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(A lovely preview of what to expect by @ninayoshi / @dancydancyrevolution!)
There is a shadow, prowling around the other end of the dining room. Will does not sit – to sit means he's too comfortable, to place himself at any of the chairs means he's accepted his position and his fate as one of Hannibal's changed children. Hannibal knows this, and watches him with an air of fond amusement – Will has always been wild, always been just on the closest side of acceptably resistant to him, even in thrall, and so Hannibal expected this behavior.
He paces like a caged tiger, back and forth, from hallway door to the other side of the room, by the fireplace ringed with antlers. Turns, stares at Hannibal like he's not even able to focus. His fingers shake, his skin far too pale even for one of their kind. He spins on his heel, shoulders rising, a chorus of soft growls breaking the silence between them.
The transition can be hard; too much sensitivity to light and sound; having to adjust to the fact that sleep is no longer a necessity, the desire for it no longer something felt; among all that, the raw, aching hunger that burns in both of them no matter the hour, no matter how well they are both fed. It is a vicious learning curve, one that not every one of his children survive – some succumb to the bloodlust too quickly and too fiercely. Some refuse, and starve to death.
In front of Hannibal sits a single glass of blood. He sips at it calmly, watching with pleasure when Will stalls and stammers in place like a marionette with his strings cut. He whirls on Hannibal with another snarl, eyes flashing, his upper lip lifts to show his new fangs. His fingers curl, and he halts in his pacing, takes in a single, slow breath.
"Alana told me you haven't been eating," he says, once the glass is back on the table.
Will snarls, lifts his chin in challenge, but flinches when Hannibal raises his brows, raises his own chin in answer. He shakes his arms out like a dog ridding itself of water, and stands behind the second chair at the head of the table, puts his fingers around it and curls until his knuckles whiten and the wood creaks in protest.
For a moment, he merely stares at Hannibal, his eyes the blistering red of a hungry vampire. He clears his throat, tries to speak. All that comes out is something low and savage – he wets his dry lips, and tries again; "You're having me followed?"
He is angry, snapping the words like a whiplash. Looks like he would lunge over the table and kill Hannibal just for the suggestion.
"I have all my children watched, until they learn to hunt on their own," Hannibal replies. "Lionesses do the same."
Will snaps his teeth together with an audible 'click'. "They raise their young themselves," he hisses, and shows all his teeth in another challenge. "You're outsourcing. How many 'children' do you have?"
"Countless," Hannibal replies. In truth, he doesn't care to remember them all. If he needs them, they will come, for it was his blood that changed them and his call they answer to. For the most part, however, they venture off on their own once Hannibal is certain they won't draw attention to themselves. The ones that don't prove a sound investment, he kills, for he will not risk his nature and his family being uncovered by one wayward child.
Will, though. Will has always been special – from the moment Hannibal met him, and breathed in his delicious scent, he had known he would claim Will for his own. Will is wild in a way cattle seldom are; a wolf pretending to be one of the herd. Now, his outside matches his innards; he moves with grace and canine strength, shows his teeth when he snarls, and his irises hold a thick ring of red as children do when they're hungry.
"Why won't you eat, Will?" he asks, when Will says nothing.
He expects the same speech he has always gotten from his more reserved children: they don't want to harm innocents; they're worried about taking too much and succumbing to the raging bloodlust; they hate him for turning them into what they were always meant to be; all the usual complaints.
But Will swallows, jerking his chin sharply, and lowers his eyes to the glass of blood, and then further, to his own knuckles. He flexes his fingers and Hannibal takes note of the little indents left in the wood from his nails – Will is strong, there's no denying that. He might be the strongest of Hannibal's children thus far, and this isn't even him at the strength of a vampire freshly-fed.
"It's complicated," Will breathes, so utterly quiet, hoarse like he's been howling. If Hannibal did not possess superior hearing, he would not have known what Will said.
"I'm fairly intelligent," Hannibal replies lightly, and smiles when Will huffs and glares at him. "Try to explain."
As Will's sire, the vampire that turned him, Hannibal possesses unique power over Will, the same way an alpha of a pack would have power over the wolves below him. He can compel Will, put him in his thrall if he desires, to coax the truth out, but he has resisted the urge so far. He prefers when his children come to him openly.
