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Beverly Katz considers herself a relatively normal human being. Sure, she works as a diener in a hospital morgue, and spends most of her time in the company of the dead rather than the living, but what’s wrong with that? There are odder professions out there—witchcraft, for instance.
Her shift starts out normally, which is a welcome relief considering the recent... shenanigans. Then she gets a call on her pager to attend reception. Curious, Beverly makes her way upstairs; the morgue is situated on the basement level adjacent to the kitchens. She arrives on the first floor to find the reception staff looking quite unnerved. They direct her in hushed tones to a side room. Beverly peers through the glass partition and spies two intimidating-looking men dressed in black robes. One is broad-shouldered with sharp cheekbones and salt-and-pepper hair. The other looks a few years younger, sitting slouched over in his chair, brown curls spilling into his eyes. They appear to be engaged in quiet conversation. Beverly spots that the older man has his hand on the other’s knee. They’ve been issued cheap visitors’ lanyards that clash horribly with their austere uniform. No wonder the poor receptionists were so shaken; this is supposed to be a place of healing— these two undesirables are dressed like the Reaper on Halloween. A pity they seem to have misplaced their scythes.
“I’m guessing they didn’t make an appointment,” Beverly drawls, addressing the young man behind the desk. Unsurprisingly, he shakes his head. Much like Beverly herself, witches don’t work to a fixed schedule. Neither the dead nor the undead are kind enough to make reservations.
The diener squares her shoulders and goes to greet her unexpected guests. She raps twice on the door before breezing into the room in a display of false confidence.
“You’re from the Mages Guild. The ones Jack sent for,” Beverly proclaims, drawing the pair’s attention.
Hospital Director Jack Crawford is Beverly’s supervisor and chairman of the board. After the first ‘incident’, there was hot debate amongst the management team about whether they should evacuate, but Jack Crawford had been adamant in his refusal. They have too many vulnerable patients to relocate: premature babies stuck in incubators, trauma victims with shattered limbs, cancer patients midway through chemo. It wouldn’t be fair. Instead, Jack had proposed calling on a higher power for assistance. It seems that ‘assistance’ has finally arrived.
“Well, it’s either that, or we decided to swing by the hospital for a night out,” the man with the curly hair and glasses scathes. Beverly spots the glint of a gold ring on his finger before he dislodges his partner and shoves his hands in his robe pockets. The older man gives Beverly an apologetic smile as he rises from the chair to greet her, shaking her hand with a firm grip. She notes that he’s wearing one too– a golden signet ring bearing an emblem in the shape of antlers. Stranger still is his peculiar eye colour. At first glance, they appear brown, but when the stark hospital lighting catches his iris, a spark of crimson shines within.
“Please forgive my colleague, Miss Katz. We understand from Director Crawford’s request that you have a small ghost problem. We’ve come to remedy the situation,” he explains politely. Beverly pulls a face.
“I wouldn’t call it ‘small’. We’re looking at six stiffs burned in their lockers this past month, two lawsuits and counting. The rest of the team are too scared to work. Can’t say I blame them, considering.”
“We’ve read the incident report. You’re certain it’s not a case of faulty wiring in the retort?” the curly-haired man queries. Beverly rolls her eyes.
“We don’t have retorts. We only store the bodies here for a short time until the family comes to collect.”
“And these attacks have all been isolated to the morgue?”
Attacks. Beverly swallows at his accusing language. An attack implies hostile intent; a wayward ghost lost on its way to the great beyond wouldn’t attack people.
“Until yesterday,” she admits. Immediately, the mages’ body language changes. Curly-Hair adjusts his glasses with a grimace, whilst Red-Eye leans forward across the table, peering intently at Beverly as he waits for her to continue. “There was an… incident in the Burns Ward. A female patient was incinerated in the hyperbaric oxygen chamber. We’re still awaiting a diagnostic report, but the unit seemed well-maintained…” As Beverly trails off, the two witches exchange looks.
“I think we’d be best off examining the morgue for ourselves, Miss Katz. May we?”
“Sure, if you drop the ‘Miss Katz’ thing already and call me ‘Beverly’. You make it sound like I’ve aged ten years,” she grumbles, beckoning for the macabre pair to follow her out.
To avoid attracting attention, the diener leads them down to the basement via the emergency-exit staircase. She keeps a wide berth, but can’t resist glancing back at them periodically. The men are preoccupied with examining their surroundings. Curly-Hair’s eyes keep darting about like he’s seeing things that aren’t there, whilst Red-Eye keeps sniffing like he has a cold. She spots a curious black briefcase in the latter’s hand. It dawns on Beverly then how ridiculous it is that she doesn’t know their names. Never one for shyness, she decides to ask:
“What about you two?” she prompts. “What do they call you?”
“I’m Mongoose, he’s Stag,” Curly-Hair—‘Mongoose’—answers, still scanning left and right. Beverly raises an eyebrow.
“Your moms must have had an interesting sense of humour.”
“They’re codenames.” he answers curtly. “We can’t risk using our real names on the job. There are too many unquiet spirits out there desperate to latch on and follow us home.” It is then that Beverly realises their titles match the gold rings on their fingers– one in the shape of a stag, the other a weasel-looking creature.
Shortly afterwards, they reach the basement. There is a long, stretching corridor ahead of them lit by overhead strip lighting. The light flickers periodically, casting peculiar shadows on their faces. Mongoose squints at the ceiling in suspicion. Beverly leads them to a set of double doors halfway down the corridor and pulls out her keycard.
