulling over the words in his mind.

“Will.” A warm fresh breath washes over Will’s senses as he exhales with regret.

“If I could protect you from myself, I would. But I find I cannot. I am too selfish and will not bear being parted from you. More now than ever. I only ask... we both try harder.”

The calm aura of his softened countenance, the submission, and his constant transformation are intoxicating, and Will feels a warm tug at his heart that manifests itself in a wide happy smile.

“I find myself lately selfish too. And benevolent, whenever it comes to you.”

He reaches up to sharp curved cheeks and stares into Hannibal’s face, open and vulnerable for him again. 

It’s a heady feeling.

“I want you so much,” he can hear his own uneven voice. He meant it in every sense and doesn’t care that it comes out sounding a little desperate. Exposing. Needy. 

He lived his whole adulthood in denial, and self-reprimand, and the five years of happiness; Hannibal metabolising their new life terms,  commanded mostly by Will, is a pivotal clause. He wants to make them sustainable as long as he can, as he was asked, by loving him.

The striving is mutual.

Will has forgiven him already, accepted, and was right to. For Hannibal embodies the best and the worst in his world, and he has learned long ago that even if he knows how to smooth the ragged edges of the latter still, he cannot have one without another.

Suddenly, he wants to feel too much of him in too short a time. He shifts his hold on Hannibal and pulls him down with urgency to claim his mouth. In a prequel to his long-wished kiss, he feels Hannibal’s lips curve against his in a self-assured smile. He does not mind; it does not come with serious hurt this time. A little scratch, a lingering ache, yes, they cannot be avoided even only by a thickness of hair. He has forgiven but will remember, and Hannibal is not unaware.

Then Hannibal nips at his lips, little sucking kisses, prays them open, and when he delves in, his moist tongue feels hot and cold at once… oh, and Will cannot take it anymore. A raw desire, like a rising fire, spreads through his body, from the rapidly escalating duel in his mouth.  A hungry frustrated sound, from him or Hannibal, he isn’t sure, actuates their bodies into their own choreography of making love.

Will’s fingers slip from the tangled strands on the back of Hannibal’s neck to latch hard onto his forearms while he rises through the whole pulsing length of Will’s shaft. There is a fitting angle and squeeze, and Will reciprocates, withdrawing almost to the tip. When Hannibal sinks and Will slams back, he feels Hannibal everywhere at once, the sizzling graze over every cell of his swollen flesh.

“Oh, god, like that.” Will breathes out command or plea, and muffled “yes” rasps against his chest when Hannibal curves his back again and obeys. Will bucks as Hannibal slides down.

An excruciatingly slow and targeted pleasure Hannibal sets. Will won’t hold for long, his lover knows, barely allowing him time to breathe, with his every flex of hips, hot gasps and searing mouth pressed to the hollow of Will’s neck. Will imagines how the agonising frisson in Hannibal would feel inside his own ass, and he hears himself let out a moan like an adept, well-paid whore.

Hannibal’s muscles around him convulse wildly; only a sharp frantic scrape of teeth over his shoulder tips him back from tumbling off the peak. He is rocking up, starts to fuck Hannibal with speeding determination to drive him over the edge, or Hannibal fucks him, he cannot tell anymore… It is always like this with them. They blur.

His feet look for the purchase against the floor, slip first, then steady him as he arches his back, bringing them off the ground. His hands want to hold all of Hannibal; one latches into his hair, the other lands on his behind, yanks at him, holds him flush and aligned against his own body. Sleek skin to skin. They are breathing fast, their heart rates are even faster, and with Will’s final frantic thrusts up and Hannibal’s rolling slams down, exhilarating friction over his swollen cock, Hannibal’s grazing against his stomach, Hannibal’s hot tongue in his ear, he is suddenly there - the first sweet spasm, and his climax flies high.

"The evening might not be entirely lost…" whispers the devil through the fog of his mind, "you can wear the black button-down instead."

Through the vanning pulses of pleasure, as they fold into each other, collapsing with a thud to the hard wooden floor, and the honeyed timber of persuasion swirls around like a sweet smoke, but he does not care.

He is vaguely aware of the leaking cock still trapped between them, though he feels no concern at all for leaving Hannibal behind. He was never entirely in charge, wasn't he? 

"Give me fifteen...twenty minutes. I'll finish you properly in bed." Will breathes out, does not think twice to discard the insinuation.

Hannibal's face appears above his, lips poised in an unhappy line,

"No punishment indeed," he ascertains, all wounded and dramatic.

Will encases his face within his palms, beholds him once again: a mop of silvery, sex tousled hair, the expanse of a stark flush over his cheeks and neck, eyes dark and proof of unquenched hunger twitching against their abdomens. He is utterly, aesthetically debauched, and still hasn't given up on his plan. 

With a triumph, Will flashes at him a roguish smile, strokes his lips with his own for the unhappy pout to be gone, whispers, "You can finish in me."

The concertino is not discussed this evening anymore.