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The flesh of Bedelia Du Maurier’s left leg still tasted like freedom and victory in Will’s mouth, even if his sense of taste had been dulled with the permanent damage done to his mouth, to his face, the same damage that made it difficult, near-impossible to speak with words. So he spoke much more with action, with gazes, his agreement to his beloved’s suggestions given by simply Doing.
There was little if any dissonance left in the sins he now allowed himself to indulge in with Hannibal Lecter, especially after slaying the dragon together, rending him asunder with tooth and dagger, his spilt and spit blood a pact of their ever sealing bond. Throwing them both over the bluff had been a final test of the universe’s fondness for their spite and they’d both survived.
Bedelia was still seated at the table with them. Will made eye contact with her. He could tell she was trying to avoid looking at his heavily scarred face. Not out of fear, though. She was past fear, beyond dread. She was dead behind her eyes and had accepted her fate. Really, she should have known better a long time ago that her hesitant, undevoted mingling with the Devil could only end in damnation. She likely just couldn’t stand the visible reminder of his triumph and her loss. She had pretended to love Hannibal Lecter for survival, and now she would not be permitted to survive, a slow feast made from her foolishness. Will was a fool himself, but he at least had on his side the favor of being a fool, truly and deeply, for Hannibal Lecter, his devotion a weapon, a trophy wielded by them both in conjoined, blood-stained hands.
After they were all finished eating, Bedelia having barely flinched at being made to consume herself as much as she had already endured, Will and Hannibal left her sitting there as they cleared the table.
They left her sitting there as they caught one another’s eyes over a paring knife at the counter just a room over from the dining area.
Will gazed up into Hannibal’s face, marked by a less severe smattering of smaller scars as well as age. Hannibal lifted a hand to Will’s cheek, smiled with his eyes, pools of maroon flecked with red gleaming with playful desire.
Will’s hand dragged across the counter and caressed the blade of the knife, pressing his fingers against its edge with just enough pressure to draw a single droplet of blood from the puncture of skin.
He raised an eyebrow at his beloved, who drew in a shuddering breath. Will drew his own finger towards his mouth, dragged the small pearl of blood into the corner of his mouth that was undamaged enough to smile, and smile he did, crooked and asking.
“Taip prašau, Mylimasis”, Hannibal uttered his consent in his mother tongue, sharply rolled r’s and clipped consonants and throaty vowels, his voice low and guttural and sensual as he grabbed both Will’s hand and the knife, pressing their chests closer, their noses practically brushing, the scent of herb and flesh still lingering on their breaths and mingling with the scent of their own skin and the blood upon Will’s mouth.
Will felt his own desire warm and heady in between his legs, and the sensation tipped towards full arousal when Hannibal reached up and wrapped long fingers around Will’s throat, the other hand that possessed both Will’s own hand and the knife twisting both towards the iota of space between their chests and faces, the blade glinting and sharp and dangerous right near the skin of both their chins, already marked by Will’s blood. The thought and wonder of whose blood between the two of them would stain it next excited him.
Will pressed Hannibal’s back against the counter. He guided their joint, knife-wielding hands downwards, his other hand grabbing the front of the older man’s neatly pressed shirt and tearing roughly at the opening, popping the buttons and straining the fabric as he pulled until the shirt hung open and ruined like a curtain around his tanned and well-built chest. He felt Hannibal drive a knee between his legs, and Will grunted at the friction, the pressure of his chino pants tight against his already-throbbing clitoris. Will aimed their knife towards Hannibal’s left pectoral, blade nearly touching the hairy skin there as he tilted his head again to the side, asking.
“Mon Coeur, you may do whatever you wish.”
Will pressed. The blade sunk first against the muscled flesh, and then sunk into it, just enough to break the skin open into a cut. Hannibal gasped, his hand moving from Will’s neck to grab at his curls, fingers tightening around them at the nape of his neck as the blade drew blood. Will withdrew the knife, Hannibal’s grip around it now considerably loosened, laid it aside and instead pressed two of his fingers at either side of Hannibal’s newly opened wound, pulling the edges just slightly apart and causing blood to fall from their pearled gathering and spill more freely.
“I must take you now, my dear,” Hannibal breathed out, commanding and hushed simultaneously. Will nodded, clear and enthusiastic.
He gasped as he found himself pushed towards the floor, Hannibal straddled above him, his blood-smeared chest gleaming with sweat in the warm light of the kitchen. The older man pressed himself to Will, both of their legs still clothed, and Will ground himself upwards into him. Hannibal placed his hands onto Will’s chest, strong fingers pulled at the hem of his shirt, snaking his hands under and onto the skin of his abdomen, running along the huge, jagged and numb scar there.
He then gripped Will’s shirt and tore it open, needy and aggressive, and took a moment to peer in admiration over the pale, scarred flesh of his torso, running thumbs reverently under the twin scars beneath Will’s pectorals. Will stared undaunted and devoted back up at him.
The older man bent himself down at the chest, arms moving to grip tightly at Will’s toned biceps, holding him down. Will’s eyes rolled back, heat rushing through his core to his limbs as Hannibal’s soft hair brushed against his face, felt teeth glance the flesh between his neck and shoulder, before pressing and crushing down into a full bite. He drew in a debauched moan as he felt the vessels beneath his skin burst, and then the skin itself gave under the clamp of teeth and drew warm and running blood down his shoulder.
Will ground faster against Hannibal, feeling his beloved’s dick stiff and shuddering against his own throbbing clit, both about to give and burst, the fabric of their underwear and pants both already damp with pre-release. Will bent his arms at the elbows, his biceps still pinned down, and grasped Hannibal’s forearms, digging his nails in enough to scrape loose a layer of epidermis under his force.
When Hannibal’s tongue found its way into the bite wound he had made, Will was finished. He gasped, his body convulsing and shuddering under the euphoric force of orgasmic pleasure, his mind melting and thoughts ceasing completely. Hannibal came at the same time above him, nearly collapsing as his pleasure released wet and warm between them, soaking their clothes. Hannibal lowered himself to lay against Will’s chest, and their chests heaved together to catch their breath, both of them bloody and debauched and ruined and loved.
Hannibal’s voice spoke quietly and raspy against Will’s ear after a bit. “I hope she heard the entire thing,” he said, obviously referring to Bedelia still seated, immobile, just barely half a wall of separation.
Will wheezed soft, triumphant laughter against Hannibal, squeezing his beloved’s hand in agreement as they simply lay there on the floor for a little bit longer, basking in the warm, loose-limbed aftermath of euphoria.