“Welcome to my office,” she drawls, about to swipe in and march through, when Mongoose catches her arm.
“Wait.” His grip is strong, and his muscles are tense. Beverly realises that he’s focussed on his companion. Stag’s eyes are closed. He takes yet another deep sniff, tongue darting out as if savouring something sweet. Then his lashes flicker open, and Beverly glimpses that diabolical red glint again. He can’t quite keep the smirk from the corner of his mouth.
“I detect a demonic presence. Seventh circle,” he declares. Mongoose’s expression darkens. He turns to the hospital employee in a firm-but-apologetic tone.
“Beverly, I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you to leave.”
“You know death doesn’t clock out at 5pm, right? This is a hospital,” she reminds them, hand on hip. “Besides, I can’t just let you wander off. Jack will have my head.” Any pretence of contrition from Mongoose dissipates, leaving behind a scowl.
“Yeah, well, stick around much longer and you’ll be next.” It’s difficult to distinguish whether his words are a warning or a threat. Beverly frowns, her stomach twisting. She can usually spot a liar when she sees one, but Mongoose doesn’t strike her as the type. She hesitates, thinking of how mad her boss will be if she bails.
“But Jack–”
“A good manager cares for the wellbeing of his employees, Miss Katz,” Stag cuts in. His manner is smooth yet decisive, a pleasant antidote to his colleague’s abrasiveness. “I’m sure Director Crawford wouldn’t want to see you suffer the same fate as the others.” He lets his ominous words hang in the air. Beverly bites her lip, stomach churning now for a much different reason. She personally excavated the most recent victim from the morgue just three days earlier. If Beverly closes her eyes, she can still smell the charred remains. Stag offers her a pleasant smile and holds out his hand, reading the decision on her face. “May we please have your access card?”
Beverly reluctantly hands it over.
“Just… try not to get me fired,” she mutters, before turning on her heel and fleeing the scene as fast as her legs can carry her.
Once the double doors at the end of the corridor have swung shut, and Beverly is completely out of sight, Mongoose turns to his partner.
“Equipment check.”
Stag obediently unclips the briefcase and begins withdrawing the relevant items: wax burner, scarlet paint, sandalwood incense sticks; black ritual candles, thermometer… and a padlock. At the last one, Mongoose visibly swallows.
“Are you nervous, Will?” Stag murmurs, daring to use his real name. Will tenses as his partner brushes his cheek with the back of his spidery fingers.
“Yes,” he admits gruffly. As a Guild member, Will is certified in all basic forms of witchcraft, including exorcism; but his speciality is acting as a medium—a conduit between the living, the dead, and the other. When it comes to the creatures of the underworld, he is accustomed to channelling fifth-circle entities and lower. Sevens are rare. Dangerous.
“There is no need to worry. I promise, you’re in safe hands, as always.” Stag bends and presses a firm kiss to his mouth, prying Will’s lips apart with practiced ease. Their tongues slide over each other, languidly at first; but in no time at all, they’re panting into each other’s mouths, hands grasping, greedy fingers bunching excess material. Will feels a familiar heat pooling in his gut, followed by the kiss of cool air as his companion lifts his robes. He’s not wearing underwear. He bites his lip as Stag gives his ass cheeks a firm squeeze, fingernails digging into his plump behind. A stray finger slips between his cheeks, teasing his slicked hole. Like his partner, Will also came prepared. The medium suppresses his moan of pleasure, still possessing just enough sense and self-control to push him away. Stag glares at Will in reproach, which Will returns with full force. If his partner had his way, they’d wind up fucking right here in the hallway.
“You should save something for later, Hannibal.” Will warns, motioning with his head towards the door. They came here to do a job. Getting caught up in the moment could very well get them killed. Hannibal sighs in displeasure but obediently follows Will over the threshold.
Together, they enter the morgue. Immediately, the mood shifts from excitable to uneasy. Something feels off ; like the air is heavy with invisible smoke. The lights are flickering just like the ones in the corridor outside, suggesting the energy flow is being interrupted. A quick check of his thermometer confirms to Hannibal that the morgue’s interior is just twelve degrees—a few degrees cooler than the recommended working temperature. The witches look at each other, exchanging nods. This place has all the hallmarks of a demonic lair.
It’s time to get to work.
Will begins by examining the morgue lockers, which are all labelled with numbers. He walks over to number 12 (one that was mentioned in the incident report) and opens it. The chill hits him with full force, accompanied by the quiet hum of the cooling system. Will swallows as a shiver passes through him. He’s going to be inside one of these things pretty soon. At first glance the unit appears spick and span, but when Will reaches in and runs his hand along the top, it comes away coated in a fine layer of ash. He closes his eyes, rubbing his fingers together; the minuscule grains are finer than sand and release a faint scent of smoke.
By the power of the inferno, I will elevate you. Your inferior spirit has been extinguished, and now the flames shall rekindle your flesh. The worthy shall receive me; the weak will crumble to ashes.
Will’s eyes flicker open. His throat and lips suddenly feel like cardboard, as though he’s been out in the sun too long and needs a large glass of water. The robes hanging off him feel ten times heavier. Stifling.
Meanwhile, Hannibal is busy preparing the theatre for the exorcism. The metal autopsy table in the centre is their unholy altar of choice. First, he lights the wax burner and sets it aside for later. Then he dips his fingers into the red paint, drawing precise lines on the vinyl floor in the shape of a pentagram around the table. At each point of the star, he places a lit candle and a stick of purifying incense. Groundwork complete, Hannibal turns to Will and extends his red fingers with a purr.
