Hannibal looks up when he hears a soft scratching at his door. He smiles, setting down the cutting knife next to the slices of carrots and spring greens, and goes to the back door leading to his modest yard. There is a wolf there, panting and muddy, and Hannibal opens the door for him and allows him into the small room between the kitchen and the backyard, where there are places for coats and dirty shoes and, in the corner, a large plastic bin.
The wolf enters, licking Hannibal's wrist, and hops into the bin. There's blood on his jaws and around his forelegs, deeply etched into his fur. Hannibal looks to the backyard and sees nothing – the walls are high enough to protect privacy and the open gate leads to the little copse of trees and ravine behind his home. There are no prying eyes.
He closes the door and puts on a pair of thin gloves. They're plastic, not used for gardening nor for washing dishes. The wolf licks his jaws and gazes up at Hannibal with golden, glowing eyes. He smiles and takes the coiled-up hose that threads through the wall and to a faucet, and turns it on so that warm water starts rushing out. The bin in which the wolf stands has a drain in it that leads back to the outside.
He kneels down outside of the bin and the wolf whines, ducking his head as Hannibal angles the hose so that it pours over his fur, cleaning him of mud and blood. The wolf stays perfectly still, knowing better than to nuzzle Hannibal or wag his tail when Hannibal is cleaning him lest it send the water flying.
Hannibal rakes his fingers through the wolf's thick fur, following with the hose and then with his fingers again, in small patches as he cleans the wolf thoroughly. He takes his time and throughout it all the animal remains quiet, catching his breath and licking his jaws whenever water runs down his forehead and darkens the fur on his muzzle.
The wolf is all white. A wolf, he remembers reading, many months before when they'd first met, symbolizes instinct, intelligence, an appetite for freedom, and awareness of the importance of social connections. The white wolf especially represents a balance and bridge between two worlds, two colliding purposes that must meet in harmony to succeed.
It is a fitting metaphor, Hannibal thinks, as the last of the mud and dirt is washed away. Hannibal lessens the pressure of the water flow and cups the wolf's head.
The wolf sits, whining softly, ears back as Hannibal runs the nozzle of the hose over his head, letting it drip down his face. He cleans the wolf's face without comment, occasionally meeting the animal's eyes. A dark intelligence sits there, visible in the gold, and Hannibal thinks, every now and again, the wolf smiles back at him.
When he is done, he turns the hose off and lets the end of it sit in the basin. "Stay right here," he says, and stands, taking off his gloves and setting them to one side. The wolf huffs in response and Hannibal goes back inside to his linen closet, taking out a rough picnic blanket and a thick towel. He also brings back a soft strip of leather, the ends lightly curved and the strings made out of goatskin.
He re-enters the room and sets the blanket down on the clear space on the floor and the wolf hops up over the lip of the bin, standing on the blanket. Hannibal cups his face first with the towel, cleaning his fur with gentle hands, wiping over his eyes and under his throat. The wolf's eyes are heavy-lidded – it's almost morning, and the full moon will soon start to set. He'll be exhausted by the time Hannibal is done.
Hannibal cleans him as thoroughly as he is able, and then lays the towel over his back. He kneels in front of the wolf and cups his ears, scratching behind them, and the wolf licks his wrist again with a rumble of thanks.
He smiles, and takes the muzzle. The wolf's ears flatten briefly but he doesn't protest when Hannibal fits his soft nose into the leather, pulling it tight over his jaws to keep his teeth together, and wraps the strings behind his ears. The muzzle is fairly lightweight and won't hold if the wolf decides to really fight it, but he never does. He sighs and Hannibal rubs a hand over his forehead, down between his eyes.
"Sleep, dear Will," he says, and the wolf lays down with another sigh, eyes closing. Hannibal stands, and puts on his plastic suit, and goes outside to see what Will has brought him.
Hannibal and Will have an arrangement. Hannibal doesn't ask where the blood and the bodies come from, and Will doesn't ask what happens to them when he's a human again. Hannibal takes the carcass of a man into his basement, drags it past the wolf's sleeping form and through the kitchen entrance. Will went straight for the throat, as he always does, and did no harm to the meat.
Hannibal smiles. He's learning control. In the first few months, Will would rip apart his kills to the point where most of it was unusable.
