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The health emergency, as Alana had so respectfully said it, is not so much of a health emergency as it is a feral cannibal needing to be leashed. Alana’s face is paled under her makeup and her eyes are a little glassy when she greets him. The sight of her, her emotions suggesting she’s seen something truly awful, makes the hairs on his neck rise.
He’d come into town on a request. On a final favor for an old friend. Admittedly, only deep in his mind, to make sure that Hannibal Lecter is not truly rotting in a cage. The call had been frantic, a last resort, and he’d packed his bag despite anything Molly had to say about it. Which wasn’t much, she leaves his past in the past for his sake.
Alana’s heels click on the floor of her office, pacing back and forth in front of him where he sits in a chair, “Three guards killed. Six injured. We were barely able to get him restrained, Will.”
“Then why restrain him?” He asks, watching her fret in unspoken glee.
She glares at him, “He was destroying things, hurting himself in the process, I can’t have this getting out to the media.”
“It’s just a rut,” Will’s hands raise, not understanding.
“No, it’s never been like this before. Never this bad. He’s always been,” She gestures senselessly, “Himself during ruts.”
“And he’s not now?” He raises an eyebrow, leaning forward, “Has it ever occurred to you that he’s overreacting on purpose to gain something?”
“Gain what?”
“Entertainment,” Will shrugs, “He’s bored.”
“And now he’s restrained. What entertainment is in that?”
“Can’t you throw some omega in there, let it sort itself out?”
“Who would willingly go in that cell? It’s a liability. He can’t be trusted not to be violent regularly, violence during a rut is practically a given.”
“And now? How is he now?”
“Would you like to see the cameras?” She asks him, stunning him into silence for a moment. Yes, he would. Something low in his stomach stirs at the idea. He just nods jerkily, lets her lead the way. The security guards are observing each cell to make sure nothing is out of the ordinary, moving away for Alana to step forward.
She points and the guard clicks on a little box. It expands, revealing Hannibal Lecter’s cell. It’s wrecked, bookcases fallen, mattress shredded, papers discarded all over the floor. Hannibal stands, restrained tightly in a straight jacket, muzzle secured over his face. He’s calm. Eerily calm, not struggling against the restraints at all. Not making a sound.
They watch him in silence for a moment before Alana turns to him, jaw clenched, “What do we do?”
“Shouldn’t you know how to handle something like this by now?” Will snaps.
“This isn’t anybody, and you know it,” She crosses her arms, “You can’t do anything? I know you bonded with-“
“We did not,” Will hisses at her, glancing wearily at the guards that can hear him.
Alana steps closer, lowering her voice mindfully, “You reeked of abandonment when he.. when you..”
Will prickles further, “Nothing happened.”
“What do we do?” She asks again, softer this time.
Will huffs, shifts on his feet, knowing. Still, he begrudgingly asks, “Let me talk to him.”
“He hasn’t said a word since he went into his rut,” She informs him stiffly.
“He will,” He winces, “But not with cameras on us.”
“I can’t allow that.” Firm.
“Then cut the audio at least. And let me,” He gestures toward the cell still on the screen, Hannibal Lecter still unmoving, “Into the dragon’s lair.”
“I can’t risk another casualty, Will.”
“You’re not,” He tilts his head toward the door, asking her to lead the way.
She stares at him for a long moment, seemingly trying to be sure that he’s made up his mind. Then she tells the guard, “Mute the audio to his cell.”
She doesn’t wait as she leads the way, heels clicking on the hard floor, quickly to get this problem solved. Will walks after her, unable to stop the excited increase in his heart rate, trying to look as if he doesn’t secretly want a chance to talk to Hannibal without listeners. Some bitter part of him is grateful Molly’s scent lingers on his clothes and his skin.
She informs him in front of the door, going through the extra security and metal detectors, as he’s being patted down, “The scent stays within his cell, I can’t do anything about that, the ventilation doesn’t clear it out and you know it. I can’t help you if you step in and-“
Her lips snap shut, not willing to say it, but he knows. He burns, “I know.”
