Hannibal sucks in a breath as Will's mouth finds that spot, then tilts back his head, closes his eyes, and sighs the breath out as his lover makes his mark. Hannibal doesn't see it, but he knows knows the shape of it intimately as his skin throbs from Will's attentions. Later that night he would doubtless marvel at the color of the mark, the beautiful bloom of blood beneath the skin, and for long after the bruise fades the shape of it will remain in his mind and soul.

As Will removes the rest of Hannibal's clothing, Hannibal again moves only enough to enable him. He watches his lover's every move, his eyes sparkling, a knowing smile on his face. Everything Will does, every heated breath, every denied touch, is perfect torture, and Hannibal is deeply enjoying every single moment. When Will goes still, eyes locked on Hannibal's, Hannibal's smile widens, his eyes dark, his breath heavy, his pulse fluttering in his carotid. He yearns to reach out, to grab his lover, tear his clothes off, drag him down on the bed and fuck him right there, right then. It would be glorious.

But he stays still, denies himself, because this, what they are doing together, is a million times better.

When Will touches his cheek, breaking the stillness, Hannibal closes his eyes as he takes a single, shivery breath, the simple contact releasing a rush of endorphins. He opens his eyes again, his pupils wide, dark and fathomless, and does not move to return the touch, however much he longs to. He is waiting for some sign from Will, and when Will makes his request, Hannibal's smile deepens. Without breaking his intense gaze, Hannibal lifts his hands to Will's shirt, and slowly undoes them, one by one. Once the shirt is unbuttoned, he draws it open and pulls it off Will's shoulders, down his arms, and lets it fall to the floor. Then, slowly, his eyes always on Will's, he slides to his knees and begins to unbuckle his lover's belt.