Work Text:
Hannibal awakens to hot coffee and a cold bed. Beside the steaming mug rests a letter in beautiful hand, and in elegant French the words read:
Dear Hannibal,
On the eve of our anniversary I have decided to run away. Careless boy that I am, I have left clues throughout the house as to where I could have gone. There is nowhere I could run where you would not find me. I am aching for the moment that you do.
Faithfully yours,
your little wolf
No other clue exists on the note, and the coffee is fresh, and with a low groan and a deliberate stretch, Hannibal allows his boy a few minutes more to escape and hide before he goes looking. He drapes his feet to the floor and tilts his head to relieve the snarl of tension in his neck. The bed in which they finally collapsed the night before is still filthy from their exertions. Hannibal cradles the mug in his hand and sips carefully, noting with an approving hum the hint of nutmeg within.
Thoughtful boy.
He regards the note and sips again.
Awful boy.
Still bare, he drags himself to stand and considers every ache of his body in turn. The inevitable effects of aging, he considers. That, or the equally inevitable effects of being obligated to keep a terrible little wolf well-behaved. So much for the effort, he muses, taking his coffee with him as he begins a search through the flat. Small only by comparison to their home in Zakynthos, their little slice of Berlin is far easier to search through.
Will is not wrong - Hannibal would find him if he took flight across the world. He would find him if he left this world; he would find him in another life. There is nowhere that Will can go that Hannibal would not claim him again, and that at least is a reassurance. But wherever he is, he is not here. Not in the bathroom nor the study. Not in the spare bedroom nor the kitchen.
Hannibal breathes in deep and smells only the fading scent of their sex still clinging to his skin.
He finishes his coffee and sets the mug into the sink. Within, there are no dishes, though both had piled theirs from dinner the night before without thought. So Will had washed them, set them away, made the effort. With a hum, Hannibal adds his mug to the collection of clean plates and cutlery.
There is only one apartment Will seems determined to keep clean, and as Hannibal returns to the bedroom he takes up his phone to seek tickets online for the first flight to Amsterdam that day.
A year into married life and they have set routines. Travel is frequent, the occasional need to keep up appearances on Hannibal's end leaves Will sometimes deep in his reading in grand libraries or in their hotel room. Sex is exceptional. Though, in truth, that was never a question. Hannibal's little wolf is just as starved for his addiction to be sated now, at nearly twenty-seven, as he had been a decade before when they met.
Lovely terrible thing.
With flights booked, Hannibal starts the shower.
He washes clean the dried semen and flakes of blood, from little fingernails buried into his skin. Some of the blood is his own, but not all, and Hannibal makes a game of recalling from memory and scent which patch is whose. With their flats strategically arranged and legally accounted for under their numerous aliases, there is no need for Hannibal to pack, but he dresses in a way that he has not since they left Baltimore, apart but together. Nostalgia, he allows, slipping into a tailored shirt and slacks that settle easy on his narrow hips. A waistcoat and jacket to match the trousers in garish checks; tie complimenting pocket square.
He combs his hair, back, as he did before Greece and a needy boy made him lazy. He tries not to notice where his hair has receded in the years since.
A car takes him to the airport which conveys him to the flight. He has hardly enough time to settle, earbuds softly singing Chopin, before he will arrive in Amsterdam. In contrast to the music he has chosen, he does not feel at peace. It is increasingly absurd to think that he is here at all, woken from sleep by an insufferable boy and sent on a wild chase across countries for him. Hannibal has no need to go to Amsterdam now, no desire.
His fingers curl tight enough that his knuckles whiten before he releases, again and again.
And he knows that in his heating blood and quickening pulse, he is responding just as Will wishes. He knows Hannibal too well not to know how he would feel about this, sent to fetch him from wherever his fancy has absconded with him. Hannibal knows too how Will’s voice will crack beneath the whipcrack snap of a belt, how his voice will mute entirely when it is cinched around his throat. He has selected his own reward, and as they begin descent, Hannibal regrets not having stayed in bed, simply to see what would happen instead.
He is unable to suppress his smile as he disembarks in the Netherlands.
The weather here is as bad as it had been in Berlin. Grey clouds and a threat of rain that does more to create a pressure headache than anything else. Hannibal takes a cab to their apartment and finds it predictably empty.
