It's that edge of the bed sex; chests flush and toes curling type of sex that Will likes. Sometimes he wants it slow and gentle, nothing too strenuous but just enough to get him out of his head space. Other times he wants to be fucked like a murder scene, so rough and raw he can't help but think of everything and nothing until he's dizzy and climaxes with a flood of relief. And it's never boring, Hannibal's sex, never feels like a boring fuck reminiscent of cheap motel beds that smell vaguely of tiny bottle shots of vodka and moth balls. No, the sex is like a quiet sigh in the middle of the night, like drowning quietly.
Hannibal's finger fucking him slow and rhythmic, in time to the beat of a heart. It's just two fingers stretching him open, making him pliable, but it's like a freight train collision in Will's mind. The prospect of things to come is making limbs weak, heart ache, and head swim.
He's fucking with the wrong body part, Will thinks. And maybe Hannibal can read minds because he replaces fingers with penis and continues that same damn slow and steady pace.
Will knows Hannibal is toying with him, fucking him with reserve to watch him squirm. Just as Will's about to practically beg for more, Hannibal thrust into him. It's a hard thrust, unrelenting and fast that hits Will's sweet spot and makes stars burst into life in dilated pupils. A cry of surprise and excitement is on Will's tongue, swallowed by rough kiss. It's going to be a murder scene.
There is a thin sheen of sweat building on their bodies. Will grasps Hannibal's arms, nails digging into skin as the doctor hits that tender spot with a rapid pace. It's disgusting, the noises Will makes as the thrusts become harder, like a car hits pedestrian type scene. Will would have utter swears with the intensity of it if he weren't already biting his lip and choking back cries of almost painful pleasure. Because Hannibal's raking manicured nails down Will's side, biting hard into collarbones until skin breaks and he can taste blood.
Will feels like every inch of him is on fire. He's too hot beneath Hannibal, too fragile. He feels like glass encasing high explosives. There's blood running down his shoulder, staining sheets but he doesn't care; it hurts in the best way possible. It's appealing in the way blood spatters at crime scenes are beautiful.
It's all reaching its climax, but Will's not ready to let go. As chaotic and cataclysmic as he feels, he wants to hold on this. He wants Hannibal to stay above him, hands making bruises on his forearms and teeth raking over sensitive skin. Hannibal doesn't have the same idea or maybe he doesn't want Will to hold on. He intertwines their fingers and calls the other's name.
Will presses his lips together as he hears his name called soft but firm, rolling off a tongue that is just as talented as his fingers. And Will grips tighter to their clasped hands as they finish together. His heart hammers in his chest and supernovas appear behind lids squeezed shut. In Will's mind, heaven comes crashing down and hell rises. He's completely undone yet complete as Hannibal kisses eyelids, nose, lips, cheeks, stubbled jaw. He feels worn but new.