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The spindly gates of the Lecter estate loom sharp in the darkness as they swing open, inhaling them in with the purr of the car motor. Will rolls his shoulders and blinks awake as they start moving again and the gate shuts behind them, casting a sleepy smile over to Hannibal who looks terribly amused at Will’s penchant of napping on car rides.
The forest around them is intimate and dark, acres of land tucked with all manner of night creatures. The road winds higher up the hill towards the house, which billows into their field of vision some five minutes later. Candles are lit in all of the windows with a welcoming glow and the lawn is perfectly manicured, the mistress of the manor standing with the other staff on the porch as they approach. The chauffeur pulls up to the front and opens the door for them, smiling politely as Will and Hannibal step out of the car and up the manor steps.
“Welcome back,” Mistress Chiyoh says with a dip of her head, the other employees following suit. “We are so pleased to welcome you back home. Will your stay still be in line with what we discussed?”
Hannibal nods curtly as Will takes it all in. It has been a year since they’ve been back to Hannibal’s estate, and the Lithuanian air is cool respite on his skin. It looks precisely as he remembers from his last visit, all crisp elegance and wisps of fog. It would be even more beautiful in the daytime, and Will longed to walk the maze again or lounge in the library. Hannibal and Chiyoh continue to murmur softly while the chauffeur brings their luggage into the house, before Hannibal passes a thick envelope to their head gardener. The man smiles brightly as Hannibal waves them towards the car, only Chiyoh and the butler Domantas remaining behind.
“Let us get you settled,” Chiyoh announces as she tilts her head at Domantas, Will and Hannibal following suit. Will has always liked Chiyoh’s no-nonsense mannerisms and myriad of talents- she had taught him rifle during one of their summer holidays at the estate, and was as skilled at taxidermy as he was. Chiyoh whisks Hannibal away to check on some new acquisitions for the house, while Domantas brings Will upstairs and ushers him into the grand bathroom.
The bathtub is already full and steaming, with an assortment of bath oils, soaps, and perfumes waiting on the side table as he steps out of his clothes. Will slips into the hot water and feels all the tension of traveling start to leave his body as he relaxes. He grabs one of the bottles on the side blindly and pours some of the oil into the tub, the sweet scent of ylang ylang rising up with the steam. It’s much more floral than Will expected, but so nice he can’t find it in himself to care.
Eventually, he washes his hair and rinses the suds out before Hannibal comes into the bathroom, clad in nothing but some low-slung pajama pants. After two weeks of nothing but teasing Will itches to drag him into the water, but refrains. He’d get his prize soon enough. Memories of previous trips to the estate console him, the knowledge that soon they’d be back in the forest.
“Sunset tomorrow,” Hannibal murmurs into his curls, and Will smiles faintly as he shuts his eyes while Hannibal scrubs him down.
Sunlight filters into the bedroom through thick curtains, filling the room with the hazy warmth of morning. Will stretches lazily as he blinks awake, the bed spacious and cool with only him in it. Breakfast sits inconspicuous and hardy on a tray next to the bed- tea, expensive fruits, protein scramble, buttered croissants. Will indulges after a moment’s hesitation, and plucks a note with Hannibal’s looping handwriting from the spread after he tugs the tray into his lap. It brings a smile to his face to see the time their game will start and the terms of winning or losing. The staff have all been dismissed for the next three days. Will basks in the meal and calm of the morning as he eats before he sets about busying himself for the day.
He dresses in all black, sleek and stylish, as he wanders their mansion. Will studiously avoids Hannibal the entire day as he peers into the refurbished parlor, completes a list of requests for the library full of books he’s sure Hannibal will call utter drivel, and delights in new materials for his fly-making desk after a brief lunch. This room of Will’s is a particular favorite, all dark greens and silky woods with paintings of fish from every corner of the world. It looks out upon the labyrinth that sprawls the back lawn (much too familiar to them both to be of any help tonight) and has several of Will’s best works on display. He gets more absorbed than he intended to by the new case of bone, fur, and thread that Chiyoh has left for him.
