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"Patience is key. The newly made will be confused and ravenous. Often dangerous. Everyone is different, but most fledglings are wild and difficult to control. It's not their fault, of course. They are changing, which is uncomfortable. The Terrible Twos and puberty all over again." Hannibal smiles, slightly mocking. "It will be difficult for both of us."

Will strains against the industrial strength nylon straps holding him to the bed. He's bound at the wrists, the ankles, and across the chest.  He's been in bed for, by his uncertain count, four days and three nights. The sheets are rumpled but clean and fresh smelling as if they were newly laundered. Will still has terrible nightmares but apparently vampires don't sweat. His mind still reels at the revelation. It’s strange because he can feel the fear, the sickening disbelief, but he swears his pulse never gets above sixty beats per minute. His body will not respond to his horror. He feels bare, scoured of all mundane human soil like a rock eroded by wind.

Except for the blood.

Hannibal watches Will struggle for a few minutes and then continues. He meticulously folds up the sleeve of his crisp navy shirt as he speaks in a calm lecturer's voice.

"This stage lasts a week or so. Your body is still adapting itself to its new purpose."

"You- you... fucker." Will snarls, barely able to speak he's so angry. He's angry and frightened and hungry. A wave of intense nausea passes through him and his throat convulses, but there's nothing for his body to expel. He shudders hard. He's hot and cold and he is furious, like an exposed nerve. “Let me go,” he rasps, ashamed that there’s the tiniest note of pleading in his voice.

Hannibal just sighs and strokes Will's hair away from his face. Will wants to pull away but the straps prevent him moving more than a few inches in any direction.

"In due time, Will. If I turned you loose now you'd only hurt yourself."

Will can only bare his teeth in response. His unsheathed fangs slice his lip open.

Hannibal frowns and thumbs at the tiny wound, which ever so slowly closes itself.

"You should feed now," he says absently.

Fear paralyzes Will. There is a war inside him. He's terrified of what will happen to him when Hannibal inevitably gets his thick, dark blood down Will's throat, but he's also desperately hungry for blood. His entire body is consumed with it, like it's trying to eat itself. He wants blood, he wants to vomit, he wants his dogs, he wants Hannibal...

And that's the worst thing, because no matter how furious Will is with Hannibal, he's more inclined to throw himself at his feet, like a supplicant, and beg for his attention and praise. He can’t figure it out no matter how hard he applies every ounce of his analytical skill. He imagines tearing free of the straps, lunging at Hannibal, getting his hands around his throat and… and…

He can’t even imagine hurting Hannibal. Even in the privacy of his own mind visions of murdering the Doctor dissipate in favor of Will falling to the floor, head bowed, hands limp. Submitting. It’s both disgusting and thrilling.

Will sobs when he realizes that he's begging in a whisper "No, no, God no. Please don't..."

"Be quiet," Hannibal orders. He's gashed open his left wrist with his own fangs and takes hold of Will's jaw with his right hand. Will clenches his teeth hard, pressing his lips together in what he knows is a futile attempt at defiance. Two days before Hannibal effortlessly dislocated Will's jaw, only allowing the bone to snap back into place after he'd forced Will to drink himself into a stupor.

As if reading Will's mind, Hannibal chides "Now, now. We don't want a repeat performance of Friday do we?"

Will holds out until Hannibal's grip becomes painful. It's useless, fucking useless. Hannibal is too strong, and the smell of his rich blood on the air is driving Will to distraction with hunger.

Hannibal only has to press the dripping wound to his mouth and Will latches on with all his might, sucking hard. Hannibal's blood is thick and nearly black in color and it is the most delicious thing Will's ever tasted in his entire life. It’s velvety in texture, like liquid chocolate. It tastes like blood should taste: coppery, salty, warm. Somehow, though, it’s less of the actual flavor of it and more the emotions that Will can sense not with his tongue, but with some part of his fevered mind that he was never aware of as a normal human being. It warms him from his toes to the very ends of his curling hair. He strains at his bonds again, but not to get away. He wants to take hold of Hannibal's arm and never let go, he wants to climb into the doctor's lap and offer his own throat…

Hannibal lets him drink for only a short time. Will’s gnawed on his forearm a bit, making a mangled mess of the doctor’s flesh, but the second Hannibal extracts his wrist from Will’s sucking mouth the wound begins to heal. He doesn’t even look pale. In his addled brain, Will wonders how long it would take for Hannibal to bleed out if he cut his throat…

Will sobs.

Hannibal, meanwhile, produces a damp cloth from somewhere and wipes Will’s bloodied face clean.