I know how angry you're convincing yourself you are, Will's script murmurs from the page in warm tones of Lithuanian. I know what you want to do to me. My bruises are still so dark from last night. I touched them as I flew here, in the bathroom, biting my hand so as not to come. Did you touch yours? I bet you did.
I miss you. Come find me.
The note is set within the elegant curl of a belt on the kitchen table, another clue, and with a sigh Hannibal takes this note up as well to carry with him, alongside the first.
This was the second apartment they had bought abroad, their Grecian home not included. The first had been in Italy. This apartment is smaller than most of their others and entirely Will's favourite. Hannibal has spent hours watching him at the window with his books, sketching him and memorising him, coming up behind him to coax his boy away from study with clever hands and warm words.
The belt is a clue as much as it is an invitation. Now Hannibal merely needs to remember which particular club Will would choose on nights here where Hannibal relented to go with him.
It is early still, for any club to be open, let alone as populous as Will desires. He seeks not only the sound and light but the press of bodies and roving hands against him, delighting in proving an unachievable temptation for all who crave his charming company. Fools. They’ve no idea that the writhing little thing they fondle could break every bone in their body without himself breaking so much as a sweat. They’ve no idea how much blood exists beneath the fingernails that rake their cheeks to pull them closer.
Hannibal takes lunch at a favored cafe, irritation rising again as he is not allowed seating outdoors due to the impending weather, and must eat inside.
He rests his fingers against his belt, briefly, as a coffee is brought to him. The stitches are finely made but not perfectly even. Hand-stitched. Tanned by a skilled leatherworker from a family who has worked in that trade since the city’s birth. Hannibal’s smile widens against the rim of his mug. There is only one place in Amsterdam that he seeks out for such practiced perfection, learned over centuries. It is the reason they first visited Amsterdam, to replace a favorite belt that had begun to crack beneath the blood left upon it.
And near to it, a club notorious for its freely flowing pills and substances, beyond the trite vices sought by tourists ready to gawk at something so ages-old and innocuous as intoxication and sex work. A place known to locals of far more prurient interests, and kept deeply private to maintain its legitimacy.
Hannibal leaves a courteous tip when he has finished his late lunch.
Hours yet until the club opens, and Hannibal takes that time to explore their familiar city. Will had been drawn to it initially for the architecture. Hannibal can recall which buildings had Will entirely delighted, pressing to Hannibal with kitten nuzzles of pleasure.
This city is Will's as Rome is Hannibal’s. This is the city he comes alive in, the city he dreams of. This is the city he prefers above all others, though his heart still lives and beats in Zakynthos. Hannibal smiles, thinking of his beautiful boy, pampered and dressed up, striding the streets with his camera and his smile. He longs, suddenly, to draw that phantom of a thing to his chest and hold it tight.
Even hours apart is too long for the two of them. Irrationally, erotically codependent as they are.
As night falls, neon dawns, and Hannibal retraces his steps to the club he knows his boy hides within. At the door, a man Hannibal knows by name nods, just once, and asks Hannibal politely to wait in the lobby, that someone will guide him to a preferred room in a moment.
Hannibal suppresses a snort, but stands as requested. He can smell, already, the warm tang of sweat, the heat of nervousness beneath it. He can smell the leather and the lubricant, the metallic hints of blood and heavy chains. Past him, beautiful creatures parade half dressed and shameless. Some led by another, others free to find their own master for the night.
None approach him bar one. A slight and slim thing, a black mask of lace against his eyes, tight shorts that barely cover his bottom sit snug at tapered hips. The little thing comes nearer, and with a grin that reveals bright teeth, he pushes up on bare toes to kiss Hannibal deeply.
Hannibal tenses, a single ripple of musculature that tugs him taut and lifts his hands. He is tired, jet-lagged, his nose still plugged with the canned air of flight and not yet accustomed to a city in which he has only just arrived. But then he eases, just as quickly, when lips he’s known for a decade to the exclusion of nearly all others spread his own wide. He swallows the taste of Will’s tongue against his own and grips his bottom with both hands, squeezing tight to pull him close.
Will parts their kiss with a laugh, staggering beneath the rough grasp, and Hannibal regards his wild blue eyes through the lacy mask for a moment, two, before setting a hand beneath his throat. He squeezes until Will’s pulse speeds and his breath stops.