He takes all of the meat and organs, drains the blood for Will to drink later, and by the time he has stored and sealed whatever is usable and gone back upstairs, dawn is breaking out. He goes back to his carrots and greens and continues to prepare breakfast for Will.
After the full moon, Will needs meat and sugar – and lots of it. Hannibal candies the fat from the man's ribeye cut, he prepares a meal rich with iron and protein for his companion.
At around eight in the morning, he hears the door to the kitchen open, and looks up when Will enters. His hair is fluffy and curling around his neck, his eyelids drooping, the towel wrapped around his waist and the blanket sitting cape-like on his shoulders. He gives Hannibal an off-kilter, tired smile, and Hannibal smiles back.
"Should be ready in about ten minutes," he says. "Get dressed and set the table."
Will nods, ducking his head in deference, and leaves the kitchen to go to the guest bedroom where they keep his clothes for after a shift. Will always runs to Hannibal during the full moon, and after the first few months Hannibal had begun keeping a permanent store for him to brush his teeth, get dressed, and feel somewhat human again.
Will leaves the muzzle on the kitchen counter and Hannibal smiles.
He comes back down a few minutes later and takes two plates and sets of silverware from Hannibal's cabinets, as well as glasses for wine. Hannibal continues to work in silence as the scents of meat and caramelized sugar fill the house.
When he's done, he brings the meal to the dining room table, along with two decanters. One of them has the dead man's blood in it, the other has wine. Hannibal has never been someone who restricts his tastes to times of day, and on full moon days, the night becomes the waking hours.
He sits and Will regards the meal with sleepy eagerness. He waits as Hannibal cuts him a thick slice of meat and puts it on his plate, along with a serving of carrots and greens. Then he pours a sweet and tangy sauce over the meat, made out of blood and maple and orange, and sits down.
Will waits. The Alpha always eats first.
Hannibal pours Will a glass of the blood, strained and watered down to resemble dark red wine, and then pours himself a glass of white wine. He sits, and waits, while Will licks his lips and curls his nails into the tablecloth.
Will's eyes rise to meet his. The gold in his eyes is gone, wiped away with the daylight, and now they're icy blue like iron caked in salt. Hannibal smiles, sets his wine glass down, and starts to eat.
Will waits until he takes his first bite, before he digs into his own meal.
When Hannibal had first met Will, he'd been an angry and squirrely thing, a rabid mongoose just waiting for a cobra to slither too near to him. Werewolves are rare, outcasted members of society, and Hannibal had suspected Will's true nature when they'd first met. Wolves have a very particular scent; dry fur and pine needles and mint. To have a werewolf working for the FBI and tracking serial killers is a controversial idea, and adding to that Will's particular way of looking at the world, Hannibal had found himself intrigued and surprised by Jack's decision to pursue his employment.
He understands better, now. And Will understands him. Though Hannibal is no wolf, he's a predator in his own right, and through their friendship and companionship they had come to this arrangement. He allows Will to imprint on him – the lone wolf with a pack of dogs loyal to his rule – and in return, Hannibal has a lovely hunting partner, and a scapegoat should the walls ever come closing in.
Will lets out a hum of pleasure, his plate already almost clean, his first glass half-full. Hannibal smiles. "How was the run last night?" he asks.
"Good," Will replies. His voice is usually hoarse from howling the day after a full moon. Hannibal remembers the first time he'd head it. It's a beautiful sound. "I met another wolf. A female. We ran together for a while."
Hannibal pauses, lifting his gaze.
Will smiles, knowing Hannibal's possessive nature even though neither of them have given voice to it. "Her mate showed up soon after," he says, and Hannibal releases tension in his shoulders that he will never admit was there. "There are sweet berries growing now."
"Blackberries?" Hannibal asks.
Will lifts one shoulder in a shrug. He likes to leave hints like this, telling Hannibal what he wants to eat. Hannibal files that information away for next time.
Will leans in to take another sip of his drink, then swallows it loudly and works his jaw from side to side. Will's transformation to and from his wolf is seamless – at least, Hannibal never sees evidence of skin and flesh after the fact. He suspects Will eats it in lieu of other kills to consume – but his jaw and his teeth often ache for a while after the change. The muzzle helps, forcing his teeth together so he doesn't bite his tongue or anything else when he changes.