“Come.”
The other complies, hiking up his robes and pulling them over his head. Hannibal stands back and admires as Will’s naked form is revealed, still as much a novelty to him as the very first time. Starving eyes devour Will: his defined torso, curiously hairless chest, nipples hardening in the morgue’s chilly atmosphere. Lower down, a thin scar runs the length of his belly. Hannibal licks his lips in remembrance, eyes flicking up to meet Will’s, who is staring back in equal hunger. A trail of dark hair leads south from Will’s belly button to the attractive ‘v’ of his adonis belt. His cock is still pleasingly thickened from earlier. Saliva fills Hannibal’s mouth; he longs to scrape his teeth along the shaft and feel Will shudder on his tongue, to swallow him halfway down his throat and taste his salty cum… but it’s too soon. Far too soon.
Will settles on the tabletop and Hannibal dutifully kneels in front of him. The medium shivers as his naked skin connects with the chilled metal, but he knows he won’t be cold for long. Hannibal has retrieved the wax burner and eases Will’s left leg into his lap. He looks ready to wash his sinful feet in a twisted re-enactment of the Last Supper.
I suppose that makes me Judas, Will thinks with amusement as Hannibal presses a kiss to the top of his foot and drags his lips down to his toes. He takes the largest digit into his mouth and sucks lightly. Will giggles at the ticklish sensation, reflexively trying to pull away. Hannibal’s formerly caressing fingers close around his ankle, holding him in place.
“Don’t run,” he murmurs, vermillion eyes glinting beneath his lashes as he looks up at Will, his face made of nothing but sharpness and shadows. Will swallows and relinquishes the limb for Hannibal to do with as he pleases. Fingernails stroke his calloused sole in a ‘come hither’ motion, soon finding the vulnerable arch. Again, Will squirms, fighting against the natural impulse to break free, but Hannibal’s teeth scraping against his toes makes him think twice. His partner sucks and nibbles, incisors nicking his skin, reminding Will of their unnatural sharpness. The back of the medium’s neck throbs in sympathy, nerve endings fizzling with desire. He wants those teeth sinking into softer places. Maiming him. Marking him.
A sudden, searing heat dampens Will’s pleasure. This time he can’t stop himself from recoiling, a hiss escaping between his teeth. Melted wax drips down the top of his left foot—the same spot where Jesus was nailed to the cross. Hannibal leers up at him, wax burner in hand. He drags his eyes down Will’s now-fully erect cock, admiring the results of his actions. His intent is so transparent that Will flushes, resisting the impulse to close his legs and cover himself like a shy altar boy. His embarrassment paradoxically provokes another spike of arousal. His cock twitches under the intensity of Hannibal’s gaze, a bead of precum oozing from the tip.
“Well done,” Hannibal praises with a false smile. “Now for the other one.”
Will jerks as Hannibal strokes behind his right knee, coaxing him to switch legs. He does so, and is rewarded for his compliance with swift mercy.
“Fuck.” Will jolts as the hot wax splashes him for the second time. He would have kicked Hannibal in the face, were it not for his iron grip.
Undeterred, Hannibal rises to his feet. He runs his hands slowly up Will’s abdomen and chest, pointedly ignoring his needy cock straining for attention as he settles in behind Will on the autopsy table. Will knows not to touch himself, even when Hannibal runs his finger teasingly along his abdominal scar, so close and yet so far. This is a necessary part of the ritual, to strengthen his spiritual resistance and heighten his arousal ahead of the main act. The medium shudders as Hannibal loops his forearm around his waist and pulls them flush. Although his partner remains clothed in the Guild’s stuffy black robes, Will perceives his body heat as if they are pressed skin-to-skin. Cupid’s-bow lips brush against the shell of his ear, posing him a poisonous question:
“To whom does your soul belong?”
“Me,” Will affirms. He can’t resist pushing back, grinding his ass slowly and deliberately against Hannibal’s crotch. His partner makes a pleased sound and takes hold of his right arm. He presses a kiss to his vulnerable inner wrist, tracing the sensitive skin and tendons with his tongue.
“And with whom do you share it?” he continues, teeth scraping over the stark blue vein in threat. At the same time, he grants Will a small taste of reciprocity and changes angle, knowing Will can feel the outline of his hard dick through his robes. He thrusts once, teasing and controlled, although he secretly wants nothing more than to rut together shamelessly on the table until he cums through his precious uniform, or to have Will sit in his lap and ride him to completion.
“You,” Will rasps, fingers clenching in anticipation as Hannibal reaches again for the wax burner. He tips it just enough, molten droplets clinging to the rim—enough to make Will’s lips part in want and his eyes dance in desperation, but not quite enough to fall. Hannibal waits for him to elaborate. Eventually, Will does. “… Only you.”
“That’s right.”
The droplet falls. Will hisses as it lands on his vital spot, another ooze of precum dribbling from him. Hannibal inhales sharply, and Will knows he’s getting off on the scent. He laments that he doesn’t share the same superhuman abilities. He can feel Hannibal’s length pressing against his back as he squirms, certain from experience that his partner is even wetter than he is. Will has a mind to shimmy underneath Hannibal’s robes, press his face into his crotch, and check for himself. He imagines the scenario: the sudden darkness enveloping him, lured by damp warmth, slick skin, and the overwhelming scent of musk. He pictures kissing Hannibal’s inner thigh, dragging his lips upwards inch by inch; the tickle of pubic hair, wet cock sliding over his face. Tainting him.