Catching sight of the clock, Will gives a start. The hour draws close. With practiced efficiency, Will tidies his workplace and heads for the master bedroom. Will pulls his knife case from its hiding spot, unrolling the velvet fabric to reveal all six of the set, shining and wickedly sharp. He could bring the whole set, be armed to the teeth, but that’s not what he’s in the mood for. Instead, he chooses the most unassuming one of the bunch- the familiar gleam and worn wood handle of his old fishing knife. Satisfied, Will pulls on sturdy boots and tucks the knife into his thigh holster before slipping down to the foyer to wait. The sun has begun to set, washing the estate in persimmon hues as Will gazes out the window to the forest. Hannibal will still be tucked away in the library for a while. Will has a ten minute head start to make count after the game begins.
From the living room, the sonorous gong of the grandfather clock marks the top of the hour. Will opens the door and starts to run as fast as he can across the front lawn, heading straight for the dark embrace of the woods. He shoots one last glance at the imposing beauty of the manor behind him before he crosses the tree line and enters the underbrush. It’s still light enough to see, but won’t be for long. Will weaves his way through the trees, careful not to snap any twigs or step in mud. He jogs down a deer path for a few minutes before delving off eastward, winding towards what he knows is the direction of the back of the house. His pace slows as the forest grows darker, shadows beginning to stretch longer than branches before they bleed together.
As he rounds the thick trunk of the very oak tree he’d been caught under last year, a smile tugs at his mouth. He figures he only has a minute more before Hannibal comes out, maybe two. He continues into the forest, shadows slowly starting to pool further from the bases of the trees.
The loud crack of a gunshot in the distance breaks the evening silence, and a flurry of birds burst from the treetops as Will creeps with more cautiousness. The wind has completely stilled. After a bit, Will spots a tall tree and begins to climb. The base of his boots plant against the trunk as he swings himself up into the branches, bark digging into his skin with each new handhold. He climbs high enough to where he thinks he won’t be spotted from the ground, and nestles in to wait.
The minutes drag on, Will’s every sense alert and ready to launch into fight or flight. The forest’s shadows around him begin to muddy and blur into each other, his field of vision shrinking from his perch. His knees start to ache from crouching in the branches so long, but he ignores it.
Night arrives properly, and then Will sees him. He is absolutely silent, stalking through the forest with lithe steps as his gaze rakes the landscape around him. Will holds his breath as Hannibal draws closer to the tree and passes below it, pausing briefly. Will knows that if the wind had been dancing that night, he would’ve been sold out. But as it is, Hannibal continues on.
Will exhales softly and weighs his options. He could stay right where he is and risk the wind picking up and doubling back, or he could get down and move. There was plenty of forest to hide in, but the longer the game crawled on, the more likely Will figured Hannibal would use weapons. The house wasn’t off limits this time, so he could try and make a run for it across the lawn- but that was too exposed. That left risking trying to follow Hannibal back to get the jump on him. Will debates briefly before he scrambles back down the tree trunk and begins to take off in the direction Hannibal had gone. While drawing everything out was a delicious prospect, in anticipation of the trip Hannibal hasn’t so much as touched him for a good three weeks and Will is fed up with it. He knows it’s base and selfish reasoning, but he’s got a right. And Hannibal will punish him regardless, so…
Will’s mindset has shifted slightly as he starts to track Hannibal’s path under the moonlight. It’s tricky going, but Will continues with feverish focus.
Fifty yards or so ahead, Will spots him. Hannibal is unnaturally still. Gaze boring into him, Will leans over and pops the hook of his thigh sheath without breaking his line of sight. Whatever it was that had caught Hannibal’s attention apparently is fleeting, as his husband continues his silent journey. Will is so unused to doing something like this during the game that nervousness begins to skitter lightly across him. Will dares to try and close the gap between them further, suddenly itching to pull his knife from the unclasped sheath.
