This is the gayest way to end an episode. How am I not supposed to think that Hannibal is in love with Will? Who caresses someone’s face like that while telling them that they are in awe of who they’re being reborn as???
This was my contribution to @lovecrimebooks‘ Ravage Anthology, as part of the Lust Circle. I was so very delighted for the opportunity to be part of the project and I hope you all will enjoy reading this weird little fic!
Will’s eyes are closed. Beneath, there is movement, flickers and jerks that cause his lashes to flutter, moth-like against his infraorbital margins. Hannibal imagines running his finger along them, imagines their delicate lines folding back like the sensitive leaves of a mimosa pudica as Will opens up to meet his gaze.
Touching, though, is not permitted in this game of theirs.
It would not do to get distracted, in any case. Having swallowed his mouthful, Will’s thoughts must now be carefully directed further along the path Hannibal is so devotedly tending for him. He is so close, now, and yet still he drags his feet, liable at any moment to change direction and snatch himself from Hannibal’s grasp.
Outside, the storm is blowing itself out. Will could leave at any moment, unimpeded by inclemency. Hannibal must hold his attention.
“After my first ortolan, I was euphoric,” he begins, a reminder that Will has no need to fear rejection or failure of understanding, here. “A stimulating reminder of our power over life and death.”
Will’s eyes are downcast, and for a moment Hannibal wonders if he will dissemble, turn the conversation to theory and philosophy, to the distant and impersonal, where he thinks he will be safe.
“I was euphoric when I killed Freddie Lounds.”
But, of course, Will shows his mettle, wielding bluntness like he would a bullet. If he must deal with this, he will cut through Hannibal’s subtleties and lay himself bare between them. Perhaps, even, he is too proud of his first independent kill to speak of it in veiled terms. The thought burns a streak of joy through to Hannibal’s core.
“Tell me,” he says, delight concealed beneath measured interest, “did your heart race when you murdered her?”
Will takes his time to answer, considering before speaking the words in a molasses drawl that slides (flows, oozes) tantalisingly from him. “No, it didn’t.”
