Will's eyelashes flutter closed as Hannibal begins to stroke him through his boxer briefs, and he begins to rub against him from behind, their two bodies moving together, neither one directing the speed or rhythm, falling into a natural cadence all their own. Will knows it's dangerous to relax into this in any manner, but even if he doesn't, Hannibal has every upper hand here. There's no benefit for Will to fighting against his enjoyment of this moment.

He's not surprised to learn that Hannibal will find pleasure in deflowering Will in this way; he's already enjoyed getting inside Will in so many other ways, being the first presence in so many corners of his mind.

He also assumes that Hannibal has more than an inconsequential amount of experience with his, sex with men. Hannibal's not beneath using anything at his disposal when he needs to manipulate a situation, and Alana is evidence enough that sex is one of those tools. Will only wonders how often he's used it with another man, what sorts of things he's done in the name of deception, if he's ever engaged in any of it out of something more pure, like desire, or love.

There's like some of that involved here, at least desire if nothing else. Because this isn't manipulation, it's consummation. Will, with an economy of words, has agreed to belong to Hannibal, and Hannibal is simply claiming what's now his. The extra pressure on the loop of fabric around Will's neck is proof of Hannibal's ownership, a threat, and also a promise. A dizzy, delirious part of Will's brain revels in all of it, the idea that his body and his life, in both the literal and figurative sense, are Hannibal's to do with what he pleases.

"Yes," he groans lowly, equal parts acquiescence and encouragement.