She dips her head, “Do I need to have you sign papers for that?”
“Don’t bother,” He follows her down yet another hallway. He doesn’t want evidence past this. It’s enough to have him in the cell on tape. They both know if one Jack Crawford hears any word of this, there’s hell and then some to pay. She inhales deeply before they’re allowed into the room.
Hannibal’s cell is only closed off from them with a thick glass panel. He doesn’t react at all upon the sight of Will in front of him after all this time. He’s fully restrained, straight jacket with a muzzle and strapped down. He doesn’t move, chest barely indicating he’s breathing. Calmer in a rut than anyone Will’s ever seen in his life. Which isn’t much but he hears stories.
They stand there for one seemingly endless second, the two of them versus Lecter once again. Then Alana commands the guard, “Let him in.”
Will doesn’t eye the intricacies of the lock, still caught up on the familiar maroon eyes that haunt him. Alana has cut his hair short and ugly, another form of stripping him of his dignity. He’s a formidable figure stuck in the middle of all the chaos he’s unleashed onto his cell.
Will’s nose twitches at the first catch of the scent, thick and nearly suffocating. Alana tells Hannibal stiffly, “I will be watching the cameras. One wrong move and we’re shutting this down.”
Will’s knees feel wobbly as he steps through but he tenses to combat it, hearing the door shut behind him, the locks engaging once again. The scent in the cell is so thick it’s nearly hard to breathe through, comforting feelings of Hannibal’s old office rising in him. He waits. Stands waiting by the door, staring, until they are fully alone.
He breathes through his mouth, steeling himself, telling him, “I have secured us time to talk. No audio recording. In trade for no more casualties.”
Hannibal eyes him curiously, doesn’t talk, suspicious. Will finally moves then, to stand in front of him, ignoring the omega in him calling for him to roll over and present. Alpha, something in him pleads, my alpha. He swallows thickly, though Hannibal twitches slightly at the smell of his slick, “An omega offering. What a blushing virgin you make, Will Graham.”
Will bares his teeth, “This pleading for attention doesn’t suit you, Dr. Lecter. Throwing a tantrum because you knew I was a last resort?”
“I knew nothing. I assumed,” Hannibal’s lips twitch, as much of a smile as he’s ever shown, “How’s the wife?”
“Don’t talk about my wife,” He hisses, “I’m here to save your ass, Lecter. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be locked up in a cage like an animal with none of your fancy books for entertainment. Like I was.”
The narrowing of eyes, “Did she plead with you not to come? Scent you and-“
“Speak of her again and I signal Alana Bloom to let me out.”
Hannibal pauses, seems to consider, “Alana Bloom would not take kindly to the smell of your slick dripping down your thighs.” Finally, a sign that Hannibal truly is in a rut, the tilt of his head and a sigh, “What a shame it is I never got to see you in the throes of heat.”
“That agreement was made to get you here,” Will burns, shame at his past weakness being mentioned. It had been an agreement they never acted on, when Hannibal had pressed his nose against the scent gland on his neck, there in the kitchen with the supposed meat of Freddie Lounds. The words had left his mouth before he’d meant them to.
Trap Lecter at what cost? Jack Crawford had not been so crass as to recommend seducing Lecter with his body. It seems Will himself had considered honey-trapping the man. Lecter had left him with a smile on his abdomen before he got his heat and they’d never acted on any suggestion of intimacy before then. Hannibal seems to know his thoughts, know him as he knows himself, “You have me at your disposal. What now, Will Graham?”
“Nothing untoward, no need to get eager,” Will snarls, irritated, finding it hard to think with the scent in the room and the man in front of him after all this time. How he’d missed him.
“Scent blockers are nasty things,” Hannibal’s eyes suddenly look distant, like he’s trying to remember how Will used to smell when he was comfortable enough to forgo them at dinner, “I remember long ago when you’d showed up at my door, smelling of infection and dogs and made my teeth ache for the first time in my life.”
