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This last insignificant step

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It started out gentle. Hannibal's hand on his face, familiar and warm, his palm searing Will's cheek as he unconsciously leaned into the soft gesture, craving and wanting more. Will's hands had been desperate, grabbing at Hannibal's waist, fingers gripping the soft expensive fabric, wrinkling it in his tight grasp as Hannibal took that half step closer, pressing them together into more-than-friendly territory.

 

They've been dancing around this for months, years if he thought long enough and hard enough, this thing bubbling between them from the moment they entered each other's lives. It's always been there. This last insignificant step, no more or less important, but always there all the same, sizzling just under their skin. Will knows this man, in every way, looks him in the eye with no hesitation.

 

The intimacy between them was startling. It still makes Will shiver, his skin breaking out in gooseflesh, his breathing short anytime Hannibal grins knowingly at him, every time they share a meal, every time Hannibal takes Will's hand, licking the blood off his palm--

 

The breath Will releases comes out in a desperate ragged gasp against Hannibal's throat. He wants to bite, to tear, to sink his teeth in until this man bleeds, until he can taste his insides. He wants Hannibal inside him, wants to swallow him whole, merging them together so they can finally be one. The pain he feels looking at this man, the agony of knowing him so intensely but never being close enough. 

 

This was inevitable, their coming together. Everything about what they do, what they are, is this visceral, base need, this physical structure and restructure they've made. Everything so tactile, tangible from the blood dripping off their fingers and crusting under their nails, the knife or blade cold in their hands, the stained clothes on their back, the flesh hot and wet in their grasp, the ingredients, the wine, the ocean, the wounds, the scars--all physical, all real.

 

Will's other hand touches Hannibal's wrist. They're crowding each other, not saying a word. He touches the scar there blindly, fingers tickling the skin as they slide down. He spreads his hand against Hannibal's, palm against palm and very slowly slips his fingers between Hannibal's. He feels the man shiver and grip Will's hand tightly.

 

Hannibal's cheek is against Will’s, freshly shaved against his stubble. Will is sure he can feel the way his heart beats, maybe even feel the blood pumping wildly under his skin, smell the fear and desire, taste the--

 

Will turns his head, nudging Hannibal slightly, looking at him, his face. Soft, his eyes always so gentle on him, the contrast startling when he knows what the man is capable of. It terrifies Will, the amount of emotion he always finds there, directed back at him with such openness. Sometimes it chokes Will, drowning him, sometimes it's like heroin in his veins, a high so intense he's elevated for the rest of the day with just that one charged glance. Some days, frequently still but maybe less often than before, those eyes terrify him in ways that make him bristle, tugging at memories, poking at scars and bruises still tender until Will wants to lash out, snarl and bite and gouge out those eyes and eat them, crush them with his teeth so they can't remind him of what he's lost, what's been taken from him.

 

What he's been given in return though…

 

Will's lips are parted, chapped slightly as he pants, Hannibal's mouth soft and close, patiently waiting those few agonizing inches away. Will's right hand moves up from Hannibal's waist to his back, the hard muscle under the shirt solid and alive. Will sometimes forgets Hannibal is a man, with flesh and blood and needs, with weakness and flaws, ticklish and just as easily bruised as any man. Stubble and gums and fingernails and chest hair, toes and nipples and--

 

"Will."

 

The word startles him fiercely, the sound of Hannibal's voice, whispered and rough. He can read a thousand things in that one word, that one syllable. Will wants to hear it again, wants to taste it against his own lips, on his own tongue, feel for himself the feelings Hannibal has when he says his name in that voice…

 

Will swallows, licks his dry lips quickly. It feels dangerous in this moment, like Hannibal might strike suddenly, biting down on Will's vulnerable tongue and rip it out of his mouth…

 

He can't do it. He's too afraid, of everything and nothing, of what it means, what it'll lead to, of how much he'll lose and how much he'll gain…

 

"Kiss me," Will whispered, the words small and delicate like a snowflake landing on his sleeve. He needs Hannibal to take control like usual, needs to put himself into the mouth of the beast, trusting him not to bite too hard...