Will presses his lips together, wincing and pressing his fingers to the side of his jaw. He parts his lips and curls his fingers, petting over his molars.
The growth of new teeth is a painful process – the whole change is painful, and Hannibal has spent countless hours helping his children through it. Some don't survive, unfortunately, but he never doubted Will. Even when he screamed and bled and clawed open his arms, when he dislocated his jaw because of the pain of his new teeth, when he tried to scratch his eyes out to hide away the ring of red and Hannibal had had to chain him down, he never doubted Will would survive.
One of his fingers splits on a fang, but no blood comes out to wet his tongue, and he lets out a soft whimper of distress. Will swallows again, winces again, and lets his hands drop back to the chair, his fingers finding the divots he created and clenching tight. The arch of the back of the chair buckles loudly under his grip. "It doesn't…. I don't want to," Will says, and Hannibal sighs inwardly, gives a small nod.
"Embracing the killer instinct can be hard to do -."
"It's not that," Will snaps, showing his teeth again. His eyes blaze as Hannibal tilts his head and lifts his brows. "I don't want to. Nothing…smells good," he says. If he still possessed the ability to blush, Hannibal knows he would be – he can't, not unless he's substantially better fed than he is at the moment.
But that is surprising. Normally with Hannibal's children it takes a supreme amount of care and control on his part to curb their appetites when first changed. But Will has been a vampire now for almost two weeks, and if Alana is to be believed – which Hannibal does, he has no reason to doubt his second-in-command – then Will hasn't eaten at all since the first time, when Hannibal offered his own blood to cement the bond of child and sire, and to officially claim Will as his in this new life.
"Nothing at all?" he repeats, unable to hide the surprise from his voice. "Some prefer a certain age, or ethnicity, or even the blood of animals." Vegetarians, they are called. A waste, really – what's the point of being a predator and apex creature such as they are when you simply eat as the cattle do?
Will snarls, and flings himself away from the chair, resuming his frantic pacing. He is a mess of jitters and tremors, his hands shaking as he pets over and over his neck, as if trying to soothe the ache with more pain. His claws raise lines on his skin that do not turn red – he can't spare the blood.
Will shakes his head sharply, his dark, soft curls flying around his face, and stops, returns to the chair, fixes his eyes on Hannibal again. He shivers, and runs a hand over his eyes – he can't cry anymore, but they are bright, glazed with anxiety. "I'm so hungry. I'm so fucking hungry. I try, but every time I try, I get close enough and I smell them, and it's…disgusting. Makes me want to throw up. My stomach gets…" He pauses, curls both hands in the air in front of him, clawed as if ready to rake. "Tight, and tense, and my throat closes up, and I can't do it. I can't."
"And you are certain it's not because the idea of feeding repulses you?" Hannibal asks, though it's not really a question.
Will shudders, shakes his head again, and sighs, rolling his shoulders and bringing them up tight to his neck. He looks lost, so utterly distressed. When he turns away and begins to pace again, Hannibal pushes his chair back and rises to his feet, leaving the blood behind as he circles the table and approaches Will.
Will does not flinch, nor does he stiffen, but his eyes are on Hannibal as he comes closer. He lifts his chin, shivers as his sire approaches him, corralling him against the wall. A deep breath in, his chest expanding to take in Hannibal's scent, and his lashes lower, his eyes burn with bright starvation-red. He turns away, shoulder pushed to the wall like a dog trying to make itself appear smaller, trembling with hunger. He lowers his shoulders and shows his throat when Hannibal touches him, lightly, between his shoulder blades.
He is not a creature of higher thought, in this moment, but merely this; a fledgling that knows the touch of the one that made him.
Hannibal smiles, pleased at Will's receptiveness, and touches, lightly, at Will's jaw, curling his fingers beneath Will's chin until his fingertips settle on the other side of his face. Will's pulse is still, his skin a little colder than healthy, and Hannibal leans in, nose touching lightly to the curl of Will's hair around the top of his ear.
Will shivers, and lets out a quiet, plaintive sound. Still, so hungry, but he knows the price of resisting Hannibal's influence. He turns his head when Hannibal pulls on him, until their cheeks brush, and Will's hand covers Hannibal's. Hannibal lets him breathe in again, allows a soft, soothing purr to rumble in his throat, encouraging Will to relax and succumb to his thrall. If he can do that, perhaps it will make Will pliant enough to feed him.