"I think there will come a time when disappearances and moon phases start to click together in Jack's mind."
Will hums. "There are enough of us that I won't be suspect." He smiles. "For a while, at least. Jack doesn't think I have it in me."
"Do you think he's ignorant, or willfully blind?"
"The end result is the same." Will's eyes slant to Hannibal and he smiles again, showing the sharp points of his fangs that never quite go away. Hannibal smiles back. "Just like a kill, or a pregnancy. The thing itself is more important than who did it."
"I'm not sure how you can say that, given your line of work," Hannibal replies mildly.
"When you read a novel, or hear a musical score, do you give more thought to who wrote it, or how it affects you in that moment?"
"A connoisseur measures both."
Will huffs a laugh that sounds like a growl. "Jack is not a connoisseur."
Hannibal hums. No, he supposes Jack isn't. He takes a sip of wine.
"Have you ever given thought to joining a pack?" Hannibal asks after another moment of silent consumption.
Will lifts his upper lip, growling in distaste. "No," he replies.
"May I ask why?"
"You can ask," Will replies, smiling and playful. Hannibal is reminded of a puppy greeting its master when he first walks in the door. "It is the same reason I will never truly belong with the FBI. I am from both worlds, and neither all at once. Predator and prey. Monster and man. It's a purgatory in which I have only ever seen one companion."
Hannibal smiles, unable to stop the warm glow of pride and pleasure in his chest. "You fear pack mentality may overcome you?"
"It's easy to know who and what you are when there's only one other thing to compare to," Will says lightly. He finishes his glass and Hannibal stands to pour him another. There wasn't much to get from the man, since Will seemed to have bled him mostly dry and worn the stains on his fur.
"Tell me, then, what and who do you think you are?"
Will smiles. The blood stains his teeth at the edges, sits heavy on his tongue. "I am me," he replies. "With all the rough and broken edges."
"What a large leap forward you have taken since when we first met."
"It's easy to move forward with a goal in mind," Will murmurs. He cleans his plate.
"Would you like more?"
Will shakes his head. "I'm good for now," he replies. Hannibal knows his metabolism will trigger a hibernation-like instinct in him. He will consume the rest of the man with Hannibal within the next day, he is sure.
Hannibal nods. "Come help me clear this, then," he says. Will stands, allowing Hannibal to put the serving dish in his hands, and follows Hannibal to the kitchen. The wolf in Will appreciates structure and clear orders, and submits to Hannibal like any lesser wolf would in a pack. This is another thing Hannibal suspects Will likes about their arrangement. With Hannibal, there is one Alpha, one person above him, with none of the red tape and social constructs within the human world and the FBI. Will need only worry about obeying Hannibal's wishes, and knows that he is second in line for the throne.
Hannibal gestures for Will to set the dish down and commands him to go back for their plates, silverware, decanters, and wine glasses. Will obeys with another deferential nod while Hannibal busies himself with portioning out the leftovers and placing them in easily-managed containers for future meals. Then, he fills the sink and allows the rest of the dishes to soak in the warm water.
Will sighs, his eyes heavy and jaw lax, and comes to a stop by Hannibal's side as Hannibal cleans and rinses the dishes. He hands each to Will for Will to dry and place on the counter to put away later.
"You seem more tired than usual," Hannibal notes after a few moments of companionable silence.
Will huffs, smiling lopsided and gentle. "Worried for me, Doctor Lecter?"
"As much as I worry for any of my friends," Hannibal replies.
Will huffs again and turns to regard him once the last wine glass is set to one side. Hannibal drains the sink and meets his gaze. "We're not friends," Will murmurs. He wipes his hands on the towel and hands it to Hannibal to do the same.
Hannibal cocks his head to one side, dries his hands, and sets the towel away. "What would you call us, then?"
Will smiles. "What we have is a symbiotic, codependent relationship that would sooner be destroyed by the outside world than accepted, should it become public. I provide for you, and you provide for me in return. Your hands are never dirty, my belly is never empty."
Hannibal hums, and succumbs to the urge to reach out and touch Will. He puts his hand in Will's thick, curling hair, and Will bites his lower lip and steps closer to Hannibal's space, his breath stuttering when Hannibal pulls tight.
