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Hannibal wonders, once again, why Will continues to choose such warm climates for them. He dislikes the feeling of perspiration, ever present these days, across his brow, gathering at the base of his neck. He despises humidity, how it takes every offending scent and compounds it, how it makes everything feel sticky.
The window is open, but it matters very little, especially with Will lying across his chest. The silk sheets under them only serve to make the heat worse, the fabric of the pillow damp and uncomfortable.
Will makes a fussy noise in his sleep, and blindly grasps for Hannibal's free arm -the one that isn't beneath Will's body, devoid of proper circulation- and pulls, forcing Hannibal to roll further toward him to wrap the limb around Will's back.
Will smiles, a small, sweet, sleepy and unconscious thing. He burrows deeper into Hannibal's chest, utterly unbothered by the temperature.
He's so free with Hannibal's body these days, moving him how he likes, using Hannibal for his comfort or pleasure, or both. Never asking permission, just taking what he pleases. If Hannibal could, he'd put the feeling it gives him into composition, but nothing has seemed adequate so far.
Another intense wave of heat hits Hannibal and he sighs into Will's hair, wishing for sleep or a rush of Arctic breeze. Or death. Death would be a reprieve.
Will touches Hannibal's thigh, softly at first, then rougher with intent, pulling Hannibal's leg over his own, until he's entirely covered by Hannibal's looming, overheated, sweaty weight.
Hannibal smothers another sigh, tracing Will's spine with gentle fingertips, silent as the grave until Will falls deeply asleep once more. He doesn't dare move an inch.
**
"Fuck," Will hisses through clenched teeth, pressing his palm flat against the wood above him. "Stay right there, don't move."
Hannibal doesn't. Doesn't even breathe. Oxygen is wholly secondary to the feast laid out before him; Will, on his belly, propped up on one elbow, using the headboard for leverage as he rolls his body back onto Hannibal's cock.
"God, that's-" Will cuts himself with a deep groan, his forehead digging into the pillow beneath him.
Hannibal's thighs burn from the position he's holding, and he aches to bend forward and taste a particular drop of moisture that's slowly working its way down Will's shoulder blade. But he doesn't. He stays still.
He does, however, moan when he feels the clench of muscle around him, knowing Will is close. He does, however, watch as Will thrusts himself backward, harder and harder still, his spine bowing pleasingly.
" Fuck , you're gonna make me come."
Hannibal's cock twitches, and Will growls, grinding down hard as his orgasm starts, his body tightening rhythmically. Beautiful, tortuous beyond words as Hannibal fights to keep himself steady as he was bid, refusing to let his eyes slip shut and miss Will in the thick of his pleasure.
Will's moans fade into a whimper and he finally stills, body falling limp to the bed, sated. Then his warmth leaves Hannibal, has Hannibal's cock slapping against his stomach obscenely, forcing a rather undignified groan from his throat.
"Will."
"I got you," Will says quietly, turning around to mirror Hannibal's position now, on his knees and pressing a gentle kiss to Hannibal's panting mouth.
His semen-sticky hand wraps around Hannibal's rigid cock, and the debauched act twists heat through Hannibal's organs.
"So hard for me, love," Will whispers against his lips, stroking and thumbing the leaking slit with precision. "You gonna come all over me?"
"Yes," Hannibal sighs, the tell-tale signs of his orgasm rushing down into the pit of his stomach.
But Will -cruel and monstrous and glorious- fists the base of Hannibal's erection, stopping Hannibal's climax painfully.
"Wait," Will croons, dragging his lips over Hannibal's jaw, up to his ear, back to his mouth. "Not yet."
Hannibal grinds his teeth, clutching at Will's forearm as his stomach clenches, unable to stop the jerky, aborted movement of his hips. He feels overwrought, a savage, smothering heat climbing from his toes up, up, stifling his capability to breathe properly. Will is watching him intently, adoringly, and that doesn’t help. Hannibal isn’t sure what he’s waiting for, what Will is wanting to see, yet he doesn’t push Will’s hand away and chase his own pleasure.
He waits, aching terribly, pressing his forehead to Will’s cheek. Heart pounding, as it so often does these days. Waits. Waits. Until he can’t any further because his lungs may seize forever if he doesn’t feel relief.
“Darling, please,” Hannibal begs quietly, shameless in his need, nearly pitching forward when his stubbornly human legs try to give out.
Will catches him, a soft, stunning smile on his face when he says, “there you go, love,” and slides his sticky hand up the length of Hannibal’s cock, finally, finally , stroking quickly.
Hannibal doesn’t shout but it’s a near thing, his voice breaking on a moan pressed into Will’s damp shoulder as he comes. Will is whispering praise and Hannibal wishes the blood in his ears would stop roaring long enough for him to hear it properly.
He needs to change the sheets, clean himself up, draw Will a bath, start preparing dinner. Then Will maneuvers him until his head rests in Will’s lap, gentle fingers separating Hannibal’s sweat-soaked hair, and none of those things seem very important anymore.
**
Hannibal still enjoys Tattle Crime. Of course he does, at least sixty percent of her stories now are some wild theory about Hannibal and Will’s survival, where they might be, anonymous tips that Hannibal has sent in himself.
He’s reading one of the aforementioned articles when he feels a solid weight drop onto the sofa next to him, the tablet neatly plucked from his hands and set aside.
“May I help you?”
Will grins, just an upward tilt of his lips, happy. Content. Hannibal wants to eat his heart.
“Mhmm.”
Will doesn’t explain further, just strips his shirt off, flinging it across the room
intentionally
,
and flips over onto his stomach, resting his head on Hannibal’s thigh. He manages to grab the tablet from by his feet and pass it back to Hannibal, settling in without a care in the world.
Hannibal spends the next eighty-six minutes scratching Will’s back and pretending to read Tattle Crime. Happy. Content.
**
“You promised you’d gut it next time.”
There’s a warm thrill that shoots down Hannibal’s spine every time Will refers to their
victims
as an object. Not a person. Nothing to waste empathy on. Hannibal wants to be the entire focus of that particular blade, sharp and unforgiving and beautifully brutal.
“Disemboweling doesn’t fit the tableau we’ve planned, darling.”
Will just arches his eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest. “You promised.”
Hannibal pauses, exhales, and recalculates.
When the scene is set, the pig’s heart (not kidneys because Will is a savage) safely packed in the cooler, they exit the warehouse, walking side by side. Hannibal feels a nudge against his arm, and then another, before he relents and presses his palm low against Will’s back, searching his mind for a viable option that would allow him to crawl inside of Will’s pleased sigh and live there until his death.
**
It’s hot again. It’s always hot, since Will won’t allow Hannibal to have a proper air conditioning unit installed. Stifling, suffocating, moist and miserable.
Will pulls Hannibal’s arm across his stomach, snuggling back against his chest, groggily whispering, “love you. Let’s have those crepes for breakfast again.”
Hannibal closes his eyes and challenges any man, deity or force of nature to try to take this from him. Sweltering heat and all.