“We’ll need to work on your table manners, Will. You’ll have to meet the others eventually and I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Others?” Will slurs. Hannibal’s blood makes him feel sleepy and euphoric. If he wasn’t tied down he’d be kneeling at the doctor’s feet, laying his head in his lap, begging for a caress. The rational sliver of his mind screams at him to think straight. It’s a trap! He’s drugged you! Don’t fall for it!

“Yes,” Hannibal says. “Many others. You’ll meet them when you’re ready.”

“Please,” Will begs, fighting the rising urge to shut his eyes and float away, “Please don’t do this.”

“It’s already done, Will,” Hannibal says. His cruel smile is the last thing Will sees before he passes out, drunk on Hannibal’s blood.


He doesn’t know where he is. He can’t even leave the house to find out. The day Hannibal finally untied him he’d run right out into the huge front yard and collapsed in the weak evening sunlight, feeling like every inch of exposed skin was on fire. Hannibal had tied him to his bed again for two days after that.

There’s a desktop computer in the living room, and Hannibal often leaves his iPad unattended, but everything is password protected and encrypted. The only newspapers Will can find are in some Slavic looking language he can’t hope to read. There are plenty of English books, though. Lots of classics, philosophy texts, a few contemporary novels; nothing useful. He can’t even find a damn phonebook. Not that it would be of much use as there are no phones in the house. Hannibal has a smartphone, Will knows, but he hasn’t seen it since he woke up that first day, strapped into bed, screaming at the top of his lungs at the hunger and pain eating him alive. Hannibal doesn’t lock him up, doesn’t act like he’s keeping Will prisoner. All the same, Will can’t leave. Even the feeblest sunlight scorches his skin and he isn’t keen on just running out into the night.

Not that he would get very far, he thinks bitterly. He feels Hannibal’s eyes on him at all times, feels his presence itching in the back of his mind.

He still makes Will drink from him almost every night, sometimes more than once. Will knew he was never any good at compartmentalization but lately it’s like he can’t even control his tiniest impulses when Hannibal is in the room. He’s torn between anger so intense he can barely breathe and adoration so deep he can’t think. Every time Hannibal makes him drink the anger slips farther and farther away, leaving only a niggling, slavish desire to please. It’s the blood, Hannibal’s blood, that’s making him feel that way, Will knows it. So he tries to resist. Tries being the operative word. He never lasts.

“You’re doing very well, Will,” Hannibal praises, stroking Will’s temple with his thumb while the rest of his fingers are engaged in a painfully tight grip in Will’s hair. He’s dragged Will into his lap this time, one arm wrapped securely around the younger man’s waist while he holds Will’s mouth to his throat with the other. For his part, Will is suckling desperately, his fingers curled tightly into the fine fabric of Hannibal’s shirt. “You’ll be hunting before you know it.”

Will tears his mouth away from Hannibal’s neck and wrenches himself out of his arms. Hannibal lets him go and he tumbles to the hardwood floor. It doesn’t hurt at all, not even when the bone of his chin strikes the boards. He scrambles backwards, scrubbing his mouth furiously against his sleeve.

“Will,” Hannibal says leaning forward and steepling his fingers as though this was just another session, “It’ll do you no good to run away from it.”

“Don’t talk to me like that,” Will snaps, pulling himself up and stalking over to the darkened window. It’s late evening outside, and there are fireflies hovering over the grass. Will focuses on them instead of how painfully bright the dim, tail end of the sunset seems to him. He sleeps all day now, passing out before dawn and waking just after sunset, usually. He doesn’t do it on purpose. The irony that for the first time in his life he has a regular sleep schedule is not lost on him.

“How do I talk to you?” Hannibal asks, smiling benignly. Will knows he’s being baited but he can’t help himself.

“You know how. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

“Will,” Hannibal sighs, sounding put-upon, “I’m telling you the absolute truth. Forgive me if I sound patronizing, but you need to grow up. The sooner the better.”

“’Grow up’? Start killing, you mean.”

Hunting, Will. Killing is not an absolute necessity but I would strongly advise against leaving a trail of anemic victims in your wake.”

“I’ll eat animals.”

Hannibal chuckles. “You wouldn’t last a week. The blood of animals lacks essential components. It’s like trying to survive on a diet of sugar water.”

“Have you done it?”

“No, but I have seen the result firsthand. Sentiment will starve you, Will.”

