Even the touch of the man is on it's own incredibly profound and intense, and Hannibal finds himself moaning softly, deeply affected both physically and emotionally. He reaches out to clasp Will's cock in turn, to match him stroke for stroke, with a slight twist to his wrist that brings his thumb over Will's tip with every upstroke. His eyes remain on Will's, and he smiles as his lover shares his thoughts and feelings on the two of them going out into the world as a couple, not hiding their love like some shameful secret. Perhaps it would draw undue attention. Perhaps it would catch the eye of the law, of Jack Crawford in particular. Hannibal has never been one to live his life in fear of anyone, nor is he one to deny beauty. When he kills, he creates, he displays. True, he does not make it overtly obvious that he is the artist, in the same way that many masters in the Renaissance did not sign their work. He protects himself while still sharing his genius with the world. But this is not a murder. This is a deep bond that deserves to be honored instead of hidden.

That deserves a place of honor in his mind palace.

"Yes," he breathes, his own stroke quickening. "I have no doubt it will become one of my most treasured memories. And as such deserves to be done with proper reverence." He considers for a moment. "There's a chemist's down the street. They should have what we require."

He slows his hand, the motions becoming something of a tease, giving Will's cock less stimulation than Will likely needs at this point, not letting the arousal fade, but refusing to satisfy it either. "Tell me, Will," he purrs. "How would you incorporate pain?"