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For the better part of their relationship—if it could even be called that—Will and Hannibal had struck a delicate, necessary balance. Will was greedy, loud about what he needed. Willing to take it by force. Ravenous. And Hannibal, for his part, would never deny his beloved anything.
Except for the one thing he really wanted.
It’d come up during Will’s first heat off of his suppressants. He’d been soft, pliant. Docile. Everything the ideal omega should be.
“Hannibal, please,” he’d begged from beneath him, voice honey-sweet and thick with delirium. He exposed the junction between his throat and shoulder, painfully bare for his liking. He could practically feel it, Hannibal’s teeth slicing through the flesh, carving a place for himself there. A permanent brand, the physical manifestation of their bond. He couldn’t think of anything he wanted more.
“Oh, Will,” Hannibal cooed, chest against Will’s back, fucking him brutally into the mattress. He mouthed at the skin over his scent gland, indulging in greedy inhales of his earthy, almost woodsy scent. There's a thick, almost sickeningly sweet maple note amplified by his heat. “You want it so bad, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Will whined, playing up the high-pitched Omegan timbre his voice took on in heat. “Yes.”
Hannibal’s lips brushed against his skin as he spoke, fever-slick and blushed pink. “Poor thing,” he murmured, tongue pressing flat against his neck, tasting his sweat. Will keened beneath him, trembling under the weight of his punishing thrusts, registering the swell of a knot at his rim. The barest pinch of teeth dragged across the tender spot, teasing. Taunting. “If I bit you… here,” another nip from sharp canines, eliciting a hiss from Will, “you’d be spoken for. Claimed. Your skin would part so easily for me, wouldn’t it?”
“Give it to me, Hannibal.” Lower than before, balanced on the razor-thin line between asking and demanding. Threatening. He bared his throat further as he felt the pressure, so close he could taste it, it was right there-
Before his teeth could pierce the skin, sealing them together, Hannibal retracted. He pressed his mouth to the shell of Will’s ear instead. “No.”
Something broke in him—something wild, primal. His vocal cords rumbled with a deep growl as he tore at the sheets, clenched teeth bared, lunging at whatever flesh he thought he could grasp between his jaws. Hannibal gripped the back of his neck, applying just enough pressure to make him go lax against the mattress.
“I’ll kill you,” Will grit out, desperate to rip into the body above him, yearning for the sickening sound the meat would make as it gave way. “Tear your throat out. I’ll fuckin’ kill you.”
And Hannibal, the sadistic bastard, had laughed.
—
Will finds himself in a bar, not far from Hannibal’s office.
He’s cutting it close—it’s a quarter after six, and he’s scheduled for his normal 7:30, but he can’t bring himself to care. His fury has reached a boiling point; the one thing he wants more than anything, and Hannibal holds it only just out of reach. It’s enraging.
But Will isn’t stupid. He has a plan.
He’s been ruminating on the idea for months, finally deciding to act on it as Hannibal has made it extremely clear he won’t be getting what he wants any time soon—which is fine. He can play this game. If Hannibal won’t give it to him willingly, he has no problem taking it by force; tricking his instincts into taking over seems like his best shot. A voice at his ear startles him out of his thoughts, pulling him from the spiral of rage he’d found himself in. For now.
“Why don’t you let me get your next round, gorgeous?”
Will turns to look at the stranger who’s sidled up beside him at the bar, scenting him discreetly. He’s an alpha—a sleazy one at that, radiating strong notes of tobacco and musk, with something spicy at the base. Almost imperceptible beneath it, though, he picks up the ripe, bursting sweetness of another omega. Rather, multiple omegas. It’s bitter against his palate, too smoky; if they’d have met twenty years earlier, he’d be the exact type Will would’ve gone for. Older, cocky, good for a quick fuck in a dingy club bathroom. In another life, perhaps, but not this one.
“No need,” Will replies flippantly, “I’m only having the one.”
“Shame,” the man sighs, encroaching into Will’s personal space one millimeter at a time, like he thinks he won’t notice. Almost like he’s approaching a stray. “Was hopin’ I could get more than that off you.”
Will swallows back his annoyance, tamps down the primal urge to snap his teeth at the ill-suited alpha. This man is attracted to him. Wants something from him. He can use that.