That’s when he feels something ruffle his hair like a familiar friend, and he freezes. The breeze is short-lived, but the damage is done and Will feels his heart rate pick back up. Hannibal soundlessly whips around, and they make direct eye contact. Will whirls on his heel and takes off as fast as he can in the opposite direction.
His earlier boost of confidence is completely gone and the typical mindset he usually has when they play this game snaps into place all at once. He makes no effort to conceal the sound of his running as he hears boots pounding against the leaves behind him, weaving between trees in a desperate attempt to flee. His instincts are screaming at him to RUNRUNRUN and Will’s vision threatens to start tunnelling. He risks a glance over his shoulder and sees Hannibal starting to fall behind, a look on his face that makes Will’s blood run cold.
They reach a bramble that Will tears through without hesitation, hurriedly ducking through the branches and weeds until he finds a broad tree to spin behind covertly. As he stands there with his back to the bark and tries to slow his pulse, Will realizes he can’t hear anything else in the forest. Dread creeping down his spine, he compels himself to stay stock-still for one minute, two. Three.
Nothing.
Slowly peering around the side, Will scans his surroundings and can’t see Hannibal anywhere. He hadn’t gone by him, so where did he go?
Cautiously, Will takes a step out from behind the tree, then another. Still nothing. Fearfully optimistic, Will gingerly picks his way out of the bramble and begins to walk back in the direction of the house. He’s going to risk the lawn.
He sees the flash of movement to his side a moment too late, only barely able to stumble out of his grasp. But it sends him off balance regardless, and Will stumbles backwards all the way to the ground. Hannibal twists around as Will surges to his feet and whips out his fishing knife, facing his husband who leers at him.
“William,” Hannibal says in a warning tone, smiling with far too much teeth. “Are you running away from me?”
When Hannibal and him do this, Will can feel them. Hannibal’s victims. Seeing the way Hannibal looks when he hunts, the way he handles Will, he can understand their most base of fears and the white-hot fog of terror. He understands the blinding urge to run and claw and fight and hide. But beneath all of that is him- the sick, twisted part of Will that gets hard when Hannibal holds a knife to his throat and who dreams of being bound and at his mercy. The part of Will that gets hungry thinking of Hannibal bleeding too, by Will’s own hand, that likes when Hannibal looks at him with that same fear they all feel. Will’s fear and arousal blur into one, and it comes out as a vicious need to fight.
“The only reason you catch me is because I let you,” Will snaps back, and Hannibal raises an eyebrow as he straightens.
“A quaint explanation, one I find disagreeable,” Hannibal says simply, and takes a step forward. Will steels his nerves and lunges at him, slashing quickly at Hannibal’s cheek. It’s just barely too wide and Will misses, teetering off balance when Hannibal takes advantage of the miscalculation to grab his wrist and shoulder so tightly that the knife drops from his hand. Will cries out in pain as Hannibal pulls him in so he’s awkwardly pinned against his chest, to which Will leans in and bites down on Hannibal’s neck as hard as he possibly can. The metallic tang of blood fills his mouth, and Hannibal lets go of him in utter surprise as his hand flies up to survey the bite mark. Will takes the chance to run once more, and Hannibal’s unusual bark of laughter rings out amongst the trees.
Usually, Will can’t resist the urge to tease his husband about his age. Dirty old man, he’d grumble during those moments when Hannibal would cage him against the kitchen counter in the mornings. Don’t exert yourself too much, you’ll burst an artery, he’ll joke as Hannibal kneels over some unfortunate business owner or rude opera goer with a scalpel. But at times like this, Will feels the age doesn’t affect Hannibal a single bit- even with the difference in years, they are exact equals in a fight. Twenty years on Will, and Hannibal still runs just as fast as him… and lasts just as long.