But Will goes tense, a tremor running down his spine, and Hannibal pulls back, finds Will frowning, his eyes very red. Will curls his nails tight around Hannibal's fingers, gasps, and parts his lips, pressing his nose to Hannibal's wrist where his pulse sits, slow and steady – always very well-fed, so he can mimic humanity a little more closely.
He breathes in deeply, and his eyes flash. He touches his teeth to Hannibal's pulse and his chest rumbles in an anticipatory snarl. "…Good. You smell good," he whispers, so quietly again that Hannibal would not hear him, if he lacked his enhanced ability. His head tilts, his chin lifting as he takes in a breath of Will's scent, notes how it sharpens like adding mint to chocolate.
Will's mouth is wet when he nuzzles Hannibal's wrist, kisses very soft and open along the cluster of veins.
Then, he snarls, low, very suddenly, and Hannibal acts quickly. He runs his hand up Will's back and into his hair, fists his curls tightly and yanks him back before Will can bite, dropping his wrist as Will snarls, lunging forward and chasing the promise of Hannibal's blood. His eyes are a bright, burning red, thick in his iris until hardly any of the blue lingers in it, his pupils wide with hunger, his teeth shining in the low-kept light.
Will lunges for him, ignoring the pull on his hair, catches his claws in Hannibal's sleeve and yanks savagely enough to tear the fabric. He snarls, wild, violent with hunger, and Hannibal tightens his grip.
"Will," he snaps, and Will freezes, his eyes lifting. Hannibal takes his chin in a sharp hold, threads power into his voice and his gaze when he says; "Be still."
Will sags immediately, helpless to resist Hannibal's thrall, and Hannibal catches him, cradling his limp body close as Will whines, pawing at him gracelessly. Hannibal carries him to the kitchen, and beyond that, to a second, barren room. It is only cement, lacking any comforts. There are chains and manacles bolted to the floor.
Will whimpers, his scent changing from that sweet hunter's bite to the sharp, bitter taste of fear. "Please, no," he says, but can't fight as Hannibal pushes him to the floor. He kept Will here, while he was changing, and though Will is making quiet sounds of distress, he can't fight as Hannibal locks the heavy iron collar around his neck, binds his wrists to the ground, and tugs on the chains to make sure they're secure. "Please, I'm sorry! Hannibal, please, I -."
"Quiet, darling," Hannibal purrs, and allows himself to give Will a kind touch; pets through his hair and gently nuzzles his cheek. Will trembles again, shaking as though cold, though he doesn't feel the cold anymore. He remains there, on his knees, looking up as Hannibal rises, like a helpless supplicant to an unforgiving god.
Hannibal sighs. "You're not being punished, Will."
"Please, Hannibal, I didn't mean it. I can control myself."
Even as he says it, though, his fingers curl, and his eyes drop to the exposed skin of Hannibal's wrist, bared beneath his torn cuff.
Hannibal sighs again, kneels down and cups Will's face. Will growls, eyes flashing, trying to turn his head and bite, but Hannibal forces their eyes to meet so that he can compel Will to relax. Even with direct eye contact and touch, it takes a while for Will to go limp again. "Darling, as I said – this isn't a punishment. But I have never had a child of mine want to drink the blood of their own kind. I must learn if this has happened before; if it's safe, for you."
Will swallows harshly, and looks down with a distressed, heavy sob. "I told you it was complicated."
Hannibal's head tilts. "What do you mean?"
Will makes a soft noise, shakes his head again. "I don't want to talk about it."
"Will -."
"No!" Will covers his eyes so Hannibal can't enthrall him, shakes his head, snarls; "No. I don't want to talk about it."
Hannibal huffs, and lets him go, straightening smoothly. "Very well. If you'd like to behave as a child, far be it from me to stop you," he says tersely, and leaves the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. It is entirely soundproof, even to his ears, so he cannot hear Will, and Will cannot hear him.
It is a strange sensation; since he turned Will, and even for some time before that, the man had been a near-constant presence in Hannibal's house. His footfalls on the wood and carpet were welcome sounds, his breathing and the rush of his pulse a soft chorus to all else that moved in Hannibal's home.