"You say these things like you wish to change them," Hannibal murmurs. Will's head is tilted up, his neck exposed should Hannibal want to grab it, the sliver of his pretty eyes visible under lowered lids. His lips are parted, showing the edges of his fangs and the sweet slip of his tongue. "Are you dissatisfied with my care, Will?"
"No," Will whispers, his voice rumbling. "But sometimes I wish you could join me out there."
It's not the first time that Will has mentioned something like this. But it is simply not possible – Hannibal cannot join him in a full moon hunt. It's too dangerous for normal men, even if Will were to protect him. And the only alternative would be to accept the bite and change himself, which is similarly unthinkable. Hannibal finds the idea of losing control of his own body incredibly distasteful, and as much as he adores listening to Will howl and imagines the pretty white wolf hunting and prowling through the darkness in the night, he cannot justify being there himself.
It is Will's hunt, and Will's nature that must be cultivated and satisfied. Hannibal has reached the peak of his evolution already.
Will smiles, because he knows what Hannibal would say if he deigned to reply. He leans in and kisses Hannibal, chaste and closed-lipped, knowing Hannibal will pull away if he feels Will's teeth. Hannibal tightens his hand in Will's hair and pulls him back when Will gasps, a soft whine sitting low in his throat, his eyes flashing gold.
Hannibal smiles and rubs his thumb across Will's scruffy jaw, from the middle of his chin to the corner where it becomes his neck, and cups his cheek. Will presses his lips together, his eyes wide and wanting, and he touches Hannibal's chest, nails curling in his clothes.
Now that the full moon is over, Will's wolf won't force his body to shift again until the night before the next one, but the animal under his skin is still very much there, watching and waiting, a curled up guard dog with one eye open and ears cocked towards the door.
Will lowers his eyes after a moment, unable to hold Hannibal's gaze. His empathy and his animal nature force him to avoid eye contact at all costs, lest he see too much, or not enough, or feel compelled to defend himself and go for the throat.
Hannibal smiles when Will does this, pleased with his submission, and he lets Will go and turns, heading towards the upper level when the bedroom is. Will follows, sluggish but eager, just a little behind Hannibal and to one side so that he can see, but will not overtake.
Hannibal opens his bedroom door and allows Will inside, shutting and locking it behind them both. Will walks to the window, as he normally does, compelled to spread his scent over the room and mark it like his master does. Every full moon Will runs in concentric circles around Hannibal's property, marking his territory and killing anything he deems unworthy of living on the same land. One month he brought back the body of another wolf, still-shifted. Hannibal had never tasted werewolf until that day.
Will touches the curtains, rubs his jaw against them, then turns away and brushes his hands over the back of Hannibal's chair set at the end of his bed. Hannibal allows him to scent mark as much as he needs to – although Hannibal's sense of smell is phenomenal, Will's during the full moon rivals even his. He likes catching traces of Will's scent in his sheets and pillows after Will has gone.
"Will," he calls, and Will's head snaps up. Hannibal smiles and gestures to one of the seats. He doesn't tell Will to sit – that is condescending and rude. Will is not an animal that should be leashed and trained. He is a forest spirit, a God's war dog. Hannibal would never tell him to 'Sit' or 'Stay' like he would a domesticated breed.
Will's eyes flash, and he obeys, taking a seat. Hannibal circles behind the chair and slides his hands into place on Will's shoulders. Will is always sore in certain places after a change – his jaw, his shoulders, his tailbone, and his hips usually suffer the most.
Hannibal kneads his thumbs into the meat of Will's shoulder until Will lets out a quiet, needy sound, his head falling forward and his elbows resting on his knees. Hannibal slides his hands up, past the collar of Will's t-shirt, and cups the front of his throat, massaging his sore jaw. "What hurts the most?" Hannibal asks.
Will gasps, whining quietly. "My back," he replies, and Hannibal knows he means his tailbone and hips.
Hannibal nods, and takes his hands away, smiling at the sweet whine Will lets out. "Hush, darling," he says, and kisses the top of Will's head before he steps away, to the small dresser by the side of his bed on which he sleeps.