“Did you ever consider claiming me while I was drugged?” Will asks, because he’s curious. Because he would’ve let him. How easy it would’ve been, to blame Hannibal for a bond, to take the guilt off of enjoying it.
“You are yet to be claimed now. I wonder why.”
Will swallows, doesn’t bring up Molly again. He isn’t eager for Hannibal to have any information on his family. He doesn’t tell him that Molly is already claimed, had been claimed by her past husband. A bond between them would never take. He hadn’t tried all that hard for it to happen either way.
“No,” Hannibal answers his question then, “Never. I would never do that to you.”
“You’d make me hunt you down in Florence, kill Abigail Hobbs, leave me permanently having to explain to my wife how she can’t mention this,” He pulls up his shirt, revealing his smile, the scar ugly and raised, “But you forbid a forceful bond?”
“You would never submit if I had,” Hannibal admits, eyes lingering on his mark, “I did not need a bond to leave my mark on you. Here you stand even now. Back again.”
Will steps forward, perfectly within reach yet Hannibal is unable to touch him, telling him bitterly, “This stunt? On your knees in the snow, risking a bullet to the head from Jack Crawford, leaving me abandoned? You might as well have forced me.”
Hannibal lets out the beginning of a keen before he stamps it out, shifting in his restraints. His voice isn’t pleading, still indifferent despite the slip of self-control, “Will.”
Will turns, eyeing the camera pointed at them, before his chin dips. He makes a decision. It’s nearly practiced the way he releases Hannibal from his restraints, having seen it done multiple times during his own stay, the release of nylon straps. Hannibal lurches forward, as if his own legs are too weak to hold himself up alone, and his weight comes crashing down.
Will shoulders him and Hannibal’s face, still muzzled, presses against the side of his neck. The plastic is cold but Hannibal is inhaling as if he’s a starving man. Will gasps, at the smell of him so close, before Hannibal somehow rips off his scentblocker with the edge of his mask.
They go crumbling to the ground instantly, his senses heightened that much more without the measure to stamp himself out. Hannibal growls, pressed over him on the floor, still restrained in his straight jacket. Hips press forward, another growl, “I hate when you call me that, use my name.”
Will’s mouth is moving but no sound comes out, entirely overwhelmed and caught off guard by Hannibal’s apparent handiness with his muzzle. He should’ve known. He should’ve known. He feels he’s already soaked through his slacks, legs having parted instinctively as they went down for the alpha he couldn’t have. Hannibal’s hips press forward again, breathing him in, nearly panting.
Will’s world is spinning for one terrifying second and the heat crawling up his spine makes him scared that the rut is triggering a heat. Bonded. Not properly, never officially, yet enough after all these years for his body to respond. The fear of that makes his thighs clamp around Hannibal, pushing off the ground with his elbows to roll them over. He doesn’t feel too bad about how Hannibal’s head knocks against the floor. He deserves it. Asshole.
Will scrabbles, Hannibal pinned effectively, finding the discarded patch on the floor beside them. It’s blind stupid hope that makes him press it back against his gland, holding it there, trying his best to breathe. Hannibal reeks. Will presses his other hand against Hannibal’s restrained arms, holding him there, “You bastard.”
He knows that Hannibal can overpower him, especially in a rut, but the other just lays his head back. Will is still sitting on his hips, panting, pressing the patch still to his neck. It helps a little. Not enough. The adhesive isn’t enough for it to stay on its own anymore. Hannibal rolls his hips, gasping, “Say my name, Will.”
“You don’t deserve it after that,” He hisses.
“Why take off my restraints? I could take you if I wanted,” Hannibal’s lips part, tasting his scent in the air, “Present for me as you wanted. Roll over, Will.”
“Hannibal,” Will can’t help the name from leaving his lips, small and pathetic.
“ Now,” Hannibal’s teeth bare, commanding.
The urge to obey is so strong that Will has to mentally restrain himself. The patch is doing nothing for him anymore, he groans and tosses it to the side, fully at a loss on what to do next. Not leave. He can’t face abandonment again, even if it’s himself leaving. He breathes through his mouth, trying to gather his thoughts, “Without the mask, would you have marked me then?”
