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There were habits - indicators - that should have tipped Will off before he hit his thirties. He had developed a habit in adolescence of tasting his own ejaculate, licking his hand clean instead of finding other ways to tidy himself up. The first time he'd been with another man, he'd been utterly fascinated by the sight of his cock dribbling precome, and nothing had chased away his anxieties and boosted arousal as much as watching someone else's cock while they were coming. Even with the women he'd slept with, he'd had a frankly embarrassing habit of putting his fingers in his own come, wherever it had landed, which at least had satisfied a few of them as he fingered them to orgasm after finishing.
He'd even had a rather embarrassing erection at one crime scene, early in his career, when he'd come across a bed - where the victim had been attacked, he'd had to remind himself - covered in several men's semen.
It shouldn't have been a surprise, really. It was just, like many other things, that much more intense with Hannibal.
He licked his lips, only half-conscious of doing so, in anticipation of the taste of Hannibal's come.
"Will." It sounded half-broken, made Will tear his eyes away from the cock in front of him to look up into Hannibal's face. For all that the man was obviously nearing orgasm - Will could see it in the sweat on his temple, feel it in the trembling of the hand cupping the back of his head - he looked astoundingly composed, his eyes focused, his mouth pressed shut in a fond curve. He hardly had a hair out of place; if someone, in that moment, could have seen him from the neck up, they'd have hardly known how quickly his hand was stripping his own cock, or that he'd had Will's mouth on it only moments before.
He didn't look like a killer in that moment, but he did look powerful. He looked like he was about to get everything he wanted. It wasn't an unusual expression on him, but it sent an electric shiver up Will's spine to know his own face probably looked much the same, if a little more slack-jawed.
Part of him wanted to lean forward again, to take Hannibal's cock into his mouth and taste him and every bit of his come. In doing so, though, he would miss the chance to see it, to get the choice of watching either the jerk of Hannibal's cock as he came or the expression he would wear, to say nothing of missing the feel of it on his face.
And there was the ongoing battle of wills between them, echoed even in sex: Hannibal would not lose his composure, and Will would make Hannibal work for it, every time.
Will's hands curled into fists against his thighs. Sometimes, he wanted so badly to let himself lose.
His knees ached from the hard, cold floor of their kitchen, and his jaw ached from the punishing width of Hannibal's cock. It didn't matter. He licked his lips again, and, as he heard the tiny hitch in Hannibal's breath, saw his mouth fall open just slightly, he leaned forward, letting his mouth open that much wider, and grasped Hannibal's thigh to steady himself.
He wasn't quite sure what it was about Hannibal's come on his tongue that was so much more exciting than anyone else's had ever been. It may have been the taste, but he couldn't bring himself to pick out exactly what may have been different; probably Hannibal could have told him, but he didn't want to ask and risk spoiling the thought.
Maybe that was it - the idea of it. The idea of Hannibal, so uncompromising in so many ways and so willing to give Will exactly what he needed. The idea of tasting a part of a man who had tasted so many others. Perhaps it was even the idea of tasting the effects of human flesh in one's diet.
It didn't really bear thinking about in the moment, though; all that mattered was the drip of it down his chin, the feel of it on his tongue as he held it there, eyes closed and mouth watering uncontrollably. He swallowed it when he thought he might drool, and opened his eyes to look up at Hannibal again.
That needle-sharp focus had him pinned like a butterfly, unable to move his hands from Hannibal's thigh or his own, to attend to his own aching cock, to do anything more than lick at the corner of his mouth. At that, Hannibal let out an unsteady breath, letting go of his cock and brushing his thumb under and over Will's lower lip, into his mouth with another drop of come.
Will sucked at the digit like he'd sucked Hannibal's cock, wanting to get every little taste of come he could. He fought to keep his eyes open, to keep them on Hannibal, but he enjoyed it so much he could hardly help himself.
The moment his eyes were closed, Hannibal moved, pulling Will up by his arms and pressing him against the cupboards. Will's eyes snapped open again, and Hannibal was right there, in his face, breath warming Will's cheek.
"I would kiss you," Hannibal said, sounding almost amused, "but I wouldn't want to deprive you of the taste."
Will didn't care; he rubbed himself through his jeans, sucking the taste of Hannibal off his teeth. When Hannibal stepped back he opened his fly and pushed his pants and boxers down his thighs, immediately stripping his cock with one hand and cupping his balls with the other. Hannibal watched his face, his hands on the counter on either side of him, boxing him in and forcing him to make it a show.
Will let his head tip back, keeping eye contact through half-lidded eyes. He could still feel come on his chin, already turning just a little tacky, and imagining what he had to look like, what Hannibal had to see, made his toes curl in his boots and his hips jerk forward into his fist. He could almost see it: redden lips, spit and come intermingling on his chin and cheek, and that feverish look he knew he got just as he got to the edge of orgasm.
Whether that was what Hannibal was seeing or not, he looked hungry. Not euphemistically. Will had seen an all-too-similar look on his face when he was contemplating eating someone.
Coming felt a little like being shot again, and he only just managed to look down to watch himself in time, cupping his hand to catch as much of it as he could. He missed a little, and the white of it stood out against the black leather of Hannibal's shoe where it landed.
He panted, his back and legs going half-limp, and looked back up at Hannibal's face. They didn't look away from one another as Hannibal took hold of the wrist of his cupped hand, dipping his fingers into the pool of come there and bringing them up to Will's face. He smeared it across Will's lips, and Will couldn't do more than watch him, too wrung out to even close his mouth.
Hannibal went back for more, painting Will's cheekbones and stubble with his own come until there wasn't any left to scoop up.
When he was done, he leaned back, admiring his work approvingly before stepping away. "Dinner will be ready soon."
Will swallowed thickly, coming back to himself, and moved to the sink. A hand at his wrist stopped him.
"Don't wash up."