WILL GRAHAM: LIPS PARTED, PANTING, HOT PUFFS OF AIR AND SWEAT BUDDING ON THE TIP OF HIS NOSE. IT DRIPS — BUT HE ISN'T PAYING ATTENTION TO IT. EYES ARE ON HIS HANDS, HOW THE BLOOD DRAINS FROM THE PRESS OF HIS FINGERS INTO HANNIBAL'S NECK. SQUEEZE, SQUEEZE. HIPS QUAKE, CLENCH. HE KNOWS HE'S BREATHING TOO QUICKLY, BECOMING FRANTIC INSIDE, BUT IT'S NOT ENOUGH — HE WANTS THE TIPS OF HIS FINGERS TO BORE INTO THE DOCTOR'S SKIN.
there's pressure around his neck, gradually tightening. the warmth and strength of will's hand in such a vulnerable spot -- a place he has wanted to get his hands on for months, now. his breath narrowly escapes with each inhale and exhale; providing a less than adequate flow of oxygen. it isn't enough to kill him him, even though the hand on his throat still seems to flirt with the idea; but it is enough to crate a sense of exquisite dizziness. that alone would be a beautiful indulgence, but with wil taking what he wants from hannibal, beautiful and feral above him, he is all but euphoric.
a flush of red across his skin, lips parted and pupils blown wide as he drinks in the sight of will graham, seemingly caught half in pleasure, half in fury. his hand hands tied behind his back, curling and uncurling with the desire to touch, to possess -- and the burning want beneath his skin, pooling in his groin every time will sinks back down on him. he may as well be the righteous god seeking revenge. taking what he feel's he is due. hannibal's breath; his cock; his sanity. the wet clench of his body is as divine as it is torturous, after all. he is not insane, but @tastles had a way of driving him to a kind of madness all the same. folie à deux.
❝ harder, will. ❞ voice raspy and low, caught between the wrathful hands of the lamb. ❝ you can take more. ❞ more of his breath, more of his cock or sense of self -- he does not specify. does not need to. whatever will wants, is his.