 

The gentleness is gone, burst into flames as Hannibal claims Will's mouth with lips and tongue and teeth. He's drowning, they both are. Hannibal's hand slips into Will's curls, tightly holding him as he kisses Will angrily. Will grips Hannibal's shirt so tightly it might rip. They're gasping against each other, holding too tightly, bruising with their lips, biting and growling until Will tastes blood.

 

His mind goes blank at the familiar metallic taste. He licks it up desperately, pulling Hannibal closer, closer. More, he needs more.

 

Will does rip Hannibal's shirt. He doesn't seem to mind it much, surprisingly, as he simply shrugs the tatters off quickly. Skin. Warm and soft and hard, all of it open for Will to touch. He drags his nails harshly down Hannibal's back, left pointer and ring fingernail catching slightly as they scrape against his healed brand. Hannibal groans into Will's panting bleeding mouth. Will presses, taking, and Hannibal gives him everything.

 

Will steps forward and they both jolt slightly when Hannibal's thighs hit the couch arm. "Not here," he murmurs against Will's lips. "I don't want to do this on the couch."

 

Will’s lips twitch upward. Hannibal's tastes are refined, too delicate and proper to do something so intimate in the living room. It seems funny. Part of Will wants to find it sweet, as he wants to find most things Hannibal does sweet, or gentle or romantic. Part of him wishes Hannibal was just that, a rich aristocrat with a taste for fine dining and expensive pleasures, just a man with a degree, his biggest secret being his proclivity for unstable men. But Will knows he wouldn't be satisfied with that, that the reason he's so wrapped up in Hannibal is the mystery and the danger. Without Hannibal's violent passions and without his desire to completely break Will, Will would have found him uninteresting. He would have sucked out every emotion and feeling, his empathy soaking Hannibal dry until there was nothing more to take and then he'd seclude himself yet again. Hannibal as he was, the whole beautiful disgusting monster was a never ending well for Will to give and take from.

 

Will growls against Hannibal's mouth, pulling on his skin, his arm, dragging him towards the bedroom without relinquishing any contact. Hannibal didn't seem to mind, his hands still holding onto Will as though he were a cherished teacup, haphazardly held together.

 

The sound of the heavy door shutting behind them made Will feel trapped, caged. He gripped Hannibal tighter, the startled animal in him baring his teeth, wanting to bite and attack.

 

He felt like he was vibrating out of his skin, hands trembling and breath twitchy, panting huge gulps. He moved his lips heavily from Hannibal's, blood smearing against the man's clean cheek as he kissed and bit his jaw, his ear, his neck. Thoughts tumbled messily over each other-- bite marks for anyone to see, ripping into the tendons, blood gushing into his mouth, over his tongue, tearing muscle and tissue from that throat. Gentle and violent, loving and hateful.

 

"Will," Hannibal's voice again, that voice that pulled him from the dark. "Breathe with me."

 

He was hyperventilating, chest heaving with each breath. He took Hannibal's hand, silently pleading with him to pull him from his thoughts, make him forget, make him only desire and feel pleasure, away from these terrifying overwhelming fantasies.

 

He felt himself being lowered onto the bed, sitting on the edge. He felt hands on his forehead, combing through his hair, under his chin and lifting. Hannibal's face swam before him, blurred around the edges but bright and all consuming. Will held Hannibal's hand, their fingers threaded together, binding them to the other. Will hoped they'd never have to part.

 

"Are you okay to continue?"

 

Will laughed, a weak dry thing. Hannibal asking for permission, for consent. It seemed out of place, odd, sweet. Will laughed again, nodded, the smile on his face stretched thin, tight. He felt dizzy, stifling in all his clothes. "Please," he whispered, arching toward Hannibal, needing something, anything--a kiss, a bite, to bleed or to moan, anything from Hannibal, everything.

 

The back and forth of this man, like a coin flipping endless through the air, like all the infinite pieces of the shattered teacup, too much for Will to handle. "Yes, please."