In the bottom drawer is a clear mask. Hannibal had it made the first time Will spent the night in his home after a full moon shift. It's perfectly fitted to cradle and put pressure on Will's jaw, which helps the soreness in his teeth, and curves up over most of his nose. There are dips for his cheeks, and holes for him to breathe through his nostrils and a set of four holes in a square so that he can breathe and speak, and then straps that go over his ears and wrap around his head, and under his ears to put tight pressure at the base of his skull.
He takes the mask and steps up behind Will again. Will is incredibly still – he can smell the plastic and knows what Hannibal is holding. Hannibal leans forward so that Will can see it, and slides it into place under Will's jaw and over his nose.
Will whines, his nails going tight in the sides of the seat of the chair, but he doesn't fight the muzzle as it settles in place on his face. Hannibal tightens the straps until he knows that Will, while still able to breathe and bare his teeth if needed, will have some trouble speaking, and won't be able to open his jaw for any reason.
Hannibal runs his fingers through Will's hair, catching on the straps, and leans down to put his lips by Will's ear. "Good?" he murmurs, pleased when Will's neck and arms break out in goose bumps. Will nods, lifting his chin like he's testing the flex and give of the plastic, and his eyes close. Hannibal smiles and kisses Will's exposed neck gently. "Alright, darling. Get undressed and lay on the bed."
Will nods, his head rolling to one side when Hannibal lets him go. He swallows and pulls his shirt over his head and shoves his sweatpants down his legs, leaving them in a pile under the chair, and he climbs onto Hannibal's bed.
He kneels like a dog, at first, stretching his arms out and rolling his shoulders. He lowers his chest until his lower back cracks, hissing at the sensation, and spreads his knees out so that he can slide into place on Hannibal's sheets. Hannibal watches him do it, admiring the sharp flex of Will's ribs when he heaves a breath; the strength in his pale thighs as he shifts his weight and spreads out on Hannibal's bed; the redness of his cheeks as he starts to flush under Hannibal's scrutiny; the way his knuckles turn white on the bed and then release when he settles into place.
Hannibal sheds his tie, waistcoat, and belt, and places them with his shoes and socks in a much neater pile on the other chair. After another moment of deliberation, he exchanges his suit pants and shirt for a soft t-shirt and lounge pants, knowing that the material will be less abrasive on Will's sensitive skin.
From the same drawer in which the mask is kept, he has a bottle of massage oil. It's completely unscented so that it doesn't offend either his or Will's sensitive noses.
Hannibal kneels on the bed and then prowls over Will, settling his weight heavily on the backs of Will's thighs. Will sucks in a shaky breath, turning his head to one side so he can see Hannibal, his hands sliding up to sink under the pillows, shoulder tensing in readiness.
Hannibal smiles and leans down to kiss the part of Will's cheek not covered by the mask. "Relax, darling," he murmurs, cradling Will's throat gently until he feels the soft rumble of Will's purr against his fingers. "I'll take care of you."
He sits back and uncaps the oil bottle, pouring some onto his fingers. He closes the bottle and sets it to one side, and rubs it over both hands until his fingers and palms are slick.
Will's skin is warm under his fingers. He has scars from fights with other wolves, a short and deep one under his shoulder blade from another wolf's claws, a bite mark on his side just below his ribs. They are all old – since he started coming to Hannibal, the wolves have left him more or less alone, like they sense there is another predator who is just as dangerous at any other time of the month and are unwilling to damage his lovely companion and incur his wrath.
He plants his hands flat on either side of Will's spine and rubs up, humming when Will's spine cracks and stretches under his touch. "Perhaps it would be wise to start some stretching exercises before your runs," Hannibal says lightly. There are several knots in Will's back he will have to pay closer attention to in a moment. "It would likely ease the transition and lessen your pain."
Will hums, smiling behind his mask. "And deny you the pleasure of doing it yourself?" he asks, the words muffled and half-formed, but understood nonetheless. Will's body is like a half-finished sculpture, still needing tender and formative touches. Will knows how much Hannibal enjoys touching him, shaping his muscles and his spine into whatever Hannibal desires.
Hannibal allows a silence, then; "Yes, perhaps you're right," he replies, and Will hums again. His eyes close and he goes lax under Hannibal, and then Hannibal slides his hands down to Will's tailbone and presses down harshly.