Will sets his jaw and tries to temper his wicked thoughts. If he’s not careful, he’s going to cum without being touched. It wouldn’t be the first time. Breathing hard, the medium offers up his other hand in sacrifice. Hannibal’s lips find Will’s neck as the boiling liquid leaves a waxy film on his skin, soothed by the balm of a kiss.
With his feet and wrists branded, there is only one mark left. Hannibal brushes Will’s curls to the side, exposing the pentagram tattoo at the nape of his neck; the same style as the one drawn on the morgue floor. The symbol is twisted and scarred, overlaid with faded bite marks—evidence of Hannibal’s previous work. He mouths at the tattoo, eliciting a groan from Will.
“So, when the dark forces invade your body and seek to burrow beneath your flesh…”
“I’ll tell them to keep digging,” Will growls, arching back against him. “They won’t find any gold inside me worth stealing… just a pit of their own making.”
Hannibal smirks against his skin, tracing Will’s spine with his fingers. Long, pale digits slide up his vulnerable neck and into his hair. They lock in place like the fine teeth of a comb, trapping Will in his grip, forcing him to lean forward.
“A place to be bound and devoured.”
A sob is ripped from Will’s lips as the final, searing kiss lands squarely in the centre of the tattoo, sealed in wax. His very limbs now reflect the holy pentagram, hands, feet, and head each forming one of the five points. The protective symbol will lend him strength in the trials to come.
Now that Will is prepared, Hannibal manoeuvres him slowly but surely towards the lockers. The medium’s eyes dart from left to right as he dithers, fear threatening to eclipse the spark of arousal.
“Might I suggest this one?” Hannibal prompts after a minute, gesturing to a locker on the second row from the bottom. It’s at the perfect height; easy for Hannibal to reach and for Will to step out of. The medium nods stiffly. His partner opens the door, sliding out the metal tray in expectation. Will reluctantly takes up position, lying supine, staring up at Hannibal. The other has the padlock ready. He holds it aloft, making sure that Will sees its wicked gleam; delights in the shiver of fear that runs through his naked body. As a part-time fly fisherman, Will knows how this works. To successfully lure their catch, the hook needs to be convincingly disguised, the bait too tempting to resist. From this point on, his life is in Hannibal’s hands.
“Remember who your meal ticket is, Hannibal.” The quiet threat cuts like a serrated blade. Hannibal can barely contain his indignance. How dare he. Will holds his smouldering gaze, posture almost casual, with one hand resting on his stomach and corresponding knee propped up. Both sense the shift in power. Hannibal no longer feels in command, despite looming over Will like a lordly lion prepared to pounce. Rather, it feels like there is a chain around his neck, and Will is his personal millstone.
“I don’t require you to sustain me,” he counters.
“Sure… but life isn’t just about what we ‘require’, is it?” Will points out, the hand resting on his stomach slowly moving lower, following the downy trail leading from his navel. Hannibal’s beady eyes are tracking his every move. Will smiles, faintly amused, and reaches up to caress his partner’s cheek. The words whispered in Hannibal’s ear are low and sincere, almost disguising the note of anxiety beneath: “From this point on, I won’t be quite myself. You do what you need to do, okay? Whatever happens next… I forgive you.”
As Will pulls back, Hannibal considers this for a moment. Despite the lip service, Will’s eyes are sharp and wary. They’ve been in similar positions before, but never with stakes this high. Will might be ‘trusting’ him, the same way a zookeeper voluntarily enters the hungry tiger’s enclosure out of duty, but he’s not stupid enough to believe he’s safe . Hannibal’s lip twitches. He leans down to give Will a parting kiss, but his hellfire eyes remain open as their lips move sweetly together.
With that, Hannibal pushes the body tray in. Inch by inch, the bright light of the morgue disappears as Will slides further into shadow, until the runners lock into place with a judder. Will barely has enough time to visually assess the dimensions of his prison—narrow width, low ceiling, far too fucking small—when the locker door swings shut, cutting off the last source of light. Then comes the ominous click of the padlock fastening on the door. Will swallows.
Don’t panic.
Testing the space, he finds the metal box is barely wider than his shoulders. He can’t bend his knees either. The hum of the refrigeration mechanism is Will’s only companion, accompanied by his chattering teeth. The cold is seeping into his bones. Will thinks this is what it must be like six feet under, swallowed by the damp, dark earth. His breaths are laboured, compounded by the shivers wracking his body.
Are morgue lockers airtight?
The thought only increases Will’s panic, blunt fingernails sliding against steel. Then, Hannibal’s voice sounds from outside:
“Mongoose, how is it?” he asks. Warm relief floods Will’s chest, and he relaxes a fraction. He’s not alone.
“Dark. Narrow,” he manages.
“Like the twisting passageways and alcoves of your mind that lead to strange and dangerous places.” Will releases a shaky breath as his partner’s honeyed words wash over him, eyelashes fluttering. His softening cock twitches between his legs in interest. Will’s earlier arousal has been dampened by fear and cold, but not quenched. He opens his legs as wide as he can, which isn’t very wide at all, and finally grasps himself firmly in hand. The strangled noise that escapes his throat is telling. “Are you touching yourself yet, my love?” comes the sly inquiry from outside.
