Will finds himself wondering what it will look like in Hannibal's mind, if Hannibal's mind palace keeps memories pristine like movies, or it if will be cast in a more artistic light, something Hannibal can see from afar or from the center of it, different perspectives and angles, lighting and sound. Will listens to his own breath and Hannibal's as they mingle here, echoing in the bathroom, reedy and heated, the lapping of the water as they stroke each other. In Will's head, the image is clear, Hannibal's expression and Hannibal's voice, the feeling of Hannibal's cock in his hand, hard and hot, like a film, caught in a light tinted by Will's feelings in this exact moment.

Will hums when Hannibal mentions the chemist's, and while his rhythm on Hannibal kicks up a little faster, ready to tip Hannibal over into climax so they can get what they need to continue the evening, Hannibal's pace slows. Will can't help the way he shifts against the motion of Hannibal's hand, chasing the friction, the tone of his soft moans changing to something more frustrated when Hannibal thwarts his every attempt with deft counter movements. He's about to complain (or at least as what Hannibal's doing) when Hannibal poses his question, and Will groans with desire and understanding.

"Restraints," Will begins by way of answer, his own fist slowing, echoing Hannibal's slow, torturous pace. "Tight knots, rough rope, tied down in uncomfortable positions," he goes on, thinking about Hannibal trussed, arms behind his back, caught with a loop around his throat. "Biting," Will adds, breathless now, so intensely aroused. "Clawing, scratching, leaving bruises with my hands, holding so tight."