Blinding, blinding- Will sucks in a terrified breath as his heart hammers against his chest. It’s all gone now except the need to flee. Only the barest of brushes of memory tug at him, feeding the beast- all the moments Hannibal scared him most. He can barely make out the looming shapes of the trees in the night, his gaze suddenly locked on a glimmer in the distance. The house.
Without warning, Will is slammed into bodily from the back, careening down onto the forest floor where he lands hard in the leaf litter. A hand twists in his hair and tries to leverage him over, but raw, animal fear alights his body at the manhandling. Will lashes out expertly, bucking Hannibal off of his back before he kicks blindly backward, narrowly missing. Before he can secure the ground gained, Hannibal manages to get back on top of him and shoves his face back into the leaves. Will makes a noise that’s somewhere close to a growl, and then he has arms underneath him and pushes up with enough sheer force to get them both off the ground. It’s not enough though, Hannibal all but glued to his back. Hannibal’s legs knock Will’s apart before he slams an elbow between Will’s shoulder and gets a hand twisted in Will’s hair. It breaks Will’s concentration and he slumps flat, the forced submission making his blood run to both his face and elsewhere beneath his belt.
Hannibal manages to get a grip on both of his wrists and wrenches them backwards to get pinned under his knee- how does he always do it- and the hand twisted in Will’s hair yanks his head back. Hannibal leans in to nose up Will’s necks and inhale deeply behind his ear, frustrating Will even more that he can’t smack him for the action. The body on top of him shifts and Will can feel that Hannibal’s starting to really enjoy himself. His mouth goes dry for the feeling.
“Don’t you know you can’t run away from me?” Hannibal asks, his voice velvet-deep in Will’s ear.
Will gives a little hum as he weighs his options. He’s pinned quite thoroughly, but there’s still a chance he could talk or fight his way out of this. Maybe.
A thumb hooks in his cheek and makes him turn his face, and Will feels himself blush even redder at how much harder it gets him. “That wasn’t a rhetorical question, Will,” Hannibal chides, and the patronizing comment makes Will grateful that being forced on his stomach at least means that he has some source of constant pressure on the front of his body, no matter how awkward and painful the position. Still, he refuses to answer the question.
Hannibal lifts his knee to release Will’s wrists, sending feeling creeping back into them with pins and needles as he keeps ahold of them while stretching flat out on top of Will’s back. Their bodies go flush and Will’s eyes flutter shut, momentarily forgetting his fear, his fight. “You’ll answer me eventually,” Hannibal murmurs as he allows himself a lazy roll of his hips against Will’s ass.
Will remembers himself in a rush, eyes snapping open as he heaves his weight backwards as quickly and forcefully as he can, sending Hannibal listing to the side as he rolls onto his back, twigs and leaves tangling in his hair. He sends a kick sailing for Hannibal’s jaw but his husband catches it stumblingly by Will’s ankle, grip locking tight as he stands and starts to drag Will, prickles of fear reigniting once again. Hannibal usually didn’t mess around so long after catching Will in their game, and the change of pace was equal parts exhilarating and almost terrifying.
“Fuck you!” Will snaps as he tries to flail his leg out of Hannibal’s grip, only succeeding in getting his other leg captured. Hannibal lifts his legs high enough that his hips leave the ground, and Will’s hands scrabble for purchase amongst the dead foliage as Hannibal drags him deeper into the forest. It’s short lived as Hannibal stops and gets back on top of him, purposefully ignoring the now incredibly prominent bulge in Will’s pants.
“It’s rude to play with your food, Dr. Lecter,” Will hisses breathlessly.
Hannibal descends upon him with an uncharacteristically sweet kiss. “Should I make it quick, then?” Hannibal asks, and suddenly Will can feel the blunt press of a knife against his stomach through his clothes. It’s right there, exactly against the scar. Will’s mouth parts and his eyebrow bunch in a wanton expression of desire, and Hannibal doesn’t move an inch. “Remarkable boy,” Hannibal murmurs. Is the knife going to cut through Will’s clothes?