“Yeah,” Will growls. His fingers slide up and down his neglected shaft, desire quickly re-awakening. Burning blood rushes through his body, pulse throbbing, shivers interspersed with hitched breaths. Demons are hedonistic creatures. They feed off the virility of the living, seeking to wear the skin of Men and walk amongst them undetected. The seventh-circle demon that haunts this morgue has been looking for a suitable host. A fresh, warm body to climb inside…
“Where is your hand right now?” Hannibal sounds so very close , like he’s pressed up against the door. He probably is, Will thinks, movements quickening. He pictures Hannibal bracing against the lockers with his legs spread, robes hiked up around his waist, dripping precum on the floor.
“O-on my cock… stroking. Imagining you.”
“Beautiful,” comes the growl of delight from outside.
Will’s eyes slip shut, walking the narrow tightrope between pleasurable indulgence and loss of awareness. The cold steel is a stark contrast against his overheated skin, heightening every sensation. The demon must be able to feel his presence by now. After all, he is so very warm … so very fresh.
You want me, don’t you? he thinks, pumping his cock harder, running his thumb across the slippery glans and sensitive frenulum, shuddering in bliss.
If left unchecked, the demon’s attacks will only grow bolder, turning its attention from the freshly deceased to the barely living. Will knows he must contain and destroy it here— tonight —before it attacks any more patients in the hospital, like that poor woman from the Burns Ward. Living vessels are the greatest prize for any demon, but possession only works on those with open, vulnerable minds. Thankfully, Will knows exactly how to make himself appear vulnerable.
He casts his mind back to the previous victims, thinking of the powdery ash coating his fingers and the scintillating aroma of burning flesh. In his current setting, putting himself in their shoes is all too easy. Light dances behind Will’s eyes as he pictures the atmosphere erupting into brilliant orange, every inch of skin awakened and assaulted like the sting of a thousand needles; flames licking his limbs until they melt like caramelised sugar, purifying his flesh and charring his lovely bones. Another burst of pleasure uncoils in his stomach.
“They couldn’t appreciate the beauty of the gift you gave them,” he declares, calling out to the darkness. “Their souls had already crossed to the other side… but I’m different. I’m awake. I came here, for you… because I want you.” With no small difficulty, Will manages to slide his other hand underneath his thigh, smearing the lube between his cheeks. As he pushes in, he makes a deliberate mewl at the back of his throat, which all the demons of Hell can hear—including Hannibal. “I want your warmth… I want to feel you, inside.”
A second digit slips in, finding the nub of his prostate with practiced ease. Will curls his finger inwards, and the pressure sends a delicious tingle through his limbs. He continues to stroke his cock as he works his hole. Ragged breaths and slick, wet sounds punctuate the pitch black. Will wonders if his lungs are burning because he’s so turned on, or because he’s running out of air. He focuses on the padlock in his mind’s eye, the inch-thick steel door separating him from safety.
You see me, don’t you? Helpless. Trapped. Suffocating. Go on then… take me.
Dimly, the medium senses a second presence on the periphery; feels a slight weight settle over him like a shroud of silk.
At last.
“Come inside,” he begs, imagining Hannibal spreading him, stretching him to breaking point. The second the plea passes his lips, Will lets out an anguished cry. His face is suddenly burning. It feels like someone has poured hot wax directly on his lips. As his mouth opens to release the scream, Will feels something pushing past his teeth, sliding along his tongue all the way to the back of his throat. His oesophagus burns as the entity tunnels inside him like a ravenous eel. Tears pour from his eyes, body contorting with effort, soft flesh pressed up against unforgiving steel. He takes refuge in pleasure to lessen the pain, but there will be more than a few bruises come morning… assuming he lives to see it.
As the burning heat reaches his chest, Will seizes the opportunity. All his muscles tense; the wax markers on his vital spots crack and crumble as he envisages spiritual chains bursting from every point. In a blink, Will’s body is transformed from vessel to prison. Heat erupts inside the steel box as the trapped demon scrabbles against Will’s ribcage for release, scorching his lungs from the inside.
“S- Stag,” Will chokes out. As talented a witch as he is, he hasn’t managed to contain all of it. Stray tendrils are trying to force their way back up his throat, cutting off his air.
Outside, Hannibal has turned off the morgue lights and is sitting on the autopsy table, surrounded by the heady scent of incense and the glow of candles. He too has abandoned his clothes in readiness for the next phase. He stares at the door of Will’s locker in expectation, one hand languidly stroking his cock, nostrils flaring at the first wisps of smoke.
“I’m afraid you’re not quite done yet, Mongoose,” he determines.
“Stag —open it!” Will’s twisted cry is followed by a hacking cough. Hannibal savours the sounds: muffled curses contained by steel, padlock jangling, heels banging against the locker door. He estimates the medium has contained around 50% of the entity’s spirit. Of course, he could intervene now—devouring half would be more than enough to drive it back into the seventh circle—but where would the satisfaction be in that? In his own words, Will is his ‘meal ticket’. The more excitable the medium becomes, the wilder and more desperate his emotions, the more dark energy he can absorb. Hannibal Lecter won’t be satisfied with a mere appetiser. He wants a full three-course meal, or nothing at all.
“Perhaps I should leave you in there,” he threatens, smearing precum across his nipples and pinching hard, revelling in every sensation this feeble, yet admittedly remarkable, human body can provide. He’s still smarting from Will’s earlier comment. Hannibal hates being reminded of the power this ostensibly unassuming man exerts over him—even down to the form he occupies. There is no denying that a life in captivity has its perks, much like the symbiotic relationship between the tiger and the zookeeper, but that doesn’t stop the beast behind bars hungering for wild jungles and the pride of an honest kill. “Shall I let you burn, as you make me burn for you?” Hannibal croons with bared teeth, straining against his mortal shackles. “At last, we would be free of each other.” Another slam against the steel door answers him.