Then, he had found out what Hannibal was. Asked to be changed as well – he couldn't go back to Jack, he'd said, not knowing what he knows about what Hannibal is, what he's done. He couldn't go home, couldn't go anywhere else.
And, well, Hannibal has never been one to deny himself an indulgence.
He closes his eyes, sighing heavily. Will is his, now, to care for and teach about the ways of the world in this new life. To abandon Will to his instincts would be terrible behavior, to kill him is unthinkable for reasons Hannibal doesn't want to examine too closely. He is, not reluctantly but surprisingly, attached to the idea of keeping Will around. Will had been interesting and beautiful as a man, but now, as a vampire like Hannibal is, he is the first of his kind Hannibal has seen that might be able to stand with him as something resembling an equal.
He sighs again, and sends out a flicker of thought to Alana; My dear, call me if you can. Not a moment later, his phone rings.
"Alana," he greets, with a smile and an absent pulse of warmth towards her. "Thank you for calling me so quickly. I need to ask you something."
"Anything," she replies. She sounds tired – she still sleeps, because she has a human mate and likes resting beside her. And the hour is late, when Hannibal cares to notice such a thing. "What do you need?"
"Have you ever heard of a vampire that feasts solely on the blood of its own kind?"
There is a pause. Then, slowly, she says; "Not that I can recall."
Hannibal presses his lips together. "Nor I."
Another pause. "Mated pairs feed each other," she says, slowly. "But that isn't usually for the sake of actual hunger. Just an inevitable result of shared intimacy."
Hannibal smiles. Yes, that is true – throughout his life he has seldom kept a companion long enough to call them a lover, but sharing blood between two of his kind is an almost unbearably intimate thing, creating a bond deeper than one might share between sire and child, or human mates. He lets out a soft hum of consideration.
"May I ask why you're calling me with such a question?"
He sighs. "Will isn't eating," he says, and hears her agree with a quiet noise; she had, after all, been tasked briefly with following Will on his hunts to make sure he wasn't doing anything reckless. She'd been the one to tell Hannibal Will wasn't eating. "When I tried to soothe him, he attacked me. Out of hunger."
The sound she lets out is terribly intrigued. And yet; "A child should never attack their sire. He is still young; forgive his rashness."
"I do not intend to punish him," Hannibal replies calmly, soothing her as he attempted to soothe Will. "But I'm not sure if sustaining him that way is even possible."
"Well, there's a very obvious way to find out," she says with a small laugh.
He presses his lips together. "It wouldn't be proper," he says. Allowing a vampire turned by his own blood to feed from him would forge a terribly strong bond and connection; Will would be uniquely attuned to him, and Hannibal to Will, and the already-established power dynamic between them would only grow sharper claws. If Hannibal had intended to take Will as a mate, he wouldn't have been the one to turn him.
Although, as he thinks that, the idea of any other's blood being the one to change Will makes his stomach tighten sharply, rejecting it.
"Thank you, Alana. Rest now," he says, and sends another thread of affectionate pride her way. Hears her let out a small laugh, purring in response. He ends the call, and sets his phone down, his eyes on the door separating him from Will.
He breathes out, and goes to the dining room, finishing his glass of blood. If this experiment is to be fruitful, it will be good for him to be well-fed.
He leaves the glass in the kitchen, by the sink, and approaches the door again. Opens it, and sees Will lift his head, his eyes burning red and his lips parted around a heavy gasp. He rises to his knees as Hannibal goes to him, and lifts his bound hands as high as they can go.
"Please, Hannibal, let me out of these," he begs, tugging on the restraints. "I won't attack you again."
"I know, darling," Hannibal murmurs, letting his voice grow warm and gentle, and he reaches out and pets Will's hair with both hands. Will's lashes flutter, and he sags, as Hannibal's thrall overtakes him. Hannibal crouches down and pulls the collar from around his neck, letting it drop to the floor with a heavy metallic clang.
Will meets his eyes, still soaked with fear. Hannibal has made it no secret that he kills the children who do not suit this lifestyle – Will thinks Hannibal intends to kill him, to write him off as another experiment with ill-fitting results.