 

His hands worked quickly to rid Will of his clothes, the plaid shirt, the now damp undershirt. The air felt cold, refreshing against his bare chest and arms. Hannibal was quick to pull off his own pants and Will's. Will thought maybe he'd stop there, unsure if he was thankful or more nervous once Hannibal continued, their underwear thrown carelessly to the ground.

 

Hannibal loomed over Will now, a dark shadow in the dim light of the bedroom, stark and naked before him. Will thought he could only look more beautiful covered in blood. It would complete this picture, of the wild beast before him with hunger in his eyes. Hunger and something far too tender.

 

Hannibal bought his knee to Will's hip. Suddenly unsure, like a sinner standing before the vast golden majesty of the Palermo cathedral, awed and terrified, his hands too dirty to touch. He wanted to prostrate himself before Hannibal, get on his knees and give himself completely over. Maybe then he'd find himself. Maybe then he would truly be free, under the eye of this man who has somehow been able to see into him since the moment they met.

 

Hannibal leaned forward with a hand on Will's shoulder, guiding him back and down until he was flat on the soft bedsheets, open and vulnerable. His heart hammered and his instincts screamed to run away from the predator looming over him. He merely raised his trembling hand and put it to Hannibal's chest. Soft hairs under his palm and below that...a heartbeat. Fast and strong. Will felt himself fall into its rhyme.

 

Will opened his mouth under Hannibal's with the softest touch. The man pressed his weight down. The pressure on Will's chest was welcome. He put an arm around those strong shoulders, his nails not digging dangerously or violently, instead tracing his fingertips slowly and carefully.

 

Hannibal held Will, his forearms by his head, fingers massaging into dark curls, his nose against Will's, eyes closed as though in prayer. Will felt the weight of Hannibal's attention, adoration and veneration, as solidly as Hannibal's chest against his.

 

Seconds passed like hours, in the blink of an eye, with both of them just holding each other.

 

Hannibal's fingers touched his cheeks reverently, and he looked down at Will. Will stared back, still shaking from the amount of information that pours out of Hannibal into him like a burst hydrant. Eye contact was always dangerous, terrifying, and messy, but with Hannibal, it was always worth it, and Will could never break away from the current.

 

"I see you," Hannibal whispered, voice thick. Will touched Hannibal's cheek, thumb under his eye. He felt full in that moment, completely and irrevocably seen and captured. His vision blurred and as the tears slid down his cheek into his ears, he whispered back, "I see you."

 

Hannibal's smile outshone the sun.

 

Will returned the smile as Hannibal leaned up and grabbed for the drawer on the right side of the bed, a dark wooden masterpiece that must be more expensive than every piece of furniture in Will's home. Will looked up at Hannibal's chest hovering over him, reaching up and touching the soft hair between his nipples, down to his navel. It felt nice to just touch. The freedom, the privilege to be this close, to be trusted to see him and touch him in anyway he liked. Intoxicated, Will combed his fingers into Hannibal's hair, gripping softness at his nape and pulling him down into a hungry kiss.

 

Hannibal was clever with his fingers and hands, positioning Will how he wanted as he distracted himself with kissing, trying to suck Hannibal's tongue out of his mouth. He gasped wetly when Hannibal straddled Will, strong thighs bracketing his, sitting up slightly. He wasn't…

 

"Hannibal?" Will's voice was soft. His hands shook as he put them on Hannibal's thigh, thumbs in the dips of his groin. Hannibal's face was completely open, his mouth open slightly as he shifted his hips. Will's grip tightened. His breathing stopped.

 

Hannibal sat, sinking himself onto Will's cock and the sound Will made, torn from his throat as he arched up, instinctively pushing deeper in. Hannibal winced slightly, the facial tick going almost unnoticed with how much Will's senses were overloaded. He closed his eyes, muscle tense as he tried to hold off, the burning wet heat around his cock, the knowledge that he was inside Hannibal and that Hannibal had put them in this position, that this was what he had wanted... He groaned against the strain of holding back, his fingers bruising on Hannibal's waist.