“I’ll kill you.”
The hairs on Hannibal’s arms stand to attention, lust coiling in his gut. Sweet Will would never threaten his life; the voice speaking through him is something other, closer to a growl than human speech. The smoke spilling into the mortuary is getting thicker, a grey haze hanging in the air. He estimates the medium has absorbed around 70% now. Will is trapped in the literal and proverbial oven, and Hannibal is letting him cook.
“From in there, will you really?” he purrs, spreading his legs wider and sucking greedily on his fingers. Hannibal circles his puckered entrance, then pushes in to the first knuckle with a sigh, imagining all the delightful things he might do to his partner in short order. “Why the rush, my dear Mongoose? You’re taking it so well for me.”
Inside the locker, Will doesn’t feel ‘well’ in the slightest. The atmosphere is like a sauna. He thrashes and flails as sweat drips from every pore, the interior fast becoming inhospitable between the choking smoke and rising temperature. Will pushes against the steel walls on either side, the balls of his feet pressed against the door, back arching as he tries to lift himself free of the red-hot metal beneath him. Every searing kiss against his skin makes him hiss and mewl… because despite knowing the danger—despite knowing he’s dying—it feels good. The demon inside him is distorting his senses, turning his lust against him.
Seriously, that’s enough, Hannibal, Will thinks dazedly. The padlock has served its purpose. The demon took the bait and has been almost fully absorbed.
… Are you really trying to kill me?
Suddenly, there is light in the darkness. A distinct, flickering orange. Terror grips Will with an iron fist; his silhouette dances on steel walls as the initial spark of fire swells. His dark curls that Hannibal loves to manhandle now serve as tinder. It’s not just his overactive imagination this time. Will Graham is burning alive inside a morgue locker, and Hannibal Lecter is sitting out there, watching .
“Help me,” the medium whimpers as the flames climb higher. The scar on his stomach stabs him in spite, harking back to an earlier time in Will’s life. He remembers the weight of the ritual dagger in his hand, pints of precious lifeblood spilled during the summoning ritual. He’d almost died that night. Stabilising Hannibal in his mortal form had taken everything he had… and now, this is the thanks he gets? Rage lends Will strength. He sucks in what very well may be his last breath and bellows out at the top of his lungs: “For the love of God, Stag, fucking help me!”
Not a moment too soon, the locker door is thrown open, and the body tray is pulled out. Hannibal towers over Will in all his malevolent majesty; muscles rippling in readiness to fight, teeth bared, and naked want in his scarlet eyes. The relief that washes over Will is woefully short-lived. Perceiving a greater threat, the demon trapped inside him switches targets. The medium feels the shift as his limbs tense against his will. He has just enough time to give Hannibal a broken warning:
“L-left.”
Then, he strikes.
Will launches himself at Hannibal from his left side. The medium’s features are twisted in a snarl. One of his eyes burns with embers, whilst the other remains clear as a mountain lake. Having been forewarned, Hannibal catches his arm before the attack lands, save for a thin laceration across his cheek. Under the demon’s influence, Will’s nails have hardened and lengthened into claws. Quick as he can, Hannibal slides his hands underneath Will’s armpits and pulls him in. They are pressed chest to back, Hannibal’s biceps straining to contain the ‘man’ thrashing in his arms. He's still the stronger of the two of them. The demon inside Will realises this. There is a terrifying cracking as ‘Will’ turns his head 180 degrees. His teeth look much more like Hannibal’s now, incisors sprouting past his lips. This time, rather than trying fruitlessly to pull away, Will lunges in. He goes straight for Hannibal’s nose, fangs snapping, spit flying—determined to bite, to tear, to rip . In response, Hannibal grips Will by the remnants of his singed hair, holding him fast. Most people wouldn’t go near that sharp little mouth right now, but Hannibal Lecter is not so easily intimidated.
As soon as their lips crash together, Will feels the pressure in his chest lessen. His partner’s devouring tongue plunders him, siphoning off the evil spirit. Demons can only be killed by those of the same circle or higher; when Hannibal had reached out to Will all the way from the ninth gate, the young witch had jumped at the chance to bind him. The Guild has no idea, of course. Standard exorcism operating procedure dictates that demons should be bound inside inanimate objects. Swords are the traditional choice, but guns are becoming more popular as the profession modernises—something that cannot think or feel for itself, and therefore cannot disobey. Will Graham, however, cares little for unbending rules and procedures. He doesn’t want a mindless weapon to do his bidding. He wants like-minded company… an equal.
Will moans in gratitude as a glimmer of sanity returns. He twists his body around in Hannibal’s arms, relieving the pressure on his neck, and licks the cut on his cheek in apology.
“More,” he pants, clinging to his partner’s muscular shoulders for balance. Will needs Hannibal to fill him up; to extinguish the inferno consuming him from within, displacing it with his own brand of hot darkness. Their teeth click mid-kiss, tongues sliding messily over each other’s lips. As Hannibal’s grasping fingers sink into his ass cheeks, Will hooks a leg over his hip in encouragement, pressing their naked cocks together. “Fuck, I need more, Stag.” Hannibal doesn’t bat an eye as Will’s fingernails rake down his back, despite the bitter sting and blossoming warmth dripping down the rivets of his spine.
“Demanding boy,” he snarls quietly into his ear. “That’s quite enough of that.”