He looks to the stranger, peeking up at him through his lashes. He knows it’s working by the way his jaw sets, the way his eyes darken. Like a tug on the end of his fishing line. He’s taken the bait–now all Will has to do is hook him.
He leans in, toward the alpha’s scent gland, taking a deep inhale of his pheromones; it takes incredible restraint not to grimace, the sour of a bad pairing clinging to the back of his throat. As he gets closer, he spies a shitty tattoo of a pinup girl on the side of the stranger’s neck–it occurs to him that it might be older than he is. Charming.
“You smell nice,” Will breathes out, sultry and smooth, thick with feigned innocence. He lowers his voice, leans further in. “Tempting.”
“Christ, angel,” the man bites out, visibly straightening. Right where Will wants him. “You keep lookin’ at me like that, I’ll give you anything you fuckin’ want.”
Hook, line and sinker. Will fights the pleased grin that threatens to curl the corners of his mouth. In a silent offering, he bares his throat; milky, unmarked skin on full display. He makes a soft, small whine as he does, barely above a whisper. The alpha is closing the distance in an instant, tucking his face against the exposed flesh, the slightest hint of stubble prickling against his skin as he’s scented. It makes his stomach turn. It’s wrong, his body knows it, but he smothers every instinct that tells him so.
Will lets the silence breathe before he speaks again, just loud enough for the alpha to hear. “What I want,” a breath, “is for you to find your way to the bathroom.”
The insinuation is blatant. He chooses his words carefully; there’s no confirmation that he’ll follow, but he has a sneaking suspicion that this alpha won’t think to question it. Not like his alpha, where every phrase is deliberate, words meticulously strung together to convey—or conceal—his meaning.
Well. Not his alpha. Not yet.
The stranger pulls away after a moment, pausing to knock back the rest of his drink with a wink before beelining for the men’s room. Something like pride swells in Will’s chest, at how easy it had been. Given the distinctly Omegan scents that lingered beneath the alpha’s own, he surmised it had less to do with him directly, and more with his secondary sex. He pushes his glass forward, half-finished, and goes to pull his wallet from his pocket. That is, until something else catches his eye.
Further down the bar, one stool down from where the first alpha had been, sits another—he’s huge, cloaked in all black, the curve and slope of musculature defined even through the thick sweater he’s wearing. His scent is more tolerable than the other’s: earthy, like the smell of soil before it rains, but with a distinctive sharpness. Metallic, salty, especially pungent. Something like gunpowder.
The burly stranger is clearly trying not to look at him, and failing miserably. Will catches the tail end of his gaze as it ducks toward the bar, obscured by a dark eyepatch on the right side, burning through the wood like it’s offended him personally.
“What’re you staring at?”
Despite Will’s gaze boring holes into him, the man doesn’t look up. Two calloused fingers find the rim of his beer bottle, turning it absentmindedly against the bar.
“You,” Will tries again, more pointed this time. “I asked you a question.”
That gets him to look up. He shrugs, lifting his hands like he’s signaling surrender. It catches Will off guard; atypical of an alpha to back down from a fight, especially of his size. Even stranger to back down from an omega. It makes him wonder what that patch is covering, and where it came from. He doesn’t seem like a fighter.
“Not my business,” the stranger’s voice is gruff when he speaks, like gravel in the back of his throat. He goes to turn back to his drink, but Will isn’t satisfied.
“You made it your business when you couldn’t stop gawking at me. A little rude, don’t you think?”
The alpha lifts the bottle to his mouth, swallows. The glass settles back against the bar with a thud. “Just wondering if you make a habit of not finishing what you start.”
Will huffs a laugh. “You don’t know me.”
“Didn’t finish your drink,” the stranger nods to the half-empty glass sweating against the wood. “Doesn’t seem like you intend to follow through on your hookup, either.”
Will quirks a brow at that. “Sounds like you’re jealous.”
The man shakes his head. “No. Just observant.”
Will turns to face him in earnest. “Okay. If you’re so observant,” he gestures towards the bathroom, “what did I want with him?”
“His scent, I assume.”
“Why?”
The stranger makes a face, like Will is bothering him with his questioning. When he doesn’t back down, he exhales a sigh. “Not sure. Was obvious on your face you didn’t like it.” He ponders for a moment, one visible dark eye cataloguing Will’s person. “No bite on you. Manipulation tactic, perhaps.”