He sighs. "Will," he murmurs, petting through his soft, wild hair again. Watches as Will's nostrils flare and his lips part, hungry, wanting; "You must calm yourself, darling; I have no intention of hurting you." Will blinks at him, brow creasing, and swallows. His stance shifts, lowering his head so it's below Hannibal's, his shoulders curled in. "I want to help you."
"I don’t know if you can," Will whispers; soft, defeated to the bone. "I'm broken. I'll starve, go feral."
"No." Just like the thought of any other vampire turning Will, the idea that he will slowly go insane with hunger makes Hannibal's stomach tense, his spine rushing hot in visceral denial. "I won't let that happen to you, Will. I swear it."
Will shakes his head. He breathes in, nostrils flaring.
His eyes darken.
Hannibal smiles, and cradles Will's nape in his hand, and lifts his other wrist, exposed beneath his torn shirt sleeve, settling it in Will's hands. "Drink, darling," he coaxes, leaning in and nosing at Will's cold cheek. "If you want it, take it."
"I can't," Will breathes, but his nails tighten and dig into Hannibal's wrist with savage intent. They cut, creating little crescents of blood that bead up around his nailbeds. His eyes drop to the marks of red, and his expression melts into nothing more than fierce, desperate hunger. He licks his lips. Opens his mouth to protest further, but nothing comes out. He is trembling with indecision, wanting so badly to bite, but fearing the consequences.
"Drink, Will," Hannibal purrs, and lifts his wrist to Will's pink, wet mouth. He's practically drooling, staring at Hannibal's blood. "Just a taste. Go on."
Will is too hungry, too weak, to resist him further. He sags against Hannibal with a soft moan, pulls his wrist up and leans down like a dog at a bowl of water, and licks along his own nails, taking Hannibal's blood onto his tongue.
The reaction is immediate – Will snarls, tightens his grip and slides his hand up to secure Hannibal's forearm, below the elbow. He parts his jaws and sinks his teeth into Hannibal's wrist, a savage bite that encases most of Hannibal's wrist and sends a sharp flash of pain through Hannibal's brain. He bites, splits skin, his mouth flooding with blood, and makes a sound that is nothing short of rapturous.
Hannibal shivers, closing his eyes and petting the fine, curling hairs on Will's nape, his nose to Will's temple as Will trembles and drinks from him. He is ravenous, Hannibal can see that, practically smell his hunger; Will drinks eagerly, swallowing mouthful after mouthful of Hannibal's blood and pushing heavy with his tongue to coax more out. Hannibal's slow pulse quickens, incensed by the soft, snarling moans Will is making as he drinks, his cheeks flushing from the rush of blood into his body, his skin growing warm as he's filled.
"That's it, darling," he purrs, smiling, pleased to see Will eat. "Do not worry about taking too much." Take all of it, part of him whispers, and though he did not intend to send the thought to Will, he thinks Will hears it, for he moans and parts his teeth from Hannibal's skin with another soft snarl.
He turns, and rubs his bloody muzzle against Hannibal's cheek. "Your neck. Give me your neck," he demands, and Hannibal blinks at him, surprised at Will's sudden confidence. He has never had one of his own ask it of him – but, curious, terribly intrigued to know what will happen, he tugs the collar of his shirt down and shows Will his throat.
Will lunges with another feral noise, manacles clinking as he fists his hands in Hannibal's shirt, above his belly, and parts his teeth, sinking them into Hannibal's neck with another loud snarl. It is an intimate place to bite someone, and Hannibal shivers, closing his eyes and embracing Will in turn as Will buries his teeth in Hannibal's pulse, tongue pressing to make more of his blood rush out, and drinks it down. He doesn't spill a single drop, too greedy to let it fall.
Hannibal grips his hair, bloody wrist smearing along Will's cheek, making him look wild, savage, feral. Will pulls him close, rears back with his teeth in Hannibal's neck, and forces him onto the ground on his back. He is a predator now, fully in the mindset of his hunt, and climbs over Hannibal with another loud snarl, working his teeth from side to side to keep the wound open, keep the blood flowing.
Particularly powerful vampires are able to feel the emotions and thoughts of their prey as they drink from them. It's one of the reasons Hannibal kills his cattle before he eats them – he has no inclination to feel their fear, to know what they're thinking in their last moments. But with it, a vampire's venom contains endorphins designed to calm and soothe, to make the cattle lax.