In one smooth motion, Hannibal rips out of Will’s grip. He twists one of his arms behind his back and marches Will over to the autopsy table. As soon as he crosses the boundary of the pentagram on the floor, the demon inside of Will gets its second wind. The medium’s voice is stolen away, replaced by animalistic noises as Hannibal bends him over by force, exclamations escalating into shrieking rage.
“So excitable,” Hannibal leers, pressing Will’s face down onto the metal table and shoving his thigh between his flailing legs. With his hair tangled up in Hannibal’s fingers, the pentagram at the nape of Will’s neck is exposed, the wax seal cracked and crumbling. A whimper escapes Will as he cranes his neck to look at his partner. Pained tears trickle from the corner of his eye, sliding down the bridge of his nose.
“Get it out of me,” he grits out. “Please.” Hannibal leans down and presses a kiss to the side of Will’s neck, tongue tracing his pulsing carotid artery. Will trembles as hot breath ghosts over his already overheated skin.
“For you, anything.”
With a single, sharp thrust, Hannibal buries himself inside Will all the way to the hilt. The medium jolts with a wail of delicious agony as his disobedient body tries to claw itself away across the table to escape. Hannibal doesn’t allow it. He holds Will by the hips and presses his full weight against him, keeping them connected. A low, guttural moan leaves him as Will’s inner muscles spasm deliciously around his cock, milking his precum. Demons cannot be negotiated with—only dominated.
Hannibal fucks into Will hard and fast, encouraged by the obscene sounds of slapping flesh and satisfied sobs. Will’s clawed hands are gripping the edge of the autopsy table, his knuckles turning white. Hannibal is thankful that he doesn’t have to worry about being gentle. Right now, Will’s body is not quite human. Torn ligaments will repair. Broken bones will fuse. Hannibal leans down, hissing into his partner’s ear:
“This body is spoken for.” The poisonous warning is directed not at Will but at the invader that lurks within. He punctuates the point with a particularly sharp thrust to Will’s prostate, delighting in how his entire body spasms. Despite this, Will manages to raise his head. His spine flexes, clawed hands reaching behind, scrabbling desperately at Hannibal’s ass and thighs. Deep gouges that are sure to scar. Hannibal’s skin is littered with them.
“Deeper,” Will spits, glaring at Hannibal with his mismatched eyes in greed, even as the dark spirit tries its best to push him off. “I need you deeper.” Hannibal makes a noise that is not of this earth; something neither human nor animal. It starts as a rumble deep in his chest, expressed as a solid note that makes Will’s skin erupt in goosebumps, like a lone wolf howling at the moon.
In a risky move, he pulls out of Will entirely and wrestles him off the table. There is a brief skirmish. The enraged demon manages to briefly gain the upper hand by sweeping Hannibal’s leg out from under him. They land hard on the floor with Hannibal flat on his stomach and Will on top, iron thighs clamped on either side of his partner’s. Hannibal feels the heat of Will’s erect cock pressed between his ass cheeks, rocking against him with deceptive gentleness. He teases Hannibal’s entrance in threat, wet cockhead pushing in just far enough for him to feel the stretch. Hannibal groans in frustration, sensitive hole twitching in desire. Under normal circumstances, he would enjoy this little role-reversal. He’s sorely tempted to arch his back and lift his hips, spread his cheeks wide, and offer himself up for the taking… until Will’s hands wrap around his neck from behind. Rough fingers squeeze with inhuman strength and razor claws skewer Hannibal’s throat, compressing his airway and crushing cartilage. Hannibal gasps and gurgles. Rivulets of blood run down his collarbone, smearing across his chest as he writhes on the floor. His back arches now for a different reason, trying to dislodge Will from his dominant position. These are not normal circumstances. No matter how intimate their exchange may look, this is business, not pleasure. Hannibal can’t afford to submit here. He must cleanse Will’s body of this unclean spirit and teach this interloper its place. If he should fail, then the medium’s soul will be…
“The hell is wrong with you?” a sharp voice berates from above. Anger surges in Hannibal’s gut, recognising the sound of Will’s true voice. He’s clearly struggling to get the words out. “You’re that goddamn desperate, you’ll let a half-rate demon fuck you? Is that all my blood bought… a glorified whore?”
Whether it is Will’s goading or the temporary easing of pressure from Hannibal’s throat that does it, the latter finally manages to turn the tables. With a silent apology, he jerks backwards and drives his elbow into Will’s ribs.
Crack.
The sound is sharp and echoing, like the snapping of a dry twig deep in the lonely woods. The sickening vibration travels up Hannibal’s arm and lodges in his throat, bone splintering beneath skin, jagged shards pressing inwards. Will gasps and reels away. Hannibal can smell the taint of blood on his breath, drawn from punctured lungs. He steels himself.
Make it count.
Before the medium can recalibrate, Hannibal grabs him by the hips and flips their positions. He’s taking no chances this time. Inch by bloody inch, he manoeuvres Will roughly back into the centre of the pentagram. Hannibal ignores the crunch of shattered ribs, the grinding components of Will’s bones beneath his palms as he pulls him up from the ground onto all fours… but that isn’t quite right, is it?