The knife presses more insistently. The fabric of the shirt finally gives, and the feeling of sharp, frigid steel against his skin makes Will’s cock twitch in his pants. “Harder, Will?” Hannibal asks, leaning down close to Will’s ear. Will’s hands bunch uselessly against the leaves and his hips jerk up against his own wishes. He can feel Hannibal’s smirk, pressed secretively close against the skin of his neck under his ear.
The knife moves from his stomach and goes to his throat. Will’s eyes go even wider, hardly daring to even breathe. This is the point at which the blood in Will’s ears roars so loud that he’s shocked Hannibal can’t hear it, but he knows without a shadow of doubt he can feel Will’s heart pounding double-time in his chest. He has no idea if Hannibal is going to make him bleed or not, and it’s that fear, that anticipation, that makes Will sick with want.
The look on Will’s face must do something to Hannibal, because before he can help himself his husband is leaning down and crushing their mouths together. The knife drops next to his head and Will is shaking as he slides his hands up into the silky tresses of Hannibal’s hair, opens his mouth and hooks a leg behind Hannibal’s back. It’s the first time they’ve kissed in weeks and they both gasp hurried breaths before rushing back in to kiss as much as possible, Will’s mouth sweet and pleasantly filled when Hannibal’s tongue slips in to taste him. Hannibal gives his lip a playful nibble and then a full on bite, drawing blood, the flavor of hot iron overwhelming the kiss. It slicks Will’s chin after a moment and Hannibal chases it, broad tongue licking the red smears shamelessly. His split lip stings horribly, and Hannibal does not relent.
The knife returns to Hannibal’s hands and he leans back, knelt between Will’s legs. With practiced efficiency, Hannibal levers the tip of his knife under the button of Will’s pants and flicks the blade, sending the button flying into the forest with a soft pop. “Hannibal-“ Will all but wheezes, and his husband throws him a bone by yanking his zipper down with merely his fingers. His boxers betray Will’s state of arousal and Hannibal rubs a brief thumb against the wettening fabric at his tip.
“What is it, Will?” Hannibal replies, in a tone that would be entirely conversation if not for the honeyed-gravel pitch of his voice with desire.
“Bastard,” is all Will can think to mutter. He gets a laugh for his efforts before Hannibal starts wrestling him again, forcibly rolling him onto his stomach. Will throws an elbow back, which of course Hannibal catches and uses to crush him more forcefully against the ground.
“Fiesty tonight,” Hannibal growls in his ear, wrenching Will’s pants and boxers down his thighs. The cold air makes him shiver with his exposed skin, but the texture of the leaves is worse, so Will grits his teeth and tries to push himself backwards into a better position. It gives Hannibal the chance to loop an arm under his stomach and get him in an entirely compromising position, breath leaving his body like the crash of a wave as Hannibal gets his own pants down too and he feels his husband behind him. Will muses about one final attempt at fleeing and tenses ever so slightly, but Hannibal practically reads his mind. The knife returns to the exposed vee of his hips. “Stop fighting, Will. Last warning.”
Will just nods stupidly as Hannibal withdraws his hands and shuffles around. An uncorking noise and a sticky sound before two fingers run down the length of his back and press against his ass. The fingers that slide into him are slick and insistent, and Will bites his lip to keep from making any noises. Hannibal has always been so unbelievably good with his hands- a surgeon, an artist, a lover- and the slow slide of him in and out while they’re exposed in the forest keeps Will’s heart racing. His chest feels overstuffed and adrenaline is still hot in his veins, making him shaky with sensation. Hannibal maintains a brusque pace as he works Will over with his fingers, adding a third after Will finally lets slip an embarrassingly vulnerable sound. A minute, three, and then the fingers are leaving to be replaced by the blunt pressure of something more. The thick length of Hannibal’s cock rubs against him indulgently as Will’s head drops helplessly between his arms. He shifts his hips back more with a cruel arch of his back.
