That sob is a thing of incredible beauty, Will so overcome by pleasure that he was unable to hold it back, and Hannibal remembers it, and makes a mental note to draw more sobs out of his lover, from now until the moment they are parted, likely by the death of one or both of them. Then Will thrusts, and it is so perfect that Hannibal hums in pleasure, the corners of his mouth, already stretched out around the base of his lover's cock, draw back just a little more. He raises his hands and grips Will's buttocks. Much like Will's initial grip on Hannibal's hair, the intention is not to control. Rather it is an affirmation, that what Will is doing is perfect, that Hannibal is continuing to surrender to his lover's motions.

Hannibal's own cock is throbbing, aching between his legs, untended, and there is certainly the strong temptation to let one of his hands drop down so he can touch himself, find some release from the sweet agony. But he does not, waiting to see what Will shall do, finding pleasure in allowing his lover that control.

Will's cock is deep enough in Hannibal's throat that another, less talented man might gag. Instead, Hannibal swallows, his tongue and throat muscles rippling along Will's length. Any further and Will may cut off Hannibal's airways, which has its own enticements. Hannibal looks up at Will, waiting, challenging.