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Problem solving is hunting. It's a savage pleasure, and we are born to it. A pleasure we can share - Hannibal Lecter, Tome Wan
The fire burns his face. He stands there too long, staring into it as if some clue will come singing out, a spark of inspiration to help him find a path through the dark. And it does. It's simple and obvious. He has a bright, pin-sharp vision of Hannibal's open mouth at the moment of orgasm, the moment he willingly loses control at the touch of another. At Will's touch. The images burn like fire into Will's gut, catching him by surprise.
“They were lovers,” he says, turning.
Hannibal is sketching again, his head bent studiously, his hands light and elegant in their small motions. His back is to Will, and the vulnerable stretch of fabric over his shoulder blades has never looked so tempting. Will wants to reach out and touch it. Touch it with the sharpest blade he can find, sink it into that tender spot and hear Hannibal's moan. Hannibal stops drawing, stilling completely.
“They were. I find it interesting that you mention it at this juncture.”
“It seems... relevant. To us.” He watches Hannibal turn to him. The pencil and knife have been laid side by side next to his drawing.
“Are you suggesting we should become lovers?” Hannibal speaks calmly, as if the idea is just another one of the philosophical notions that he likes to kick around. Will has to close his eyes for a second, steadying himself.
“I don't want to be your lover. I want to kill you.”
“Isn't sex the closest we get to killing another, without actually killing them?”
“Most people wouldn't see it like that.”
Hannibal lifts his chin. A tiny flick of his tongue over his lower lip, either arousal or calculation, it is impossible to say. “We aren't most people.”
“No, we aren't.” Will steps closer, and Hannibal stands to meet him. Will comes close, stopping only when they're nearly chest to chest, when Hannibal is backed up against his drawing table with nowhere to go. Hannibal has a small height advantage, a slight weight advantage. His breathing has quickened, Will notices, and his pupils are dilated. He's gazing at Will, his features softened by warm light. Will has never seen him look so vulnerable, as if Will's next word or movement will make him fly apart. It's an interesting turning of the tables
“I could take you,” Will says. He leans past Hannibal to pick up the scalpel, and then he holds it to Hannibal's throat, in the same place, just below the chin, the tiny blade flat to the carotid.
Hannibal doesn't move, but his throat flexes as he swallows. “Would it excite you to feel me twist and struggle underneath you?”
Will closes his eyes, feeling hot blood spatter his face, drinking in the iron tang of it. “Yes, it would.” He pushes the flat of the blade against Hannibal's neck. “Take down your pants and shorts.”
Hannibal looks, for one second, appalled. Then he closes his eyes. Will has a powerful urge to kiss him, to bruise his lips and wet his mouth. “Here?”
“I don't want to wait.”
Will can feel the faint kinetic energy in his arm as Hannibal swallows again, pushing himself against the blade. “I don't want to make you wait.”
His pulse starts to thump as he watches Hannibal undo his belt and unbutton himself. That's not all he does. He unbuttons his waistcoat, fingers moving quickly, and then unloops his tie and undoes his shirt, so that suddenly his torso is bared from thighs to chest. Will has never seen another man naked in this way, his body so clearly offered up. Hannibal's cock is soft, his thighs strong and hard. Will runs a hand down one of them, watching his own fingers caress the skin, and hears his own breath coming sharply through his nose. He lays the knife down on the edge of the desk
“Turn around.”
Hannibal's gaze lingers on him, and then he obeys, and once he's turned he stands still, as if waiting for guidance. There's that vulnerable space between his shoulder blades again, waiting for Will's touch. He places his hand flat on it and pushes. Hannibal leans forward. His shirt rides up and his pants sag further, and he is exposed utterly.
Will's mouth is dry, and he has to struggle to form words, but his mind is clear, and his heart is pounding with things he can't even identify anymore. It could be love or anger, desire or terror. He runs his palms over Hannibal's ass. It's firm like the rest of him. He pulls it apart with his thumbs, sees the tiny pink hole squeeze in response.
“Can you take it just with spit?”
Hannibal half turns his head, so that Will can see his profile. His voice is rough, almost choked. “For you, yes.”
Hannibal's drawing is underneath them. Will stares at the creamy white edge of it for a few seconds, the contrast of it against Hannibal's thighs. He slides his hands up under Hannibal's shirt, spreading his palms over the broad expanse of skin, spanning across the width of it.
“If you were a dog I'd have to put you down.”
He pulls his hands away and drags open his zipper, taking his cock out. He's hard, has been since Hannibal undressed, and he guides it to rub over Hannibal's hole. There's slick fluid on the head, and it helps. He hears Hannibal's harsh out-breath and he rubs harder, grinding in a little.
“Do you believe animals are so irredeemable?” Hannibal says. His profile is still half turned to Will, and his gaze is cast down.
“They don't get the concept, so it's pointless to even try. Unlike humans. Most humans.” He spits on his fingers and touches Hannibal's opening. It's hot, burning hot as he slides a fingertip inside. He pushes in hard, and Hannibal's broken moan sets his blood on fire.
Hannibal has curled his fingers over the edge of the desk. His finger joints are white from strain. “You can't redeem me, Will.”