“Do it,” he demands, shaking as Hannibal acquiesces. It’s overwhelming and relentless as Hannibal pushes in inch by inch, constant pace not breaking until his hips are flush with Will’s ass. There’s little lube left from Hannibal’s fingers and it makes the stretch ache more, a savory pain that Will exhales shakily on. Both of Hannibal’s hands rest on Will’s waist and he stills, clearly drinking in the moment with the forest darkness wrapped around them like a blanket. “Fuck,” Will whispers, almost an afterthought. Hannibal always manages to make him fall apart, every time without fail.
The fingers digging into Will’s waist are tight enough to bruise, and when Hannibal starts to move, it makes Will feel too big for his skin. Hannibal is not going particularly fast, but he’s so deep and exacting that Will is panting and nearly keening before he knows it. He feels every single inch in and out, every single throb and shift of Hannibal’s hips. It’s an an intense and possessive type of fuck, and Will’s voice cracks low and urgent on his groans.
“That’s it, Will,” Hannibal whispers, starting to pick up the pace a tick. “My dear Will,” he adds, hips snapping with a new viciousness. Will moans at the feeling and reaches a shaking hand between his legs to touch himself, feeling wound far, far too tight and tense. Hannibal smacks his hand away and stills, hunching over his back so his chest is pressed against Will’s back. “If you touch yourself like that without asking again, I will cut it off.”
The sound that leaves Will at that statement is so raw and desperate that humiliation paints him red from his cheeks to his chest. He doesn’t know if Hannibal is talking about cutting off his hand or his cock, but either way…
“Whatever you say, Ripper,” Will manages, and then his head is getting wrenched back by the hair. The hand left on his side starts to yank Will’s hips back into his thrusts so roughly that Will’s knees are shifting against the ground, the sounds they’re making horribly conspicuous in the silence of the forest. It punches Will’s breath from him in noisy little exhalations every time Hannibal buries himself within Will, and when the hand in his hair finally releases, his head drops immediately between his shoulders and Will slumps forward, overwhelmed. His earlier fight is utterly gone.
Will gasps helplessly into the leaf litter, the growing night chill doing nothing to help the flush of his cheeks. His knees ache from this position on the forest floor and he relishes it, Hannibal’s hands slipping slightly against the sweat of his hips before he gets his grip back. “Perfect, Will,” his husband rumbles. He makes a rough sound, and drags his thumb down to rub against the point of contact where their bodies meet. Will’s cock gives a painful throb at the action, and he knows he’s going to come without a hand on him.
On the same wavelength as him, Hannibal starts moving slow and deep, grinding his hips filthily against Will’s ass. It makes Will feel so full he’s sure he’ll break, and he nods blindly with the need for everything Hannibal will give him. Hannibal growls a snarl of Lithuanian at him and his hips angle to perfectly rub against the spot in Will that makes him want to pass out from the intensity of it all. A half-scream wrenches out his throat as his body is forced over the edge unexpectedly, Will shaking as he soaks the ground and splatters his own chest.
Hannibal continues taking his pleasure in Will but isn’t much further behind, pulling Will tight to him a minute later as he comes in Will with a throaty groan. Will feels thoroughly claimed and used, shuddering as Hannibal carefully shifts himself backwards. Sticky warmth drips down his thighs afterwards and Will has to force himself to take calming breaths. He doesn’t think he can handle getting worked up into another round right now. Hannibal fixes both of their clothes and they lay on the forest floor, a move rather uncharacteristic of Hannibal. It makes Will smile despite the riot of various aches coming to his awareness.
“The last known victim of the Chesapeake Ripper is Will Graham,” Will grumbles, eyes closed. Hannibal lets out an amused huff of breath and leans over to kiss his cheek.
“Victim? Will, you wound me. I daresay if you marry the Ripper, you become an accomplice.”
They lapse into comfortable silence. I win, Will thinks.