“Little wolf,” he murmurs against Will’s mouth. “Wicked boy, miserable wretch. Is this why you have dragged me across the continent? To see you parade yourself near-bare and willing for roving hands to snare?”
"I missed you," Will whispers, and he sounds almost in a daze. Perhaps he has taken something. Perhaps he has been taken by someone -
No.
Not that. Not anymore.
"I woke in the middle of the night thinking of the last time we were here, how you had me and tormented me, how you claimed me and reminded me I was yours."
Will bites his lip, an elegant little gesture, and lets it go with a quiet moan.
"I have let no one touch me here," he breathes. "And I have told them that the man who owns me, who gave me these -" He skims his fingertips over a bite against his throat. "That he was coming and he will take me, and they will see who I belong to, and to whom I always will."
Will’s smile is blinding, and he turns the ring around his finger again and again before leaning in to nuzzle against Hannibal's cheek.
"Claim me?" he moans. "Show them."
Hannibal snares him by the hair, shaggy curls always kept just long enough that they wrap against Hannibal’s knuckles when he buries his fist in them. He bears down on Will, grin spreading sharp as elegant footsteps carry Will backwards without stumbling. A wall against his back knocks the wind from him and Hannibal swallows his kiss before he can take another breath. Will’s pulse flickers in his kiss, his heart swiftly fluttering against Hannibal’s chest when he shoves their bodies together. Hannibal holds him by the jaw to part their mouths, snarling when Will bites against Hannibal’s bottom lip to keep him close.
He releases with a laugh and Hannibal pushes his chin upward, skewing his mask.
“Happy anniversary,” Hannibal whispers. Will’s eyes widen and his smile parts over big teeth and a laugh.
“You remembered.”
“I could never forget,” Hannibal assures him. “Not that, or your habits, or anything about you. Were I to forget my own name, it is yours that would take its place.”
He spreads his hand against Will’s lower back, stroking the concave slope and plush rise of his ass. Prying beneath the tight elastic waistband, he pushes his hand in to covet bare, hot skin, and seeks with rough fingers against Will’s tender hole.
“And this,” Hannibal murmurs, ducking another snap of teeth before pressing his brow to Will’s forehead again to keep him still. “And you, are mine.”
"Yes," Will laughs again, eyes hooded already beneath the mask. His smile pulls languid and lazy and Hannibal imagines the ruby of blood glazing those teeth, slipping down that pale throat.
It will.
He knows it will.
"I got our favourite room," Will tells him, trying to nuzzle and finding himself held back from that, though Hannibal's look is entirely fond, entirely adoring. There is a love there that nothing can break. "The one with no door and far too much room for spectators."
"The grand hall?"
"With the enormous bed and the four posts we marked up with our restraints," Will confirms. "Or we could take another, smaller, lined along the walls with switches and crops... but you brought the belt, didn't you?"
Hannibal slips his hand free from the back of Will’s little shorts and grasps his wrist instead. Shoving slender fingers first against his cock, full and thickening heavier still, he lifts enough that Will can feel the familiar burnished buckle and sleek leather. Will’s shiver would be muted by the sounds of the club to anyone’s ears but Hannibal’s, but to him, his boy’s whimper sounds sweeter than any symphony.
“Remove it,” Hannibal tells him.
With his flushed bottom lip bright between his teeth, Will lowers his other hand to work the latch open. A hiss of leather against fine fabric whispers in their shared sensory silence, and Hannibal accepts it in on hand when Will offers it with both. He curls it around his fist, watching darkening eyes dart to track the movement.
“You wish for an audience, then,” Hannibal purrs, nosing against Will’s cheek until he’s forced to turn his head aside. “You know how I feel about you being seen by those who do not deserve the honor.”
“For our anniversary,” Will answers, rising to his toes and settling to his heels, again and again, eager shifting movement seeking contact. “It wouldn’t be a proper celebration if we were the only ones there.”
“So say you,” snarls Hannibal, swatting Will’s hand away when he reaches for the lapel of his jacket. “You, an insufferable child with no sense at all for propriety. If you wish to give them a show, then so you will.” With speed that has always been superhuman, and is still now, despite his age, Hannibal snares the belt around Will’s throat and latches it closed, a notch too tight, as if it were a leash.
He fondly recalls having the extra holes added, by personal request, for just such occasions.