“Have you forgotten what we just talked about, Dr Lecter? I want to kill you, not help you.” He spits again, smearing it on his cock, and starts to push into Hannibal's body. “Do you know how many times I've imagined ending your life,” he says, as he sinks in. “The last time was right here in this office. You watched me.”
Hannibal drops his head, letting it hang. He's the image of submission. His hands tighten on the wood. “Did your fantasies include sex?”
“Never. Does that disappoint you?”
Will leans down, weight fully on Hannibal, crushing him to the desk, and he slides an arm under Hannibal's throat, yanking his head back. Hannibal's eyes flicker closed, and his body lets Will inside in a long slow hard slide. Hannibal moans his name. He sounds like he's dying.
Will shoves home, feels Hannibal flinch and twist to get away. It's what he wants, to a truly alarming degree. Will can't breathe, as if he's the one with his airway choked. He pulls out and pushes in again, and Hannibal gives him what he wants.
He watches Hannibal's parted lips, their fullness and wetness, and he wants to fuck and bite and tear. How far will Hannibal acquiesce? He pushes his nose to Hannibal's hair and begins to thrust into him hard. Hannibal begins to moan, and to move, to struggle more, and it's so good. So good. So perfect that he loses it for a second, terror rushing through him like an orgasm. He presses his cheek to Hannibal's hair, inhaling to get the scent of him. Something light and clean above the heavy animal scent of them both. He tightens his arm, crushing himself to Hannibal. Hannibal drags at his arm with his fingers, nails digging in.
“I'm going to choke you. Fuck the life out of you. Maybe I'll snap your neck.” He presses his mouth to Hannibal's cheek, and Hannibal turns as much as he can to find his lips. They are slick, hot, and the brief wet sliding touch isn't enough. “Aren't you going to ask me how that makes me feel, Dr Lecter?”
Hannibal strains against him. He can't breathe properly, and his nails are leaving dark red crescents on Will's skin. “Tell me. Please. Will.”
He snakes a hand down between Hannibal's thighs. They're pressed hard to the desk edge, biting into him. It must hurt, and he's so hard that Will can feel the thick pulse of blood when he squeezes. His cock is a slippery mess of precome in Will's hand, wet and leaking. The paper pulls and skids under his knuckles. The memory of cracking bone jumbles with his own heartbeat, and he sees the moment Hannibal snapped Mason's neck. His thrusts slow, then still, and he tightens his grip, reliving it. His balls tighten. Hannibal is too hot, too tight, and he's still now too, reading Will. Will slides his fingers into Hannibal's hair, twisting his fingers hard, yanking his head further back. He drinks in Hannibal's strangled moan.
“How many of your victims have you shown mercy to?” Will asks, mouth to his ear.
“Some of them deserved mercy,” Hannibal says, half gasping.
“Do you think you do? Should I show you mercy?”
“No.” Hannibal's lips are parted ecstatically, his lids heavy with their pale lashes. “I'd like to die like this.”
“Fuck. Christ.” He begins to move again, his heart pounding. It would only take one small movement to end this, one twist of cartilage and bone. “I'm not going to kill you. You know why?”
“No.” The word is more of an erotic sigh than actual speech.
He shoves his hand down to take Hannibal's cock. It slides hot and slick across his palm. Hannibal moves in erratic thrusts, seeking more touch, more contact. Will loosens his grip, and Hannibal's choked moan is almost painful in its desperation. “I'm not going to give you what you want,” Will says. “Do you think we could be lovers? Would we kill together? Is that what you want?”
Hannibal is silent. The veins at his temples are swollen. Will's palm is soaked, and if he tried to get any deeper into Hannibal's body he would truly hurt him. He contemplates it, and has to press his face into the dell between Hannibal's shoulders.
“I want to see you,” Will says. “I want to see.”
“What do you want to see?” Hannibal's voice is thick and slurred. Every inch of Will's skin is on fire; this isn't sustainable. Hannibal's body is wet with sweat, Will's sliding against him. They are burning together.
“The shape of your mouth when you come. The look in your eyes when you kill. And you want to show me.”
Hannibal turns his head to find Will's mouth, straining to reach him. Soft breathless kisses that Will didn't expect, but that he drinks down. Literally breathless, when Will tightens his arm, winding harder around him. “Show me how you kill.”
Hannibal arches back against him, his mouth falling open. “Yes.” It's an orgasmic moan, and he's clenching tight around Will, painfully tight, every muscle stiffening. Warmth pulses over Will's palm. Under them, Will's knuckles skid and tear through soaked paper.
Hannibal goes limp in his arms. Will pulls back, stares down at him, and his orgasm rushes up from Hell. Hannibal is unconscious. A simile of death, and it answers a need in Will, a need that has always been there. He clutches Hannibal's hips convulsively, pulling him close as he trembles on the cusp of something terrible. He has to choose a side.
He stills, and checks for Hannibal's pulse, strokes his hair back from his face and studies his closed eyes and slack mouth. He leans down, kissing it softly, and comes with his forehead pressed to Hannibal's neck. Paper is crumpled underneath them, the drawing gone.