Well. The shock on Will’s face must be all the confirmation he needs.
“Not my business,” the alpha says again, “but multiple scents would work best.”
It catches Will off-guard. “Are you offering?”
The stranger offers a curt nod.
He shakes his head, caught somewhere between doubt and disbelief. “There’s nothing in it for you.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then why would you help me?”
A shrug in response, nonchalant. “Feels good to be useful.” Another swig from his beer. He doesn’t give Will a chance to interrogate him further before he’s standing from his stool; he notes a visible limp as the stranger comes to stand beside him, extending a hand. “Duncan.”
His brows knit, but he takes the offer. The alpha’s—Duncan’s—hand is warm in his grip, calloused and rough against his palm. It takes considerable effort not to recoil from the sensation like he’s been burned, only enough focus left to remember what exactly he’d asked for help with. He bares the other side of his throat, chin tucked up and out of the way. “I’m not one to exchange names.”
“I gathered that.” Duncan looms like a heavy shadow over him as he leans, bridging the gap between them. From this close, the notes of his scent are stronger, almost overwhelming. When he inhales, he can’t detect Hannibal’s scent anymore—it makes his skin crawl, a cold sweat beading along his back. His body yearns for the familiarity of it, warm and woody and slightly floral. It brings a fresh wave of anger with it as he remembers that his source of comfort has outright refused to claim him thus far.
All in due time.
He’s so swept up in his own thoughts that he doesn’t even register Duncan pulling away. He straightens hastily, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. Almost like he’s… nervous. In another life, it might’ve been endearing. “Should be good enough.” He nods towards the bathroom. “You, uh, better get out of dodge.”
Will agrees—he surmises the first alpha won’t take too kindly to being stood up. “Yeah,” he breathes as he stands, tucking enough cash to cover his tab beneath his half-empty glass. “Thank you.”
Duncan offers a fleeting, knowing glance before returning to his stool, closing his fist tight around his beer bottle. The exchange weighs heavy on his chest; he almost feels bad for using his scent. He seems kind, attentive. A stark contrast to the alphas he’s used to encountering.
Will buys him another round on his way out.
—
He shows up to his appointment seven minutes late—not immediately concerning, but just enough to get under Hannibal’s skin. He doesn’t bother with the waiting room anymore; he lets himself into the dimly lit office with practiced ease. Hannibal’s back is to him, pouring their respective glasses of wine. He visibly straightens as he catches Will’s scent. Or, more likely, the scents that don’t belong to him.
He sets the wine bottle down with a heavy thud. He doesn’t turn around. “Will.”
It sends a chill straight down his spine, anticipation settling heavy in his stomach. Hannibal won’t raise his voice, he never has; it’s the practiced calm and collectedness that makes Will uneasy. When he turns, wine glasses abandoned, there’s a split second where Will almost regrets what he’s done. Almost.
Hannibal’s gaze meets his, eyes so dark they’re nearly black in the dim lamp light, jaw set sternly in place. Will knows that look. He’s seething.
“You’re late.”
“Sorry,” Will says, pointedly flippant, moving to shrug off his coat. “Got caught up. Lost track of time-”
“You’re late,” Hannibal cuts him off, voice dipping lower, towards the back of his throat, “and you reek.”
The anger rolls off of Hannibal in thick, suffocating waves. Will can smell it on him, can taste it on his tongue. Any typical omega would be tripping over themselves to soothe, to bring their alpha out of distress.
But Will is no typical omega, and Hannibal is not his alpha. He’s made that much clear.
So he shrugs, tossing his coat haphazardly onto the back of his chair instead of hanging it the way he normally does. He can feel Hannibal’s eyes tracking his movements, a predator stalking its prey. “Went to a bar. Chatted with some nice alphas.”
Hannibal swallows hard. “Is that so?”
“Why do you care so much?” Will bites out. He makes pointed eye contact, icy glare burning with the fire that Hannibal has been stoking for months. “You’re not my alpha.”
Will blinks, and Hannibal is on him. His grip is ironclad, dragging him by his freshly ironed flannel to the desk. He folds across it under that brute strength embarrassingly easy. It doesn’t occur to him until it’s already happening that he should be fighting back—he’s glad his back is to Hannibal, tamping down the grin that twitches at the corners of his mouth. He makes a good show of putting up a fight, writhing and squirming in Hannibal’s grasp. Hannibal only digs his fingers in harder, pressing his body flush against Will’s legs, barricading him in. He’s surrounded—he’s got nowhere to go. Not that he wants to, anyway. He’s exactly where he wants to be.