“I will mark you while you’re willing and ready,” Hannibal shifts in his straight jacket uncomfortably, “I do not wish for your total immediate submission, marking is something I would earn with time. With courting.”
“You’re not allowed to court me,” Will bites, yanking Hannibal to sit upright, scrabbling at the clasps on his back.
“Is that not what I’ve done?” Hannibal huffs, leaning forward against his shoulder, “Tell me, Will, what was it that I was doing during our conversations?”
“Trying to corrupt me,” Will’s hand is too sweaty to undo them quick enough, “There’s a darkness in the back of my consciousness that sounds like your voice.”
Hannibal groans, one of his arms loosened enough to take the tight pressure off his shoulder, “Did I not prove to you that I can provide?”
“I’m not interested in anything you can provide,” Will snarls, and one of Hannibal’s arms is finally loose. The jacket slips off his shoulder and then his hand is free, arm slipping between them to undo the bottom buttons of his jumpsuit. Will gasps, ditching the second set of clasps in favor of pushing his slacks and boxers down together just enough. The wet material drags down his skin but he lifts his hips, grasping onto Hannibal’s cock where the knot is already swelling and sinking down.
He gasps, an arm wrapping around his waist just to pull him impossibly closer. Hannibal makes a wounded noise, hard edges of the mask digging into the side of Will’s neck. Finally. It feels as if the last few years have been in waiting for this. It feels almost dreadful to pull away now that Hannibal is fully seated inside of him, completing him in ways he didn’t know he was incomplete. Still, he lifts his hips just to fall back down again, telling himself it’s just to get this over with.
The angle is awful and awkward and he already feels too damn old to be doing this much activity, pushing at Hannibal’s shoulder to force him to lay back. Hannibal’s attention shifts then, one arm still restrained, to pulling off the slacks still tight around Will’s thighs. He gasps, finding a better rhythm like this, having never been this slick without being in heat.
At least he doesn’t think he’s in heat, even if the smell of Hannibal in rut is enough to make his thinking questionable. Hannibal looks like a mess, mask fogged, halfway out of a straight jacket, foggy eyes trained on baring him fully. Will groans at the great Hannibal Lecter reduced to just being a stupid alpha in heat. Numb to any needs other than to breed.
His knot is swelling steadily, catching on his rim, and Hannibal’s hand wraps around his neglected cock. It makes Will’s hips stutter as he shivers, mind going blank for a moment from too much. Hannibal grits out, “How can anyone be satisfied with this? Don’t you know you’re made for wrapping around a knot? My knot.”
“You’re talking nonsense, Dr. Lecter,” Will hisses out, rolling his hips slower, taking in the feeling. He hasn’t experienced this in a while. And never this good.
“Your poor beta wife, not knowing where you belong,” Hannibal’s head tilts back, throat bared, muzzle still secure, “Mine.”
Will can tell he’s getting close, that his rut is making him talk nonsense, yet it doesn’t stop the prickle of want crawling up his spine. Hannibal’s hips jerk upward into him, knot swelling quickly and properly now. Just as his hips stutter, Will places both hands on his chest and pushes himself off of him. Hannibal cries out as he’s denied anything around his knot at all, cumming while scrabbling for Will’s hip. Sick satisfaction curls his lip, “Knotting was never part of the deal, Dr. Lecter.”
Hannibal pants, clearly unsatisfied, a mess there among the mess he’s made of his cell. His chest rises and falls rapidly and then his free hand grabs for the opposite shoulder. It’s an uncomfortable shift but he manages to pull his caught arm free as well, lunging for Will too suddenly for him to scrabble away. A tight hand on the nape of his neck and his slacks are ripped off of him in one fluid motion. He’s flipped like he weighs nothing, pinned by the nape of his neck, cheek pressed to the cold floor.