He wants to know if Will can feel it. So he wraps a hand in Will's hair, pushes at his shoulder until his own neck is on display, and bites.
Immediately, he is overcome by the sheer, overwhelming presence of Will. He feels like a wave of heat, crashing over him. Will's power, his mind, is an incredibly whole feeling, like trying to fit two people inside his own skin. Hannibal shudders, growling in turn – he does not drink from Will, he wants his darling boy to be as full as he can, but he tongues at the wound on Will's neck, eking small droplets of blood to maintain the connection.
Will shudders above him, lets out a sound that isn't purely hunger, but ravenous all the same. His body rolls, pressing feverishly over one of Hannibal's thighs, his knee slotting between Hannibal's legs as he grinds and rolls his body, fingers clamped tight in Hannibal's shirt.
Hannibal hears, in a small flicker, across the connection of blood and heat between them; Mine. You're mine.
It is a possessive thought, but what strikes Hannibal is how utterly sure Will sounds. His words are like relief, like he has been holding onto this thought for some time, and has finally received permission to feel it. Hannibal shifts his weight beneath Will, unaccustomed to the feeling of having his blood drawn from him; Will is getting sloppy now, gasping between swallows, blood and saliva dripping onto Hannibal's neck and staining his clothes.
He is purring. Hannibal has yet to hear Will's purr – it's a delightfully soothing sound, makes him thrum and shiver beneath the weight of Will.
Will pulls back, so Hannibal can see him. His eyes are still red – not the bright, unnatural color in starving children, but deeper, now, darker, almost black. He pants heavily, staring down at Hannibal, blood smeared all along his cheeks, his jaw, his neck. His hair is wild, growing damp with sweat, and he swallows, licks his lips, and leans down to rub his chin against his fingers, gathering more so he can lick it away.
Hannibal stares up at him. Reaches, with a gentle hand, and smiles when Will swallows and turns his head, cheek butting up to the meat of his thumb.
He breathes out. "How long have you felt this way?" he asks, for there is no denying the other presence in Will's thoughts – the dark, possessive need to touch Hannibal, to take him and drink from him and claim him in any way he's allowed.
Will swallows again, licks his lips and tongues at Hannibal's bitten wrist. "Forever," he replies, in a weak rasp. He turns his head again, leans down, their foreheads touching in something as intimate as a kiss. Will reeks of Hannibal's own blood, heavy and iron-filled, and that sweet mint-chocolate scent of him fills the air. His body rolls again; so full, so satisfied, his pulse thrums beneath Hannibal's hand, his dead heart kickstarting at the introduction to food he likes.
Will tilts his head, finds Hannibal's neck again, suckling at the sluggishly-bleeding bite. Hannibal shivers, biting his lower lip, lashes fluttering in surprised pleasure as Will drinks from him. It feels good, having Will's mind flood his own like this, feeling his weight and his strength – and Will is strong, gaining more by the minute.
Will moans, weakly, and ruts against Hannibal's thigh. "I want you," he growls. "So badly I don't care how I get you. Will you let me?"
And Hannibal thinks he might. Knowing what he knows, feeling what Will feels, it seems impossible to deny him now. He clings to Will, nosing his damp hair, snarls when Will parts his jaws and bites again, savage and desperate. It hurts, but the slow drag of Will's mouth, drawing out his blood to drink, sends heavy fissures of pleasure down Hannibal's spine in a way he has never felt before.
"Will," he warns – for he must warn Will. If Will does what Hannibal knows he wants to, they will not emerge from his room as a child and a sire, but mates; bonded for life. And for vampires, life is a very, very long time.
"I don't care," Will snarls, and brings his bound hands down, pushing at Hannibal's thighs until he has room to kneel between them. He pulls back, shows Hannibal his red teeth, his black eyes. He looks wild like this, unchained and untethered; the wolf has the scent now, and will hunt until something is dead. "I don't care. You're mine. From the moment I met you, you were mine."
Hannibal stares up at him, and wonders if, just like the rest of Will's change, this persistent, fierce creature has always been there, and now it has fangs and claws and red eyes and it knows the scent of its mate.
Will licks his lips, breathes out through flared nostrils, and says; "Unchain me."