A tug drags Will from the wall. A curl of leather around Hannibal’s fist brings him another step closer. Their lips meet in a ferocious, bruising tangle that tastes of livid violet, like the sky before a storm, like a wound before it bleeds, and when they part, Hannibal whispers, “I love you.”
Will knows. With every fibre of his being, he knows. His body trembles, his hands fist and uncurl at his sides, over and over again. Around them, people come and go, most let their eyes linger on the sweet submissive little thing held entirely in thrall of the elegant man before him.
They have always received glances of envy; pretty young things wanting to be Hannibal's toys, older men who wanted to possess the beauty of Will Graham and win his voice.
If only they knew.
...if only they could know and live.
"I love you," he tells Hannibal, teeth bright as he smiles, and with a grin he wraps his own fingers around the belt stretched between them and tugs as though to pull away. There’s no give, and Will can see the subtle shift of fabric as Hannibal’s shoulder tightens. Another tug pulls Hannibal’s lips into a snarl, and - seemingly effortless - a sharp snap brings Will to his knees.
He loops the belt tighter once around his hand. Twice. Three times until Will is on his knees between Hannibal’s feet. His lips part ready and obedient, breath hot against the throbbing cock before him, and his eyes lift up the length of his spouse who - for him, for this - wore Will’s favorite suit.
“On your hands and knees to the room,” Hannibal tells him, a fingertip beneath his chin to raise his head further still. “Like the disobedient pup that you are.”
Will makes that sound again, that bare whimper that Hannibal has honed his ears to hear in any situation. He knows that despite Hannibal's apparent displeasure, despite his apparent discontent, there is nothing he loves more than showing others that Will belongs to him.
Later, in their apartment, they will make love until they exhaust themselves. Then they will sleep, uncaring for the smears of semen and blood against their skin until they wake to bathe together too.
Then they might take brunch, like a normal couple.
Will keeps his head up as he sets his fingertips to the floor, as he spreads his knees a little wider, the shorts riding up slightly as he shifts his hips back and forth. He bites his lip and waits. Obedient pup that he is.
“Good boy,” Hannibal murmurs, a smile in the shadows beneath his eyes that only Will would recognize. They are overwhelmingly private creatures, both, habits born of self-defense and preference. They are not often ones to put on a show for others, but in those moments where they spirit moves them to do so, they both recognize that certain affectations are necessary, if only to slow their claws and teeth from rending into the other like wild things.
Hannibal takes a step, and the whisper of bare knees against the hard floor flowers warmth throughout his chest. Another step, and another slow shift. Hannibal does not need to look at Will to know how his hips tilt from side to side, beckoning and presenting himself, shorts caught high around his ass and pulled snug against his full, flushed groin.
They are not far, the room ahead empty even as others stop to observe the solemn procession. Hannibal ignores their murmurs, their groping gazes; they are little more than painted portraits in his periphery, with the illusion of intelligence in their eyes.
“You will bleed,” Hannibal tells him. “I will leave marks upon you for the occasion that will fade, but never disappear. How does that make you feel?”
Will moans softly, biting his lip and following shuffle by slow shuffle as Hannibal leads him.
"Adored," he whispers. "Wanted. Missed." He sets one hand to Hannibal's shoe, the other. "Claimed." He murmurs, nuzzling against Hannibal's cock through his pants, drawing in the familiar musky smell of him, outlining the familiar length.
Some days, Hannibal forces Will to choke against it, until tears streak his cheeks and he coughs and coughs when he is let free.
Some days, Will does it to himself.
And always after his voice is rough, snarled low as if by smoke, and every word he says betrays his devotion to Hannibal. At times, Hannibal wonders if Will would let himself die upon it, as he almost did once upon the stairs of their erstwhile Baltimore home. That memory is answer enough, and Hannibal shivers at the recollection of Will yielding limp to the cock buried in his throat and the hand across his nose.
“Remarkable boy,” Hannibal murmurs, as he brings his belted hand to his hip and unzips his trousers against Will’s cheek. “You have always been an amazement to me.”
"I love you," Will breathes again, turning his head In a nuzzle again and again before parting his lips against the silk boxers Hannibal still wears. He moans, soft, and presses kisses up and down the length of him, curling his tongue and parting his lips wider, trembling with anticipation and the want to suck Hannibal's cock.