“No,” he snarls. “Face down.” Hannibal presses an insistent hand between Will’s shoulder blades. When the medium is too slow—or too far gone—to comply, he abandons subtlety. Hannibal kicks Will’s right elbow out from under him and forces him down so that his face and chest are pressed to the floor, with his plump ass in the air. ‘Deeper’, Will had demanded—and that’s exactly what he’s going to get. Hannibal places his foot on Will’s head, firm enough to keep him securely pinned but not enough to crush his skull. At the same time, he snakes his hand underneath Will’s left thigh and raises his leg off the ground, propping it over his shoulder. The medium is well and truly off-balance now, in no position to counterattack. His used hole is proudly on display for Hannibal’s inspection, red-raw, and glistening with wetness. Hannibal can’t resist a quick taste. He bends over, sliding his tongue flat across Will’s entrance, lapping up the sticky fluid. A peculiar flavour of tartness and grease. Hannibal relishes the taste as he applies himself with eagerness, saliva dripping from his chin. Only one clear thought runs through his mind:
Mine.
Will whines and tries to shrink away, but in this position, there is nowhere to hide. Hannibal’s spit lands between his cheeks and he works his dextrous tongue in deeper as he stares Will down from above. He may not be able to speak, but Will can plainly see the gloating in his scarlet eyes.
Now which of us is the 'whore', dear boy?
Finally, Hannibal straightens up, wiping his mouth in an almost gentlemanly fashion. He applies more pressure, leaning against Will’s raised leg to increase the stretch, leaking cock kissing Will’s balls before sliding teasingly back between his cheeks.
“Stag,” Will rasps; the throaty quality of his voice almost sends Hannibal over the edge right then and there. “Get this thing out of me. Fuck me. Please.”
Hannibal is only too happy to oblige. At this angle, he sinks into Will’s body with ease, carving out his rightful place next to his soul. The squirming remnant of evil in the medium’s body is nearly spent. It only takes a few frantic, plunging thrusts to finish the job. Bubbling desire rushes to the surface as their limbs quake, glass structures built over fault lines; sweat-covered skin sliding over each other, screaming muscles and burning bodies, hard flesh seeking friction. Feeding flames.
We might be the death of each other.
The thought is enough to make him break. White light erupts behind Hannibal’s eyelids. He sinks his teeth into the nearest available patch of skin (which happens to be Will’s calf), climax ravaging his nerve endings like wildfire. Blood floods his mouth as dark energy floods his soul, siphoned from the beautiful creature conjoined to him. Hannibal swallows with a depraved grin; tastes the iron and evil sliding down the back of his throat. Will himself is cursing Hannibal’s name and crying tears of rapture and agony as lashings of hot cum brand him from the inside. At last, the invading spirit is driven out. The psychological relief enables Will to finally let go. Cum spurts from his cock in thick bursts. Hannibal’s hand works him sloppily from behind, murmuring sweet nothings in his ear.
In the aftermath, both feel profoundly satiated; far deeper than the superficial satisfaction of orgasm. After a minute, Hannibal pulls out as gently as he can and lowers Will onto the floor. The medium is curled on his side, trembling and exhausted. Excess cum oozes from between his legs, dripping on the vinyl floor. Hannibal eases himself down beside him, peppering kisses from Will’s toes, up his thigh, carefully avoiding the ticklish spot on his waist that he knows Will hates, paying close attention to his abused neck.
“Will? Will, I need you to look at me,” Hannibal murmurs, nosing the base of his singed curls, their burnt scent still bitter and overwhelming. Finally, Will turns his head. His partner lets out a quiet sigh of relief, seeing that both his eyes are back to their usual shade of clear blue. “Do you think you can stand?”
Will nods mutely, accepting Hannibal’s offered arm as he stands on wobbly legs. His breathing sounds reassuringly stable, and the movement in his neck also appears normal. Hannibal makes a quick pass over his ribcage, satisfied that there doesn’t seem to be any lasting damage. Still… Hannibal winces, remembering the painful jab he dealt Will to the ribs. His wince is immediately followed by a twinge of resentment. He wishes he didn’t feel so much where Will Graham is concerned.
Hannibal retrieves a pack of wipes from his kit bag and diligently cleans his partner, paying attention to the crevices of his groin, between his thighs and cheeks. He places a soft kiss on each of his inner thighs as he passes by. Will leans placidly against the autopsy table until he’s finished, and then the pair replace their robes.
“What you said earlier, about freeing ourselves of each other… a part of you meant it,” Will states. His back is turned to Hannibal, staring at the locker that very nearly became his tomb. His voice is so painfully quiet.
Will hears the soft tap of steady footsteps approaching. He allows Hannibal to take his waist from behind—gentle now—feels the press of his chin against his shoulder. Hannibal’s free hand loops around and settles on Will’s abdomen, directly over his scar.
“I was… curious if either of us could survive separation.”
“And your conclusions?” Will asks tightly. It takes Hannibal a few moments to answer.
“Ignis aurum probat.”
Will twists around to frown at his partner in puzzlement.
“Fire proves gold,” he echoes.
“As suffering proves brave men,” Hannibal finishes. The gentle weight of his head falls against Will’s own. The medium senses the sincerity in his touch and in the cadence of his voice. “... You are the bravest man I’ve ever known, Will.’
Will leans back against Hannibal with a bittersweet smile, closing his eyes. They’ve never said: ‘I love you’. They likely never will; and yet, the way Hannibal breathes those words into his ear feels more real than any trite expression of affection. More sacred than any prayer. Will turns his head, blindly seeking Hannibal’s lips with his mouth. His partner obliges him, moving sweetly together.
A day will come when the spell that binds their souls finally breaks. A day will come when old age and infirmity have their wicked way, and Will Graham breathes his last… but not today. Today, Hannibal takes Will’s hand to lead him home, their fingers slotting together, gold signet rings nestled side by side.
Wherever their twisted path may lead, they’ve always been headed for the same destination.