Will purses his lips and sits on the wide window seat. Hannibal will leave soon. He goes out almost every night. Will tries to convince himself to run, but the second he steps off the grounds, he gets a splitting headache and the overwhelming urge to return to the house. More than once Hannibal has found him sitting in the grass, dazed and in pain. He treats these little fits like a puppy’s accident. He chides Will, rubbing his nose in it, and Will is left to follow Hannibal from room to room, compelled to keep within Hannibal’s line of sight. Will doesn’t know how he does it (he’s extremely reluctant to even consider magic, even though he’s, well, a vampire of all goddamned things) but he cannot stop himself. If he could, he’d jump out the window right now, broken glass and the one-story drop be damned, and run.

As it stands, even thinking of doing that freezes him in his tracks with a profound sense of dread. Leaving Hannibal’s side scares him even more than the thought of staying with him. Will wonders despondently if it’s some kind of vampire mind-control trick or if Hannibal’s blood really is binding him ever tighter to the doctor.

He’s so focused on his thoughts, and on the fireflies, that he doesn’t notice Hannibal approaching him. He flinches in surprise when long, elegant fingers wind themselves into his hair, stroking his scalp. Will can feel his desire, his possession, like a wave of heat radiating from Hannibal. His natural empathy has been kicked into overdrive since Hannibal changed him. Hannibal wants him badly the same way a child wants a toy, but Hannibal’s want is a thousand time stronger than a child’s could ever be. Will’s stomach twists when he realizes that he wants Hannibal right back. Is it his own desire or is Hannibal projecting on him somehow? Is he newly strengthened gift for empathy simply reflecting Hannibal’s own emotions? He can’t tell.

Wanting Hannibal is nothing new to Will. After all that Hannibal’s done to him Will knows he should be repulsed but all Will can think of in these moment is how badly he wants Hannibal to cover him, to own him and pleasure like they did several times before Hannibal sank his teeth into Will’s neck and forced his blood into Will’s mouth.

Hannibal strokes Will hair and gently grasps his chin. Will lets Hannibal turn his face away from the window and doesn’t resist when Hannibal kisses him chastely on the mouth. He’s more tempted than ever to throw himself out the window but he can’t move. All he can do is kiss back, dry and close-mouthed and sweet. His pulse never quickens but he can feel his body heating up. He gets hard in an almost Pavlovian response to Hannibal’s touch, but his desire is anything but trained. Hannibal kisses the tender scar on his neck and Will shudders.

“I’m going out,” Hannibal murmurs into Will’s ear. “I’ll be back around three. Go to my room and stay there, do you understand?”

Fuck you, fuck you, I’m not going to do it, just leave me alone, I hate you, please God just let me go, don’t leave me

“Okay,” Will whispers, his eyes shut tight.

Hannibal is gone before Will opens his eyes.


Will resists for a good ten minutes before the headache starts. He tears the windowseat’s velvet cushion with his fingertips and breathes hard, trying to work through the pain.

“Fuck you. You can’t make me,” he snarls to no one and receives a particularly bright stab of pain for his trouble. It hurts but Will is more immediately concerned about Hannibal’s extrasensory awareness of him. Telepathy of some kind? Is Hannibal hiding from him somewhere in the vast, old house, watching his every move?

Or is Will’s mind just playing tricks on him again? If he could weep anything except blood, Will would cry, but he holds himself in check.

He gets up off the windowseat and shuffles off to Hannibal’s bedroom. The pain recedes the second the door clicks shut behind him. Will swallows hard and presses a hand to his chest to feel his faint, plodding heartbeat.

He unrepentantly searches through Hannibal’s room like he has several times before. He experiences no headaches and he curses at the distinct impression that somehow Hannibal is aware of Will’s useless detective work and is laughing at him.  Will slowly goes through the closet, examining each impeccably pressed article of fine clothing, checking each pocket and feeling the hems for… well, anything. He has no idea what he’s looking for. Keys? Old airline passes?  A hidden safe? A manual on how to kill a powerful vampire? He feels around the corners and seams of the walls and fiddles with anything that could possibly serve as a hidden button or catch. He looks under the bed (nothing) and digs through the desk drawers (random artifacts such as a magnifying glass, a string of jade beads, and a fossilized trilobite) but finds nothing of use. He flips open Hannibal’s iPad but it’s just as password protected as it has been each time Will’s seen it and he still doesn’t recognize the foreign arrangement of the virtual keyboard. There’s a tall, beautiful bookshelf taking up most of one wall and Will selects books at random, paging through them before sighing and shoving them back into place. He looks out the wide window and admires the view; it’s dark as pitch but Will can easily make out the thick line of trees that surround the property. A fox darts across the lawn and Will tracks it with his keen, nightsighted eyes.