Will tenses, whining softly. It does hurt, Hannibal knows it does, and Will's skin is warm and tender under his fingertips. He swipes his thumbs with great pressure around the knots on either side of Will's spine, forcing the hard pinches of angry muscle away until Will's skin is pink and hot, his back starting to shine with sweat, his shoulders rolling.
Hannibal leans down, presses a kiss to Will's spine, and breathes in deeply. The scent of Will's arousal is sharp and minty, cutting through Hannibal's nose and making a space in his lungs. Will enjoys the pain, Hannibal knows this – his wolf is a lovely masochist. When his head gets dark and the guilt of his kills threatens to overwhelm him, Hannibal is there to serve him the punishment he needs to feel clean again. Like a priest and a supplicant, Will kneels at the altar of his sins and offers his flesh up to his God.
Will pulls his arms down and lifts his shoulders and nape into Hannibal's mouth, shivering when Hannibal kisses him there, too. "Lay back down," Hannibal commands, and Will does with a soft whimper, his chest flat to the bed and his hips rolling to escape Hannibal's harsh touch and to grind against the sheets in turn.
Hannibal slides his hands up Will's back again, thumbs working through each knot he finds with deliberate, precise care. Soon there are pink splotches of heat all over Will's back, where Hannibal forced the muscles into submission, drew the lactic acid out of him and forced it to spread. Will is trembling, sweating and fine under Hannibal.
Then, Hannibal turns his attention to Will's hips. The change from canine to human joint placement takes a toll here. He curls his fingers around Will's jutting hipbones, kneads his fingers there sharply and tugs on Will's hips like he's forcing them to rise. With his weight on Will's thighs, Will cannot obey fully, so it forces his back to curve and his hips to lift against Hannibal.
Will lets out a small, breathy growl, his purr loud in the otherwise quiet room. Hannibal works his thumbs under Will's ass, teases at the insides of his thighs, and massages the muscles until they're shaking.
Hannibal smiles, and gathers more oil onto his fingers.
He bends over Will again and kisses his flushed neck, spreads his hands wide on Will's hips. Will turns his head and lifts his neck into Hannibal's mouth, whining softly in need. Hannibal wants to bite him, but unfortunately he can't. Drinking a wolf's blood has the same effect of their bite, and would change him. Their meat is different – Hannibal can cook the toxins out of it and render it safe – but when it's raw, it's dangerous. Just like Will.
Will moans, closing his eyes when Hannibal opens his mouth wide and sucks a dark mark onto his shoulder. Just because he cannot consume Will, it doesn't mean he cannot pretend. He thinks Will might want him to bite down, wants Hannibal to claim him in that undeniable way wolves do. Mated wolves bite each other, and every now and again one can see a man or woman with a large mark on their neck that gives them away more than their behavior and golden eyes.
Will can't speak, but he whines and arches his ass up into Hannibal's hands, and it's just as effective as a plea.
Hannibal leans back so that he can watch when his first slick finger sinks into Will's hole, his other hand spreading him apart to expose him. Will accepts him graciously. His body knows the touch of its master and its mate.
It hadn't always been like this. The sexual aspect of caring for Will after a full moon is new. It started with Hannibal cleaning him and fetching his kills. Then, it turned into giving Will a place to sleep and nest the day after. Then the massages, when Hannibal noticed Will's stiff movement and the way he would wince whenever he touched his jaw.
At first, Hannibal had resisted it. Fucking Will seemed too close to fucking an animal, when he lacked the understanding to know that Will always is an animal. His skin changes, but the dark instincts and desire for blood and viscera remain at all times. His sharp tongue and beautiful way of thinking about the world draws Hannibal to him, to his brain and his body and his mouth.
This is just another way Hannibal takes care of Will. Without a pack, Will lacks a place in the world, lacks a master to calm and settle him and tell him how to think. Will doesn't need to think when he's with Hannibal; he simply has to follow.
Hannibal adds a second finger, well-versed in how a man's body is laid out so that he finds Will's prostate easily. Will gasps, tensing up and shivering under him, his hips rolling to chase the pressure of Hannibal's bed against his cock and Hannibal's fingers touching him. Hannibal takes his thumb and presses it behind Will's balls, massaging the sensitive point from both sides until Will starts to purr and whine all at once. It's a jagged, discordant noise, all the more beautiful to Hannibal's ears.