The door is not yet closed to their room and people still watch as they pass by, watch the elegant boy bare but for a mask and shorts worship the clothed cock of the man who owns him. Will's legs spread wider and his back arches more. He shifts his weight off of Hannibal's feet then back to them again.
With a delighted shudder, Will slips one of his hands between his own legs to stroke.
He is jerked forward with a tug of the belt, hand lifting immediately. A question in his eyes is answered with a narrow look in return, but when Will reaches for the waistband of Hannibal’s pants, he is not stopped again. They can sense, like the pull between tides and moon, the other’s needs and wants, moods and desires. Little more than a look communicates a wealth of awareness between them, whether hunting others or each other, whether seeking tender affection or violent consummation.
Will widens his mouth, tongue pressing flat against his bottom lip, and the needy sound that rises from his throat makes Hannibal’s free hand flex slowly to a fist and loosen again.
“All of it.”
Will says something, not a curse, something lilting and purring, affectionate and entirely sweet. His eyes hood dark as they lift to Hannibal but he does not disobey again. The belt is tight around his neck, enough to hammer his pulse hard in his ears. Hannibal's cock stands erect and large before him, and with a sigh, Will takes just the head between his lips.
He is an exquisite thing, beautiful and bright, and so, so clever. And inch by inch Will takes the cock he has been commanded to swallow. He can see in his periphery, two men stop to watch. There is an intake of breath as Will chokes quietly, a hum of approval as Will continues to take more, deeper, further, until he sobs his discomfort and raises his eyes to Hannibal.
He will take all of it.
He will take everything Hannibal gives him.
I love you.
Another choke and Will starts to swallow, over and over, to take Hannibal further still.
Hannibal rests his hand beneath Will’s jaw, thumb and forefinger working against his cheeks, against his teeth, to widen his mouth more. He takes an incremental step forward to bury himself in Will’s ready throat, watching Will’s cheeks spread scarlet with the quiet awe most reserve for dawn itself. Will brings fluttering fingers to Hannibal’s thighs and a wet gagging sound jerks Hannibal’s cock stiffer still. Spit runs from reddened lips down Will’s smooth chin, along his jaw, glistening bright.
“For all that you could have become,” Hannibal murmurs, “all your potential to be anything. Do anything. Achieve any measure of success in any field. How grateful I am that you have found your worth here, beautiful boy, with me.”
Will’s breath hisses raspy against the coarse curls tickling his nose, and quickens when Hannibal lifts his hand to Will’s eyes. He rests his palm over his mask and slips it down slowly, and when Will’s familiar whimper reaches his ears, he closes his hand over Will’s nose, and relishes the metallic tang of racing blood and familiar fear against his tongue.
Will's eyes widen, panic evident and immediate, and with a helpless sound he stays still. Beside them, the men that watch are joined by others. One a little slave boy as Will pretends to be, his own master stroking his hair and whispering to him how he should learn to be that good too. That this is a very good boy.
Will starts to shake, vision tunneling, yet he makes no move to get away, he continues to suck as much as he can, continues to worship against Hannibal with desperate eyes and whimpering, wet noises.
He is rock hard in his shorts, the tip of his cock peeking over the waistband.
He can't breathe.
He can't breathe.
He realises that someone is murmuring that beyond the room, a warning to Hannibal perhaps, or merely an observation. Will hardly cares. He can feel the euphoria that comes with letting go like this. If he dies here he will die happy.
He will die beautiful. And wanted. And missed.
Hannibal releases his nose and allows Will to slump back against the floor, coughing spit to the ground as he shakes and sobs at Hannibal's feet. Will can see several men stroking themselves watching him, and with a whimper he leans against Hannibal's leg, adoring, aching.
Hannibal does not spare a look to the man who spoke to him. He has no time nor interest in indulging conversation, and certainly not about matters so insignificant to them as ‘safe words’ and ‘edge play’. There is no play between them that does not balance upon a knife’s edge; it can hardly be called play at all.
Games are for children, and they are wolves.
And nothing matters but the sight of Will before him, body shaking as oxygen fills him again, as he drinks it down past lips made wet with spit and tears. So stiff he’s smeared precome across his belly, just beneath his scar, so stiff that he cannot help but bring a hand down to brush against his cock before resisting again. Will lifts shining eyes, long lashes dark, and with a shaking breath, fixes his mask into place again.