Hannibal nods, unlocking the cuffs from around Will's wrists and pushing them to the side. Will's reaction is immediate – he lunges for Hannibal, threads a hand through his hair, and his other paws at Hannibal's suit pants, shredding the material until he meets bare skin. He shudders, snarling, and Hannibal growls back, biting Will's lower lip harshly. It only makes Will moan, as his skin splits and his blood mingles with Hannibal's on their tongues.
Oh, Will, Hannibal thinks, casting the words across their growing bond. You are magnificent.
Will shivers with pleasure, his lips twitching in something like a smile, but ruined by another needy snarl. He pulls back and fumbles at his jeans, parting the material with a series of rips and tears, uncaring for their ruined clothes. He has enough blood in him now to show physical proof of his desire; his hand wraps around his flushed cock, which is leaking at the head, and he leans down, cupping Hannibal's nape and kissing him deeply.
Mine. The fierceness of Will's thoughts drives the breath from Hannibal's dead lungs. Will shudders above him, claws at Hannibal's neck and kisses him, blood shared, their bond growing strength and violent urgency with every passing moment. Will parts only long enough to spit on his hand, slicking up his cock, and ruts against Hannibal's stomach, his knees spreading wide to get Hannibal to part further for him.
He yanks at Hannibal's clothes, tears them to shreds beneath his sharp claws; snarls when he finds more bared, warm skin, Hannibal's own strength evident in muscle and flesh. Hannibal feels Will's cock shove against his entrance, catch, and Will growls again.
Let me in, he whispers, and Hannibal can taste the sweetness of his venom; this is Will in a hunt, this is him taking his prey as he wants them. It's a terribly intimate thing, and Hannibal is, for a moment, supremely glad that Will hasn't wanted to feed on anyone else. If he did this with them, Hannibal isn't sure what he would do – Will is the first of his children he has felt so possessive over, so fiercely proud of.
He digs his nails into Will's back, rakes with sharp claws, but doesn't split skin. Will needs all the strength he can get. He bends his knees, plants his feet, lifts his hips.
Will trembles, and pushes in – a single, sharp thrust, forcing himself into Hannibal just as he sinks his teeth into Hannibal's neck again. They let out sharp moans in chorus, harmonious to the last. It hurts, without proper preparation or warning, but Hannibal delights in Will's rudeness, his disregard for propriety.
Will fucks into him, settles with a snarl as deep as he can get, and pulls at Hannibal's thighs, coaxing him to lift his legs and wrap them high on Will's back. His arms withdraw, elbows beneath Hannibal's knees, keeping him pinned and folded as he sinks in to the hilt, until his hips touch Hannibal's ass.
Pleasure, hot and pulsing, floods Hannibal's brain. He shivers, pulse flying now, rabid with the need to claw, to bite, to pierce Will as Will is piercing him and draw them closer together. He doesn't resist the urge – lifts his head and parts the skin of Will's neck with his teeth, drinks sloppy and ill-mannered from Will's warm neck.
Though Will makes no sound, his thoughts are a mess of howls and snarls, his body tremoring with desire as he rolls his hips, fucks brutally into Hannibal's body. It's a mesh of red, of black, of white-hot need flooding from Will into Hannibal like water from behind a burst dam. Though Hannibal has not been alive for many years, Will makes him feel so; lights up the backs of his eyelids and plunges him into crashing waves of powerful desire.
Fuck, yes. Will's thoughts flash to him, meet and mirror his own, as Hannibal clenches up around him and snarls, warmed by Will's blood – blood he gave, fed back to him, sweeter for the aftertaste of Will. A feedback loop of hunger that is building, and building – God, if this is how it feels to feed Will, to fuck Will, Hannibal won't let another day pass without experiencing it again.
Mine, Will thinks again, powerful and raw. That's it, baby, yes, Hannibal, fuck -.
Hannibal clenches his eyes tightly shut, shuddering as Will goes still, pressed deep inside him. His thoughts burst with light and heat; desperate release, his cock thick and twitching inside of Hannibal as he finishes. It's such a heavy, satisfying feeling, that when Hannibal drops a hand to his own cock it takes little more than a touch for him to follow, plummeting with Will through the crash course of his becoming.