In the end, he collapses on Hannibal’s plush bed and stares at the ceiling. The sleek glass and chrome alarm clock on the bedside table reads 02:47. Hannibal will back be back soon. He’ll force feed Will blood from his wrist or neck and then….

Will resentfully presses the heel of his hand against his growing erection. He wonders if this is what Stockholm Syndrome is like.

At 03:20 Will can hear Hannibal’s car crunch up the gravel driveway. He shuts his eyes and pretends to sleep, desperately ignoring how his now fantastic hearing picks up on Hannibal unlocking, opening, closing, and then relocking the front door. He can hear Hannibal’s soft footsteps approaching.

Hannibal sits on the edge of the bed and squeezes Will’s shoulder.

“Up,” he says. Will sits up, but keeps his eyes fixed on the duvet. He no longer needs his glasses but he misses their slight protection anyway.

“You’ll approve of tonight’s selection,” Hannibal says lightly, like his introducing a dinner wine. “I picked him out for you especially. He was trying to drug his date’s beer.”

“You’re lying to me,” Will snaps, but lets Hannibal pull him into his lap. His hunger has been mounting slowly since Hannibal left. Now, with the man himself so close and with the smell of fresh blood still on his breath, Will’s hunger spikes viciously. He shoves his nose behind Hannibal’s ear and breathes deep. His fangs drop down with a twinge of pain and he bites into Hannibal’s neck with a sob. Hot, delicious blood gushes into his mouth and he moans, clinging to Hannibal’s fine suit jacket.

Hannibal strokes and soothes him as he drinks. He unbuttons Will’s slacks and slides his hand inside, cupping Will’s hard cock through his underwear. Will grinds up into his hand. He tears his mouth away from Hannibal’s neck and watches as the gash from his teeth closes without a scar or even a faint bruise. Hannibal pushes him down onto the bed and tugs off his shoes, then his slacks. Will presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and breathes hard through clenched teeth. Hannibal nuzzles his face into the soft skin of Will’s thigh and then bites down hard, digging his fangs into Will’s femoral artery.

Will’s back arches. The point where Hannibal is biting him hurts terribly but the rest of his body is consumed with pleasure. It’s almost invasive, the way the sweet tingling sensation washes over him and makes him want to lay still and submit.

Hannibal takes two good mouthfuls of Will’s borrowed blood and then licks the wound as it closes. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of Will’s briefs and pulls them down, flicking them carelessly to the floor. He stands over Will, poised as ever, smiling slightly.

“Take your shirt off, Will.”

Will shakes his head vigorously but unbuttons his shirt anyway. It’s a fine piece of clothing, a little big on Will’s lean frame. It’s a hand-me-down from Hannibal, Will is sure of it. He shucks it off and pulls his undershirt off over his head, letting it fall to the bed. Hannibal assuredly takes his right foot into his hand, cradling his heel, and skins off the black sock. He does the same to the left foot.

Naked and still ravenously hungry, Will starts to feel the languorous effect of Hannibal’s blood. He lies back on the bed, watching Hannibal undress. He’s still as devastatingly attractive, perhaps even more so now that Will knows what he is.

Hannibal slides his body over Will’s, wrapping his hands around Will’s wrists and nosing at his throat. He bites down and Will bucks and shudders, his hard prick rubbing against Hannibal’s hip.

“Oh God… don’t stop,” Will begged. He was on all fours, his knees feeling raw and sore from rubbing against the woolen pile of Hannibal’s fine carpet. Hannibal dug his fingers into Will’s hips and yanked him back into a particularly powerful thrust. Will collapsed onto his elbows and whined like an animal as Hannibal fucked him. His ass hurt, his knees and elbows hurt, but the pleasure coursing through him was overpowering enough that he didn’t care about the bruises on his thighs, the rugburn on his legs. He pulled himself together long enough to reach under him to grab his dick, but Hannibal’s hand beat him there. The doctor’s long fingers closed around his hard prick and stroked him, squeezing the root periodically to keep Will from coming too soon.

“Soon,” Hannibal said when Will begged to come. For Will this kind of fucking was a different world than the fumblings and quiet sweetness in the dark that he was used to. When Hannibal finally let him come, he was too lost in it to care about Hannibal’s mouth on his neck until sharp teeth punctured his skin. He stilled for a moment, in shock, before he started to fight.

