#lustcannibalism

[callmeizukunotdeku]

best part about tumblr is when lustcannibalism, willgrahamscock, and hanniballecterscock are all online at the same time and you get to watch them all jerk off to each other on your dash

[willgrahamscock]

#boomerang boyfriend

[orpheuslament]

“few limits” is crazy Benson no last name but real. Also these are great genders on here

man it works way too well 🚬🙂‍↔️ benson nolastname probably knows every single seedy cruising spot in that fuckass town like the palm of his hand

[lustcannibalism]

[mwoahx]

[mwoahx]

[mwoahx]

He is in fact will do it again.

[petrowriting]

…out of lust. (of course)

“Bones and all?”

Hannibal smiles, inclining his head as he glances briefly at the small dead bird slicked with glaze pinched between his own fingers before looking back at Will. It smells of liquor and burned flesh, and it makes his mouth flood with saliva.

“Bones and all,” he says.

Slowly, without looking away from Hannibal Will lifts the ortolan to his mouth, parting his lips wide enough to set the bird onto his tongue before closing them around it, crushing it between his teeth. It gives way between his predator’s jaws, exploding onto his palate in a burst of flavor, sweet and smokey and bitter and bright. The bird’s body is a delicate, brittle thing, its skin soaked in liquor and ever so slightly charred from the fire that had licked it clean.

Its bones are less so, snapping and splintering between his teeth as he chews, a delicate, macabre symphony of the mastication of bone and sinew and flesh. The sharp edges slice across the insides of his cheeks and tongue, blood welling up at the lacerations and flooding his mouth with the taste of brine and copper. It serves only to make the flavors seeping from the ortolan leap out brighter and clearer, even as the pulsing, breathing cavern of his mouth throbs and aches.

His fingers feel sticky. He swallows the kinetic explosion of debauched taste and flavor on his tongue, feeling it crawl down his throat and leave behind the taste of blood just as Hannibal lifts his own ortolan to his lips, tongue darting out to wet them before he takes it into his mouth.

Will’s eyes devour the sight of him as he eats more ravenously than his teeth had sunk into the yielding flesh of the songbird, darting over every flutter of his lashes as his eyes close and every movement of his jaw as he chews, every crunch of bone between his teeth as the bird in its one last act of fruitless rebellion slices open the mouth of the beast that consumes it.

It feels like sin to watch him, the twitches of pleasure that flit across his face and the bulge in his throat as he swallows, the way his lips part afterwards as if to chase the taste of it in the air. His eyes open, muted slices of bronze in the soft orange firelight, hazy and clouded as if he were emerging from a deep trance.

They drift to Will a moment later, and whatever words were perched on the edge of his tongue seem to take flight and desert him, leaving the air between them thickening, festering with silence.

A rite of passage, Hannibal had called the songbirds. A gateway into some new world of beauty and horror, desire and reciprocation, understanding and acceptance. Lush and ripe, sweet on his tongue and warm in his belly.

Hannibal’s lips are still ever so slightly parted. Will knows the space beyond is as wounded as his own, that this rite of passage maimed him even as he swallowed it whole. He wonders how Hannibal’s blood tastes. He wonders how it would feel pooling on his tongue, how it would feel running down his throat.

He is standing before regret and hesitation have a chance to caution him, the sound of his chair scraping backward abnormally loud in the swollen quiet between them. Hannibal does not move, nor does he speak, merely watching Will as he steps around the length of the table that separates them, his feet stuttering to a halt directly in front of him.

Hannibal’s face is upturned towards his, a repentant sinner come crawling back to his God to confess and beg for atonement. But Hannibal does not beg, nor does he atone. He only offers what he can and takes his share, whether it’s been given freely or not. Will is willing to take his own, to throw everything he has in this fool’s bargain, no matter the cost.

He does not kneel. He bends instead, a helianthus twisting away from the sun and towards the shadow that it knows cannot nourish it, and sets his mouth to Hannibal’s as though he were a well of clear water and Will a man clutched by impossible, unquenchable thirst.

Hannibal cranes up to meet him, hands clutching at his shoulders and his back and his hair to drag him down closer, responding to Will’s hunger in kind, the well in turn yearning to swallow the man drinking from it into its inky depths. Desperate for a taste of him Will doesn’t allow him more than a moment, tilting his head before plunging his tongue into the hot, sweet hollow of his mouth.

A breathy sound wells up between his lips and spills into Will’s, his hands tightening on his shoulders as Will licks across the cuts the bird’s bones had drawn into the fleshy, slick skin, coaxing out the taste of him and laving his tongue over it once it spills out at his demand. It’s impossibly rich, decadent and vibrant as he swallows it down as greedily as he had the ortolan.

Hannibal’s own tongue prods insistently at the healing cuts inside Will’s mouth, bent as he always is on reciprocity. They share mouthfuls of blood and breath, something almost like sin lingering between their lips as they break apart slow and unhurried, a single iridescent thread of bloody saliva connecting their slack, sated mouths.

Hannibal reaches up, swiping a careful thumb across his mouth to break it, eyes unfocused and hazy as they flick over his face. Something settles there, something that looks curiously like understanding. As if the gesture is weighed down by a century’s worth of thought he draws his hands away and leans back, tongue wetting his lips as though to preserve the flavor of Wills mouth there.

Knowing tricks and manners Will straightens, taking a step back, and slowly makes his way back to his chair on the other side of the table. The silver of the fork and knife are cold against his palm, and when he licks his lips, he can still taste Hannibal on them.

They finish the rest of their meal in silence.