“You ran from me,” Hannibal reminds him.
“Yes.”
“And now I have you again.”
“Always.”
“Remove the belt from your throat and hand it to me. You will then go to the bed and bend against it,” Hannibal tells him, and even in his sternness he cannot restrain the adoration that spurs his heart beyond his control. “Go. And do not forget the other instructions you were given, negligent boy. Your punishment will be enough without further disobedience.”
Will takes a few more moments to catch his breath but then his hand is at his throat again, careful to work the belt off. He catches the eye of the little sub boy who watches him with wide eyes. As aroused by this as he is worried that this could happen to him.
Will clears his throat and turns his head against Hannibal’s thigh before sitting back and handing him the belt.
The first time they had come here, the first time Will had managed to sneak them an invitation on Hellfire night, they had been the envy of the evening. Two beautiful things, one who could take any pain, the other who never tired in giving it. Since then, both have drawn glances when they have come here again. Envy and need and wariness.
Will pushes himself to stand.
"Crawl," Hannibal purrs, and with a laugh, Will drops to all fours again, doing as he’s told. He doesn’t adjust his shorts as he moves, he does nothing more than what he was told: go to the bed, bend against it. Will slinks up onto the bed with feline grace and pushes up to stand on his toes as he curls his arms beneath his head and regards Hannibal with a warm smile.
Hannibal turns his wrist, forward and back, repetitive motions to loosen his joints. Up to the elbow then, a few times in either direction, and finally his shoulder. Even grey as he’s become, lined with years, his strength is as evident as his practiced skill. Setting a hand to his shoulder, he tilts his head one way, and the other, and regards the boy before him who coils higher to his toes, strong calves trembling.
Will buries his moan into his arms when the latch of the belt clicks, taken into Hannibal’s grip. As if there were any doubt that he does not want this, though the onlookers still seem wary, Will rocks himself forward against the bed to rub his cock, seeking friction, contact, anything to alleviate the blissful strain of being so hard he’s dizzy. Hannibal brings a finger beneath the waistband of his shorts, lovely little black things that Hannibal reminds himself to take with them when they’re done. He will chide him, of course, every time Will wears them, reminding him that so little fabric cannot constitute clothes before he fingers him roughly beneath the smooth material.
“Shameless,” Hannibal whispers. The whisper of cloth reveals his plush bottom in inches, still bruised from the brutal spanking he was given the night before. Beneath those livid blooms are stripes in parallel from the cane, overlaying white traces of scars, and whole histories of their love together, writ on his skin. He is beautiful, and when the little pants drop to his ankles, Will spreads further. “Horrible boy, will you not be sated until the whole world has seen you?” he asks. Rough fingers press against his hole, pushing the tips of two in dry. “Until they have seen this?”
Will groans, toes pressing harder to the floor as he squirms and arches. He looks past Hannibal to the onlookers. Some have gone on their way. Others still watch, enthralled. The little sub boy presses closer to his master and swallows hard. Will gives him a slow and languid blink.
Hannibal twists his fingers and Will’s lips part on another sound. It will hurt - this always does, this possessive taking and claiming and demanding. He knows that once the hurt passes, they will cling together in bed and whisper frightening promises against warm wet skin.
They will raze the world for the other.
Kill and slaughter and relish in it for the other.
That they will find each other no matter where they go.
"I'm yours," he breathes. "I'm yours -"
Hannibal pulls his fingers free and it rends Will’s voice high. His fingers tighten. His body shakes. He buries his head and holds his breath and it still shatters when the first lash is brought down against the back of his thighs. His lips part to gasp but hot pain replaces any air he might take in. Will can take a lashing, he has taken hundreds, but laid against still-tender skin, Hannibal’s precision ensures it will sunder him.
He nearly comes from it on the spot, and reaches between his legs to squeeze his cock into submission.
Another snap of leather heard before it’s felt, leaving a band across his bottom where the skin suddenly feels too small and shrinking faster, as if it will tear open. His husband assured him he would bleed. Will hopes he does.
Hannibal watches the colors shift and remembers watching the aurora borealis with his little wolf, from a monastery in Scotland. Will’s trembling flesh painted bright - darkening, lightening, threatening to give way beneath another few strokes - is more beautiful still. He brings the belt down across his backside. Backhanded, across the other. Looping figure-eights with strength from Hannibal’s hips carry blow after snapping blow against Will’s ass until through the din of his devotion and Will’s sobbing sweetness he hears a voice telling him to stop.