“Stop! Fuck- Get off, stop!” he struggled furiously, but Hannibal’s full strength was revealed in the way he used only one arm to scoop Will up into his lap, pinning his arms to his sides, while his free hand wound into his hair and forced him to expose his neck. Will screamed when Hannibal began to suck, and he felt a wave of panic crash over him when he belatedly realized Hannibal’s cock was still inside him. Every time he struggled, Hannibal would rock up into him, feeding him pain from his neck and pleasure from being fucked. He was getting dizzy. A sweet, exhausted haze was falling over him. He barely noticed when Hannibal jerked and came. When Hannibal laid him down on the floor he couldn’t will himself to do more than cry out weakly.


“Shh, Will. It’ll be alright, I promise. Hush, now.”

His vision blurred. He could feel his heart beat dangerously slow. He was cold all over. He was dying, his heart failing from lack of blood. Will sobbed and became aware of heat: tears tricking from the corners of his eyes, and something warm and coppery and delicious dripping into his mouth. Before he knew what he was doing, he’d latched his mouth onto the source of that divine taste and sucked as hard as he could. The glorious heat spread from his mouth all the way out to his extremities. His heart was beating again. The horrible cold of death was falling away, replaced by pure, wonderful life filling him up.

His eyes refocused once more just before he lost consciousness. Hannibal was leaning over him, pressing his cut wrist to Will’s mouth. His eyes glittered like rubies.

Will blinks away red tears and the memory fades. Hannibal has withdrawn his teeth from his neck and is looking at Will curiously.

“I must say I find your distraction a little insulting,” he says, reaching down to roll Will’s sac between careful fingers. Will squirms.

“Déjà vu,” he grits out. “You raped me the night you turned me, remember?”

“Am I raping you now?” Hannibal asks, caressing the leg Will’s wound around Hannibal’s hips to hold him close.

“If I told you to stop, would you?” Will asks, not wanting to know the answer.

“Yes, I would,” Hannibal says simply. “That one time was a necessity. What I’ve given you is a gift, Will You could not accept it at the time and you cannot accept it now. Not yet, at least. Someday you will.”

Will sighs deeply, arousal is making him alert but Hannibal’s blood makes him pliable and calm. Hannibal chuckles and reapplies his mouth to Will’s neck, this time leaving only lovebites and deep kisses. It feels good. Will doesn’t have it in him to fight and tilts his head to grant Hannibal better access.

“Suck,” Hannibal says as he presses two fingers into Will’s mouth. Will compiles for a moment, and then bites down. Far from enraging him, Hannibal hums in pleasure and fucks his fingers in and out of Will’s mouth, smearing his lips with dark blood. When Hannibal tries to turn him on his belly Will growls ‘No’ and Hannibal complies with raised eyebrows.

He slicks Will’s ass with saliva and blood. He politely asks if he can eat Will out and Will sighs “Fine,” like it’s a chore.

Hannibal is almost more cannibal than vampire, Will thinks dazedly as the doctor licks and sucks and presses his tongue into Will’s ass. Will’s given plenty of oral sex in his time (both to Hannibal and to others, men and women alike) but it was something he did for his partner, not himself. Hannibal goes at it like he really enjoys it. Maybe he does.

Hannibal hooks Will’s knees over his shoulders and fucks him hard. His eyes glow dull red and Will wonders if his own do the same. Then there’s no time for wondering because Hannibal’s found his prostate and Oh!

Will bites his lip, his unsheathed fangs cutting clear through. He heals fast, but not fast enough for blood not to flow freely down his chin. When he comes, there’s no semen. He stays dry even as his dick jerks hard and slowly deflates. Hannibal leans down and licks the blood off Will’s face and grunts when he comes. He orgasms dry too, something that Will never noticed before this. Hannibal had always insisted on condoms. A necessary artifice.

Will cranes up and kisses Hannibal hard, biting him and licking the blood that manages to drip out before the bitemarks heal up. He hates and loves Hannibal. He feels saner than he has in months. Or perhaps he’s lost his mind to the extent that he’s no longer aware of his own madness. He no longer sees stags and dead men out of the corner of his eye, but here he is, fucking the vampire Hannibal Lecter. Drinking his blood.

He rolls over and wriggles under the covers when Hannibal pulls out and gets off of him. He has his own room here, but he’s too tired to go to it. Hannibal can fight him if he wants to kick Will out

Hannibal doesn’t seem bothered. He strolls across the room, still naked and streaked with blood, and carefully closes the curtains, making sure no wayward sunbeam could find its way to Will’s still sensitive skin. Then he comes back and slides into bed beside Will. Will protests sleepily when Hannibal pulls him close and spoons him, but he quiets when Hannibal nips his ear.

It could be the blood, Hannibal’s stolen blood, making him feel so friendly towards the doctor. Or maybe, and this is what scares and infuriates Will, maybe this is who he is with all of his humanity stripped away.