A low, threatening growl rumbles in his chest as Hannibal’s fingers rip at the buttons on his shirt, tearing them open unceremoniously. Hannibal answers with one of his own; deeper in pitch, primal and menacing, making Will shudder beneath him. This close, the unbridled rage is palpable, radiating heat through his body. His clothes suddenly feel too hot, too tight, too much. He’s almost relieved when the rest of the buttons give way, salmon fabric thrown to the wayside to be dealt with later.
With his neck and back exposed, Hannibal wastes no time in pressing himself completely flush, tucking his neck against the back of Will’s. His throat rumbles with a series of guttural growls as he rubs their scent glands together, using broad hands to press Will’s hips firm against the desk, holding him in place. The gesture is raw, animalistic, possessive. He has to bite back the filthy moan that threatens to tumble out of him.
“Get off of me,” Will grits out, feigning his own anger. “What’s your problem?”
Hannibal moves to the other side of his neck, not bothering to provide an answer. That, on the other hand, pulls real anger out of him. Since it seems the alpha is better than words, Will wrenches his neck away the best he can, turning to snap his jaws in Hannibal’s direction. His teeth come closer to catching skin than they ever have before—pride swells in his chest.
Usually, all the gesture gets out of Hannibal is a smug grin, or some pretentious, condescending remark about ‘the beauty of his anger.’ At this moment, however, he’s having none of it. Will doesn’t have time to gloat before Hannibal is shoving his face hard against the desk, digging the heel of his palm into his neck to keep him there. He thrashes beneath the heavy pressure, baring his teeth in a proper snarl, but it’s no use. Heat coils in his stomach, white-hot and heavy; he can’t get free, and he loves it.
Hannibal uses the hand that isn’t holding him down to undo his belt, deft fingers making quick work of the buckle. He makes just enough space between them to rip it free before he’s smothering him again. He doesn’t bother undoing the button on Will’s pants, forcing them down without care; one knee forces its way between his thighs, spreading him open. His stomach tightens as he anticipates where Hannibal’s fingers will go next, knowing what he’ll find there.
Just as he predicted, Hannibal’s hand follows the curve of his spine, down the swell of his ass, fingertips pressing against his hole. He hears his breath catch in his throat as the realization dawns on him, a shudder traveling up his spine at the subsequent growl that follows.
Will squirms beneath the touch, bare, vulnerable. Incredibly slick, already stretched wide. He feels two slender digits breach his rim with little resistance, fluid pooling around them as they retreat, wetting the backs of his thighs. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t fucked either of those alphas, hadn’t even come close—Hannibal will think he did, and that’s all that matters.
Finally, Hannibal speaks.
“You’ve forgotten who you belong to, Will.” His cadence comes relatively unphased, despite the fury Will can feel at his back. His voice is thick and heady, rumbling at the back of his throat.
“No,” Will snarls back, “I haven’t. I’m not yours.”
Hannibal, in turn, presses down harder. “Aren’t you?”
To further his point, Will struggles beneath Hannibal’s heavy grip, pressing his scent gland against his palm. “My throat is bare—you saw to that. I’m not claimed,” he bites out, voice dripping with venom, “and you aren’t my alpha.”
Hannibal must tire of this line of questioning, as he doesn’t say anything further, only thrusts his fingers back inside of Will with little caution.
Those slender digits dip in and out, not to stretch him, but to feel just how open he already is. Some small part of him feels humiliated, wants to shy away from the touch. It’s not pleasant; Hannibal moves with clinical accuracy, cold and detached. He’s finely attuned to Will’s anatomy, perhaps even more so than Will himself—he’s used to being played like an instrument, drawing out guttural, keening cries from the depths of him, one orgasm after the other. If he’s not trembling, weeping from the onslaught of pinpoint precision, it’s because Hannibal wants it that way. He eludes where Will needs him most, and it’s infuriating.