He rises to his knees on instinct, back arching, presenting even as he’s been pinned to the floor. Hannibal has already caught his breath, pressing his still swollen tip against him, “This is what you wanted, isn’t it, dear Will? Some responsibility taken from you.”
Despite the rough hold, Hannibal’s hand is gentle against the curve of his hip as he presses into him again. Will keens, complete again, so deep like this that his eyes are practically rolling back. The control and power he’d held is completely gone, taken by the alpha with hips pressed flat against his ass. His cock weeps between his legs and he moans when Hannibal rolls his hips. Legs shaking, still no heat in sight, he can’t help but antagonize, “Your rut makes you arrogant, Dr. Lecter.”
Hannibal huffs, almost amused by his continued defiance, laying himself against his back. Will jolts a little in surprise from the absence of the hard plastic, Hannibal nosing into his neck, inhaling him properly. Hips still, Hannibal asks him, “Will you take my pups this time?”
“I can’t,” Will tells him, knowing that they both know this, hand drifting down to touch the scar on his abdomen, “You made sure of that.”
Hannibal’s hand slides down, resting over his, fingers venturing to trace the tissue, “Well, we can certainly try anyway.”
Will shivers at the touch, never allowing others to do so, never really doing so himself. Hannibal inhales him again before pulling his hips away and sliding back into him in one fluid movement. It feels as if all of his limbs turn to mush, Will whining, accepting this turn of events wholly. Hannibal fucks him so good, made as his counterpart, one hand grasping his hip and the other still splayed on his scar.
Although he’s not too happy about this encounter being caught on camera, he’s glad at least he’s saved from the horrid sounds of his slickness being recorded. Saved from his moans and their private intimacies being captured. Hannibal groans, pulling away and filling him, again and again. Although initially deceptively tender, an urgency grows between them quickly, turning harsh and violent as they tend to be.
Hannibal’s teeth scrape against his scent gland and he’s cumming, vision whiting out, pressing himself into each thrust harder. Hannibal groans at the feeling, knot swelling, and this time Will presses himself onto it determinedly. A few more quick slides, slick wetting his thighs at this point, and Hannibal forces his thick knot into him. Will hisses, having never experienced it before, tensing as Hannibal’s hips give a few more stuttering thrusts. And then he’s full, tip pressed right against his prostate, and he cums a second time just from the feeling.
Hannibal groans into his skin, grip tightening momentarily. Will gasps, cheek still pressed to the tile, hand scrabbling down to stop fingers from pressing into his tender scar. They pant together for a few long moments, in the same position now locked together, the comforting weight of Hannibal on top of him and the comforting scent all over his skin. Then arms wrap around his middle, pulling him up so he can be seated on Hannibal’s lap, upright so quickly that his head spins.
It makes the other shift inside of him and he complains, “Hannibal.”
Hannibal hums, satisfied, clear-headed for the moment now that his rut is satisfied. Only momentarily. Arms unwind from his waist, tenderly placing two flat hands onto his scar. Will looks down and feels ashamed that he’s letting anyone touch him like this. But the scar is Hannibal’s, after all. The brush of a cheek against his own and then Hannibal presses their scent glands together, scenting him and making his entire body relax.
He grabs Hannibal’s wrist, touches the gland there, and tells him, “Reminds me of your old office.”
“I’ve dreamt of your scent. Nothing my mind palace could conjure lives up to the real thing.”
Will huffs, “Dogs and fish?”
Hannibal ignores the self-depreciation, asks instead, “You are not in heat.”
“I don’t-“ Will cuts himself off, “Well, I do have them. But it’s not the same anymore as it was.”
“Irregular,” Hannibal guesses correctly, “Can you track them?”
“In about three months,” Will guesses, thinking of the agony of his last one. They hurt more now that his reproductive system is practically useless.
Hannibal shifts and his knot is already shrinking, arms wrapping around his waist again to grind him downward, “Another try, then?”
There’s no way that Hannibal would let him leave now anyway.
By the time his next heat comes around, Molly is gone. When the front door opens and the reason why his phone is ringing enters the room, he doesn’t have to be forced to present this time.