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#Hannigram
🔥 Hannibal's altar 🔥
On Will's body, Hannibal has built his Altar. A God worshipped only by him, whose existence is worth any sacrifice. A cruel God he knows perfectly well he is, a God with human form and eyes the colour of the sky.
- God feels powerful - he tells him, Will sitting across from him.
In his Mind Palace, Hannibal naked, blood sliding down his body. Will is the culprit, his God. It is his to whom it belongs, or rather where it flows from. The union of two hearts under the gaze of a symbol that does not represent Hannibal. For they are in the chapel of Palermo.
- I did not make you a believer, Dr. Lecter. Quite the opposite.
Hannibal fixes his eyes on him, his mind focused on Will's pleasure-seeking thrusts. A slight blush tinges his cheeks.
- Talking about God doesn't make me a believer, Will. I'm just saying out loud what he thinks too: that he's not merciful, but unjust. God's justice, ironically enough. Do you believe?
Will leans forward as Hannibal closes his eyes in that damned chapel. The candlelights reflect his non-human body, or is it Will's, out of the chrysalis at last, coming to terms with himself? Hannibal's gasps, along with the young man's, flood the ears of the divine sculptures.
- I believe in what I see. In what I do.
- Do you not believe that God's actions, like human actions, are imperfect?
- Do you compare yourself to him?
- Actually, I'm comparing you, Will. You feel lost, your daydreaming, your running away in your own mind. And he shouldn't. Does God's hand tremble when a flood washes away hundreds of lives? Our actions are not to be judged, any more than theirs are.
Hannibal is silent. Will's lips on his, sharing the taste of blood. His hands on his hips, encouraging him to go faster. Will's cock between them and the sight of desire at its peak reflected in the candle flame.
- Admire yourself for what you are, Will. Rise above the social norms that hold you in chains. Imagine what it would be like to be free.
- What about consciousness?
- A modified trait. Don't think of it as objective, Will, when you think you think not for yourself but for dozens of people who have guided you to what you believe is your own voice. It takes some willpower to modify it.
He leans back in his chair, his hands clasped over his trousers. His name repeated in her ear, Will's teeth on her neck, on the verge of orgasm.
- I don't feel rejection for what has happened. I don't feel pity.
- Good. Because what he's done is a work of art. And, as such, it should be worshipped.
Hannibal parts his lips. His tongue, tracing Will's, etching into it his feelings. A slight gasp in his office.
- What's on your mind, doctor?
- Palermo. There's a chapel, on the ground the only sign of mortality. In it life meets death, and you are the living image of a God in his prime. I can only adore you, Will.
- Hannibal....
The climax in the chapel, the embrace between the two and the blood in their senses. Hannibal's dirty trousers, Will's hungry gaze.
- Would you like to come to Palermo with me, Will?
- To... worship me there? Yes, Dr. Lecter. I want to fuck you in that damn chapel.