 

Hips rolled experimentally and Will cried out, "Please please please..." bubbling out of his mouth messily.

 

"Will," Hannibal, that damned voice, that damn name on his tongue, too much, always too much. Will felt fingers softly against his cheeks and ears, something nudging his nose. He was engulfed in heat. He needed to move, his hips twitching slightly. "Look at me, Will." Will blinked his eyes open, unaware they'd been closed this whole time. The sight of Hannibal upon him, himself impaled on Will's cock...too much…

 

Hannibal's face was close to his, his eyes all Will could see, his breath all Will could taste with every gulp of air.

 

The pace Hannibal set then was rough and fast and Will's hands scrambled against Hannibal, clawing and gripping his arms and back in a desperate attempt to hold on. This wasn't gentle love making, this wasn't going to be slow and sensual— this was raw, desperate, needy fucking, Hannibal slamming down against Will again and again, fucking himself as he fucked Will. All Will could do was take it, be used as Hannibal took what he needed, what he wanted. Hannibal's arm around his head, his fingers buried in Will’s curls, pulling, his nose against Will’s shoulder and neck.

 

Will felt trapped. He felt secure. It was like being broken apart, with Hannibal's arms around him, holding him together. His blunt nails dug into Hannibal's shoulder blades, not intending to harm or hurt, simply trying to hold on, to stay close.

 

He started moving with Hannibal, thrusting up everytime the man slammed down. His hands never stopped moving across damp skin, over small scars and the ridges of his spine and hips, gripping and pulling, his fingers slipping slightly from nerves and sweat.

 

Will tried to speak, wanted to tell Hannibal everything he was feeling, every angry, bitter, destructive, crazed, desperate, fucked up thought in his head, about how he wanted to stay inside Hannibal, push himself deeper, crawl under his skin, feel his heart in his hand and feel every beat that was for him…

 

Needy moans and heavy panting were all WIll could manage as he mouthed at Hannibal’s exposed cheek and shoulder. He gasped as Hannibal slowed, grinding down on Will, rocking his hips deliciously. He was burning hot. Will felt something wet and cool against his ear, sliding down to his throat. Hannibal started again, riding him hard as he bit down into his tender neck. Will cried out, coming hard, holding Hannibal tight against him as he pressed up, deep. Hannibal squeezed around him, something hot and wet splashing against Will’s stomach as he was milked. The sound Hannibal made was soft and deep, a growl more than a moan.

 

It felt like falling. Diving off the cliff’s edge, free falling with only Hannibal to cling onto the whole time. 

 

They lay panting against one another, holding each other together, hearts hammering as though from one chest. Will had never felt so euphoric, so bone deep satisfied. He closed his eyes, his cheek against Hannibal’s damp hair, breathing him in.

 

Hannibal moves slowly, rolling to the side, his leg over Will’s, holding him close, making sure Will didn’t slip out. Will whimpered, burying close, pressing in. He ran his fingers over the new marks— scratches on his arms and back, red marks on his hips that would soon turn purple and blue, the faint smudge of blood against Hannibal’s lips and cheek. The old faded scar on his wrists. Hannibal touched Will’s old scars and new marks reverently. Will felt desired. He felt beautiful and powerful. He felt…

 

Exhaustion settled into his bones and muscles. He closed his eyes, breathing against Hannibal’s cheek, allowing himself to fall into the madness. He let the darkness consume him entirely. He allowed this man to take him, in every way that was possible, to eat every last shred of control and power and sanity he had in this life, filling himself in those empty spaces. Will smiled. 

 

He didn’t think he’d ever feel at peace with Hannibal—the man was too maddening, too unpredictable and wild and dangerous. There was too much between them, too much anger still festering under Will’s desire and joy at this new life, just enough resistance and rebellion to still want Hannibal's throat purple under his fingers… But Will thought, in this moment, he at least felt a calm over his mind that he welcomed. In this moment, this man was all he had to hold onto to to hold himself together. And if that was love for Will, then it was a beautiful sort of violence.