He keeps touching Will, adding a third finger when he feels Will start to get tight around him. Will gasps, moaning loudly through his clenched teeth, his hips juddering and thighs tensing under his weight. He smiles when he feels Will's orgasm overtake him, a choked-off growl sitting low in his throat as Will bears down on his fingers, like he's trying to force them out. Hannibal does not allow him to, but keeps touching Will until his moans turn into plaintive whines and his body twitches in something like pain.
He pulls his fingers out, wipes them on Will's sweaty skin, and pushes his lounge pants down to his thighs so that he can touch his cock. He's hard and red, enchanted with the way Will's body remains pinned and pliant underneath him.
He slides a hand up Will's slick back, flattens his hand on Will's neck, and digs his nails in tightly. He goes to his knees and guides his cock against Will's slick hole and Will moans when he pushes inside.
Will reaches back, wrapping one hand tight around Hannibal's arm as Hannibal thrusts into him, sinking in all the way. Hannibal's jaw clenches and his eyelids flutter in pleasure. Will always feels so good, and his scent is sharp and lovely. Hannibal leans down and edges his teeth against Will's shoulder as he starts to build up a rhythm. It's punishing and fast, and Will jerks, overstimulated and raw but he doesn't try to get Hannibal to stop, doesn't flinch from him, doesn't whimper or growl.
Hannibal fucks him harshly, uninterested in getting Will hard a second time. He carves out a space for himself inside of Will, claims the wolf that so willingly and desperately prowled into his lair. Will moves under him, pulls his knees together and arches up into Hannibal's thrusts. It jars his whole body, chokes his breath and makes his lungs seize.
Hannibal finishes quickly, pressing deep into Will and staining his insides with his release. Will moans when he does it, trembling with every twitch of Hannibal's cock against his sore rim. Hannibal squeezes his neck sharply, cementing his dominance in Will's mind, and pulls out and releases his neck.
Will gasps, sliding to his elbows and knees when Hannibal moves away from him. Hannibal pulls his lounge pants back up to his waist and takes Will by the hips, easing him forward so his chest is low to the bed. There's a slick line of white leaking out of Will's ass and Hannibal hums, leaning in to lick him clean. He scoops it onto his tongue and presses it back into Will's ass, and the action makes Will shiver again.
"Good boy," Hannibal murmurs, raking his nails down Will's trembling thighs, and he kisses the divots at the small of Will's back.
Will turns his head and whimpers for him, eyes glazed and needy. There's a wet spot on Hannibal's sheets from his own release and Hannibal smiles, scooping it onto his fingers so that he can taste Will here, too. Will always tastes so sweet after his change.
He climbs off the bed and holds out a hand and Will turns, crawling to the end of the bed. He puts his cheek in Hannibal's palm and Hannibal undoes the straps of the muzzle around his head and takes it away. Will's jaw is red from the pressure, there's a line across his nose from where it cut into him. He looks marked, gorgeous when his jaws part and he starts to pant.
Hannibal takes him by the neck and pulls him up to his knees. His thumbs press on either side of Will's jaw like one might milk a snake, and Will's lips part. Hannibal licks into the opening between his sweet lips, shares the taste of them both with Will's tongue. Will knows better than to close his jaws and bite Hannibal when he does it.
He pulls back and Will licks his lips and swallows. He looks at Hannibal like Hannibal has given him the antidote to a poison sitting in his blood. "How are you feeling?" Hannibal asks, and curls his fingers in Will's hair.
Will's eyelids flutter. "Sleepy," he rasps, his voice hoarse. "Hungry."
Hannibal smiles, cups Will's cheeks, and kisses his forehead. "I'll make something for you to eat," he says, and Will nods. "I'll call you when it's ready."
"Thank you," Will murmurs, and leans up to run his nose under Hannibal's jaw. He licks Hannibal's neck – the one freedom Hannibal allows because he knows it's important to Will to show his thanks and submission in this way. And Hannibal will freely admit that he enjoys it.
He smiles and kisses Will chastely once more. "Rest, dear Will," he murmurs, and Will nods, eyelids drooping. Hannibal lays him back down on the bed, covers him with the ruined sheets, and goes downstairs to make lunch.