Hannibal blinks, and takes the loose end of the belt in his other hand, lips twitching upward.
The silence rings with the aftershocks, and with Will’s shuddering gasps, too short, barely controlled. Hannibal sets a hand against his shoulder and gently squeezes, and Will lets himself properly cry, breath easing again.
The man who spoke is average height, average build, average everything. He is inconsequential. He is also, apparently, entirely new. Hannibal tilts his head at him and furrows his brows, and Will knows, he knows that gesture, he knows that look. Reptilian and otherworldly.
"Polite as my husband has been to allow this scene to remain open to the public," Hannibal says carefully. "It is entirely out of order to suggests amendments or adjustments to our play."
"You're going to break skin,” the man says softly, and Will arches up off the bed, resting on his hands as he parts his lips to catch his breath, skin singing where he has been struck. "You're going to do him serious harm."
Will steps out of his shorts, and with a soft little whimper, makes his way to Hannibal to wrap his arms around his husband from behind, holding him close, dropping a hand to stroke his still-exposed cock. He kisses against his cheek as Hannibal tenses to rebut, and slowly circles him to go to the man instead.
"You're new," he says softly, and though his eyes are rimmed red and his cheeks are streaked with tears of genuine pain, Will smiles. He sets a hand to the cheek of the man watching him, perplexed, and pouts his lip. "And you are so darling to care. But I'll let you in on a secret, just between you and me." Will steps forward, the man steps back, again and again until Will lets him go and remains in the doorway. "I'm enjoying my honeymoon," he whispers, winking before he slams the door resoundingly in the face of all their spectators.
"How fucking rude," Will murmurs, chewing the side of his thumb and he turns back to his husband. "Unbelievable."
A sound more felt than heard resonates from within as Hannibal steps closer towards the door. His eyes are set on it, past his boy, as if he can see the man there through the heavy wood, fretting over whether or not something should be done. Hannibal holds the belt taut between both hands, jaw flickering tight, and he manages two swift strides towards the door before Will intercepts him, arms around his middle.
“No,” he murmurs, nuzzling between Hannibal’s shoulders where muscles twitch with adrenaline. His sense of smell has never become as acute - superhuman, really - as Hannibal’s has always been, but he knows the taste in the air as akin to the moment before lightning strikes. He breathes warmth against Hannibal’s jacket instead.
“No?” Hannibal asks. “There is a valuable lesson to be learned here, Will, of what else can come at the end of a belt -”
“It will be learned, but not here,” Will tells him. His arms tighten as Hannibal twists against him, once. Will knows that Hannibal could free himself readily, that even now he overpowers Will by a significant quantity. Any stay of his hand is Hannibal’s choice, but there is power in this, as well. Will cannot imagine that anyone in the world would be able to stop him, but Will himself. “Besides,” Will murmurs, “you’re missing the tears.”
Hannibal straightens, and lets the belt slip free from one hand. With a warning sound, he turns to regard his little husband pressed against him, still pale and blotched red from pain, lips swollen with his pleasure, and cock still dripping hard. Setting a hand to his cheek, thumbing beneath his eye, Hannibal then runs his hand back to Will’s hair to grasp him softly and taste the salt upon his lips, breaking their ensnaring kiss only to whisper, “I promised to make you bleed.”
Will leans into the hand that holds him, places his own atop to hold Hannibal closer, and lets his eyes remain barely open.
"You know many more ways how to, without using a belt at all," he whispers, turning to kiss Hannibal's palm, lingering and long. "You could rend skin, with teeth and hands and watch me try to fight you. You could fuck," Will trembles, inhaling slowly and biting his lip with a quiet groan. "Hard. And watch my blood mingle with your seed against my bruised thighs."
Will reaches out to touch Hannibal’s suit again, gentle fingers and a light touch, and looks at him.
"One idiot is hardly enough to ruin a celebration."
Hannibal hums some soft assent, though his blood still burns with the promise of dismantling the man between them, to show him the meaning of serious harm and make love in the aftermath. Not here, as Will asked, a rare request for restraint in something that would compromise them. Not here because it is Will’s city, and Hannibal defers to him in that.