Will snarls, lightning-strikes of pleasure soaking into Hannibal's brain through their growing bond, and Hannibal knows he is sending his own in return. His chest rumbles with a loud, strong purr, and Will swallows, purrs gently in answer, rubbing his bloody cheek through the mess smeared on Hannibal's neck.
His hands slide up Hannibal's flanks, he releases Hannibal's legs, letting them fall, and grips his shirt tight enough for his bloody claws to rip through the material. Hannibal arches, shoulders protesting the grind of the cement floor and his rim and abused muscles aching sharply from Will's invasion, but he is pleased, overwhelmed by how good it feels to touch, at the edges of his mind, something that feels thick and warm like the pelt of a wolf.
Will's purr rises and falls with his heavy breathing, lips parting so slick drops of blood and saliva fall to Hannibal's neck. "You taste so good," he rasps, and pulls back, drags his nose down Hannibal's chest to the smear of his seed on his belly and hand. He tilts his head, licks kitten-like at the mess, his lashes going low over his black-red eyes. His purr, if it is possible, grows heavier, louder; his eyes flash with satisfaction and it pulses across their bond with the same heat of a sunning wildcat.
Hannibal smiles as Will slips from him, shivering at the sharp scent of Will's seed leaking from his sore body. He purrs gently, licking the remains of Will's and his own blood from his teeth, and sits up, gathering Will's wild hair in his fingers, and pulls him upright.
Will meets him for a kiss, sighing gently, and huffs a laugh. "Told you it was complicated." His voice sounds hoarse, like he's been screaming for a long time, even though they have been utterly silent save for their growls and snarls of pleasure.
"I daresay, darling, it's the simplest thing in the world," Hannibal replies quietly. "You wanted something – you took it. That is the essence of what we are."
"You'd have killed me, if I tried and you didn't want it."
Hannibal huffs, smiling. He supposes there's no use keeping secrets from Will anymore – Will is in his head, and Hannibal can feel the borders of Will's thoughts and emotions, grazing along his own consciousness. With time, and shared bonding, it will strengthen further until they can act, behave, and think as one.
He finds himself strangely excited by the idea.
Will meets his eyes, the red finally receding to reveal that beautiful, bright blue that Hannibal so quickly became enraptured by. The ring of red in his eyes will fade, now that he's fed, and thicken again when he's hungry. Hannibal will be able to read him as easily as himself; know, through their bond, when Will's desires crest and strengthen, when he is sated.
Will is very sated, now.
Hannibal brushes their noses together, gathers Will close as Will climbs into his lap, nuzzling and petting over his bloodied neck. "I meant it, you know," he whispers, and grips Hannibal fiercely. "You're mine. Your blood is mine."
Hannibal lifts his brows, tilts his head.
"No more children," Will demands, and meets his gaze steadily. He looks so beautiful like this; wild and strong. Hannibal knows Will can feel the thought as it flickers between them, and he smiles, purring softly. "I'm your last. Your only. Promise me."
It is a request Hannibal would never tolerate from anyone, be they a fellow sire, or one of his children. But Will is, has always been, the exception to the rule.
He rubs his hands down Will's back, smiles, and kisses him gently. "My last and only," he replies. "I swear."
"Good," Will says, alight with satisfaction, with joy, with pride. He shakes his pelt and rolls his shoulders, arching them into the brush of Hannibal's hands, and kisses at his blood-wet jaw. He shivers, and though he doesn't say anything, a sudden, bright burst of color explodes in Hannibal's vision. He sees, through Will's eyes, both of them prowling through darkness. Sees Hannibal approach one of the cattle, break their neck and drink his fill.
Sees Will following after, sharing not the blood of the fallen prey, but through Hannibal; splitting open his neck and fucking him while the body cools. He shivers, and his stomach tightens in something not quite hunger, but eager anticipation.
"You are full of surprises," he murmurs, and Will smiles; unrepentant, unashamed. Gone are the nervous jitters, gone is the starvation-driven anxiety. He is full, well-fed, and proud as a monument. Hannibal gathers Will in his arms, pulls them both to their feet, and goes towards the door. "Come now, darling; let's get you cleaned up."
Will hums, and nudges his nose against Hannibal's pulse. A fissure of warmth spreads between them, and Hannibal isn't sure from whom it originates, but it floods him like a fresh meal, and he smiles, and kisses Will's wild hair, and leads him upstairs to the shower.