Faint, pale scars from bites and teeth scraping along skin multiplying across Will’s body over time, intentionally placed so that clothes can cover them, so that the little claims can be tucked away from unworthy and too-curious eyes. Over the curves of his shoulders, a pec, along the ribs, where Hannibal’s teeth worried at the lines of them beneath the skin. Atop the swoops of Will’s hip bones, his upper calves, the ends of his stomach scar, framing it like a masterpiece. The vee of his hips, his inner thighs, the dip between knee and calf. Will relishes in them all, they’re trophies of his singular ability to survive Hannibal, of Hannibal’s willingness to curb and direct his violence just for him, just as much as they are evidence of love. Scars are the body’s way of making you remember, of telling a story— and they’d prefer to remember every day now, each one spent together, in sync at last. Sometimes Hannibal lets his teeth scrape ever so slightly when he’s servicing Will, and Will rewards him by winding a hand through his hair and pulling him in close. Kisses and breathing in Will’s scent provide a welcome excuse for affectionate nips to the neck or earlobe. Hannibal traces the marks he’s left like a map of the constellations across his beloved’s body whenever Will drifts off to sleep beside him.