He lets the belt drop to the floor, and instead presses both hands to Will’s cheeks. He kisses him hard enough to wound, to split the tender insides of their lips against their teeth, to share their own blood together on their tongues. Will’s arms curl little around his neck and Hannibal hoists his husband from the earth, slender legs around his hips. Rather than revel in his rage, Hannibal loses himself to the bliss of his little wolf, too long missed in the hours apart.
No one else in the world could stay his hand. No one else in the world would dare try, or survive the attempt. No one can move his heart and mind and world like Will, and however crudely, his boy speaks wisdom.
No one can take away what they have.
Hannibal goes to the bed first, upon his back with Will astride. His gaze softens as he takes in the wild thing he’s tamed and been tamed by in return. Soft fingers stroke over ruddy cheeks, his knuckles nuzzled. Hannibal traces the curve of Will’s lips and when they part, he withdraws his thumb with a smile, and slaps him, hard.
“Language,” Hannibal grins.
Will shudders, cock twitching, and leans nearer to kiss Hannibal deeply again. When he sits back he takes his next slap, and another and another, until his cheeks sting numb and his smile widens with smeared blood. Little hands settle to Hannibal’s face and he nuzzles him, as they move lower. Will undoes his tie, works the buttons on Hannibal’s shirt, slips his hands into his husband’s pants again.
"I love you," Will breathes, "so fiercely. The flight here was agony. Leaving you with just a kiss and a cup of coffee was damn near impossible. I ached for you. I always will."
With a joyful yelp, Will allows himself to be upended onto the bed, and helps Hannibal peel the rest of his clothes off. Every stitch is known to him, every inch of this particular fabric worshipped by hands and lips and breath and body. The only suit to survive the abandonment of Baltimore, the one Hannibal wore when he came back for Will a second time, ten years passed. It is too conspicuous to wear often, and never does he in Greece, but he wore it tonight.
For this.
For Will.
He brings his arms beneath the shirt and around Hannibal’s middle to lift it all over his head, kisses sinking into the thick, silvered hair on his chest. Hannibal tugs him away with a hand in his hair and shifting forward, frees himself of his trousers to lay bare together.
“I missed you,” he murmurs. “I missed your insatiable mouth and roving hands, your ferocious heart and terrible mind. What have I done so wrong, I wondered, that my little wolf would leave? What have I failed to teach him that has made him forget he belongs to me, and no other? With me, and nowhere else.”
He presses his hand between them to take his cock in hand, and in one rough shove mounts Will and splits him. Hannibal’s teeth bare in a snarl, the friction difficult, but soon giving way as Will lays trembling and breathless, eyes wide.
This.
This is the pain and pleasure that has been constant with them since the moment this began. This is the phantom sensation Will feels the next day when he sits, when he walks, when he does anything at all. There are days, of course, where they are gentle, sleepy kisses and murmured words and Will’s adorable smile. Days when they rock together slowly, after a nice deep rimming, and take their time. There are days when they make love.
And they will, Will knows, tomorrow or the next day or the next.
He keens softly and squirms to adjust himself against Hannibal, sinks one hand behind himself to hold the headboard as the other curves around Hannibal’s throat, squeezing just a little.
Hannibal holds, his cock deep and warming from the wet trickle of heat where he has sundered his boy, his husband, his little wolf. A shift of his head to feel Will’s fingers press against the pulse beneath. He leans low, as slowly as Will insists with his grasp, and brushes a kiss against the corner of his mouth.
“I would let you,” Hannibal whispers.
Will parts his lips wide, taking a slow breath, deep and deliberate, and squeezes his fingers tighter. He smiles, when Hannibal does not resist, when he allows his little wolf to choke him in the most ridiculously romantic way.
"I know," Will whispers, fingers unfurling to rest against Hannibal’s jaw instead. "God, I love you."
A sharp stab of his hips works Will’s whimper high and his fingernails tight. Hannibal tilts his head, lips against Will’s palm, his wrist, shoulder, throat, and jaw until he finds his mouth once more and licks between his lips into a long kiss. The bed rocks beneath them, a rough taking made violent not by anger or frustration or any such base emotion, but by the desperation both feel to make themselves whole together again. Hannibal reaches between them, fingertips dark with blood, and he paints a line across Will’s blushing cheek, delighting in his boyish, snorting laugh.
“I love you,” Hannibal tells him. “Happy anniversary.”