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To Love A Wild Thing

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"Now, now, Will." Hannibal taps his thigh. "Heel."

Will - who had been snarling at the poor Mr. Manley - immediately returns to Hannibal's side, kneeling by Hannibal's chair. His blood-stained teeth are still bared, however, and Manley looks on the verge of pissing himself in fright.

"You have nothing to fear from my pet," Hannibal says, reaching down to run an idle thumb along Will's black collar, because Will finds it calming. "He's perfectly trained. He won't attack anyone unless it is on my command."

"And w-will you command it?"

Hannibal permits himself a smile. "That depends."

Manley holds out the contract with trembling hands; Hannibal takes it. "Everything is as you asked, Dr. Lecter," Manley says, his eyes darting nervously to Will as he speaks. "The meat-processing factory, with all of its machinery, will be turned over to you."

"And the abattoir?"

"That, too."

Hannibal's smile widens; he's always wanted to have his own abattoir, for obvious reasons. "Excellent. Will, see the gentleman out."

"I... I can find my own way," Manley stammers, as if Hannibal has just set a hunting-dog on him. Well, he's not wrong. That's what 'seeing people out' generally entails.

"Nonsense. That would make me a terrible host." Hannibal snaps his fingers, and Will is instantly on his feet, his gaze fixed unerringly on Manley, his long, rangy body graceful as a greyhound's as he lopes forward. Will tilts his head as he approaches Manley, his nostrils flaring as he breathes in the stench of terror that must, no doubt, be rolling off Manley's portly form.

Manley stumbles backward.

"Allow me to show you to the door," Will rasps, his voice hoarse with disuse, because the only thing he normally uses his vocal chords for nowadays is begging Hannibal when he's being fucked. "Please, follow me."

Perhaps Manley can hear the subtle growl reverberating beneath Will's words, because he shivers, tossing a panicked, desperate glance at Hannibal.

Hannibal ignores it, concentrating on his paperwork. He scarcely notices them leaving. And if, ten minutes later, he hears a faint, gurgling scream from the front lawn, he pays it no mind. Will knows better than to dirty the floor by reentering the house dripping with blood, so he'll go to the shed that is his second home, instead, licking the gore from his lips and his arms, patient and doglike, the shard-like sharpness of his eyes soft and sated at last. It takes hours of fucking to reduce Will to that state, but a good kill - especially one involving ripping throats open - manages to soothe Will in minutes, by giving Will the outlet he needs for his savagery, his madness, his never-ending hunger.

Hannibal understands hunger. That's why he can own Will so deeply, so completely. That's why he's been able to break Will, who was, until he was sold to Hannibal, unbreakable.

By sunset, Hannibal is finally done with his work. He sets his patients' files aside and sighs, cracking his knuckles before gathering up the chain that hangs from the hook at the edge of his desk.

It's time to take Will out for his walk. To have him bathe in the lake near Hannibal's estate. And then, to lead him back into the house and upstairs to Hannibal's bedroom, and be gentle with him, gentle enough to make Will shudder, to make Will plead as though he were human again, to make Will cry those pretty tears of his.

There's nothing quite as satisfying as taming a wild thing.