Will can’t tell what’s worse: the distant, debasing way Hannibal’s fingers map his insides, or the fact that it’s making him embarrassingly hard. He feels his cock twitch against the desk as Hannibal retreats again, aching, no doubt flushed an angry red from the neglect. Pearlescent droplets bead at the tip, a small puddle of sticky fluid pooling against the polished wood. He feels pathetic, sharp teeth sinking into his lower lip to smother the whine that threatens to slip out.
He wants this, wants Hannibal. The scent of his arousal will be evident to the cruel alpha above him, likely suffocating in its intensity. Hannibal clicks his tongue, and just the sound of his displeasure has his stomach twisting into knots. He doesn’t have to see his face to envision the disappointed expression on those sharp features.
“You’ve come to me used, and yet you’re still so greedy,” Hannibal mutters, wiping the wetness clinging to his fingers carelessly onto Will’s exposed flesh. It’s degrading, purposefully so. “Desperate to be filled. Did they leave you wanting?” He leans down, pressing his mouth just below his ear, breath hot against the skin. “No one can satisfy you the way I can, hm?”
Before Will can bite out a retort, Hannibal’s hands are spreading him open again, kneading at his ass with much more force than necessary. Always a sadist—he wants it to hurt. “I wonder if you saw me in his place. Those filthy hands all over you, but only able to recall how I had you this way.” He grazes his teeth over Will’s earlobe. The subtle nod to what he really wants brings his own fury back to a boiling point, but he knows just how to tip the scales back into his favor.
When he speaks, he doesn’t mention that the two alphas almost looked like Hannibal, doesn’t mention that they could never be him. No other alpha could ever satiate him—he wouldn’t tolerate the thought of another. Instead, he grits out, “They were bigger than you. Older. Took me right there in the bathroom.” He pitches his voice up, breathy, like just the memory has him panting. “Shame I couldn’t fit them both at the same time. They were so good to me, so big-”
The snap of Hannibal’s composure is almost audible as soon as the words are out of Will’s mouth, a true, primal growl reverberating in his ear. He barely has time to register the shuffle of clothes coming undone before Hannibal is pressing inside, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. Will’s mouth falls open with a groan; Hannibal wastes no time settling into a punishing pace, each snap of his hips forcing him deeper inside, the swell of his knot firm and daunting at his rim. It’s painful and raw and everything he wants. His fingers scrabble against the desk for purchase as Hannibal lays into him like he’s trying to send him over it, nails carving deep crescents into the wood. One broad hand curls around his hip, the other still pinning him down by the nape of his neck, fingertips digging in hard enough to bruise.
Good, Will thinks. He’ll want to remember this, want to trail his fingers over those fresh blemishes, admiring the bluish-purple hues they paint across his skin. Wearing Hannibal’s mark, in more ways than one.
“Said they’d put a pup in me,” Will pants out, feeling emboldened—he’s got Hannibal riled up, but not nearly enough. “Take turns breeding me, pumping me full.”
Hannibal knocks the wind from his body as his thrusts grow harsher, stretching him impossibly wide. The wood tugs uncomfortably at his skin under the weight of each thrust, despite his best attempts to hold himself in place. He can feel each drag of Hannibal’s cock as it splits him open, forcing pained, punched-out moans from his slack mouth. The hand pinning him by his neck moves, but only to grip his jaw instead, Hannibal leaning to replace it with his full body weight. His chin tucks just above Will’s scent gland, working diligently to smother the foreign scent with his own. Hannibal digs his fingertips into Will’s jaw, holding him firmly in place. He knows it’s a silent threat, attempting to silence him. But that’s all it is. An attempt.
“Said it was a shame I wasn’t claimed, too,” he adds, just to fan the flames of Hannibal's rage. Another low growl rumbles from behind him—he can feel it reverberate through his back, deep in his ear. What shocks him, however, is the fingers at his jaw wrenching his mouth further open, two fingers sliding against his tongue. Gagging him. He goes to speak again, but Hannibal is faster, adding a third as he shoves the digits towards the back of his throat. It pulls a true gag from him, saliva pooling along the intrusion, grimacing at the debasing way it trails down his chin. Worse, he can feel the way his stomach quivers, muscles drawing bowstring taut. At this rate, he knows he won’t be able to keep the orgasm from crashing over him.
He’s pinned against the desk, cock rutting against the wood, stuffed so full he fears he might break. Hannibal overwhelms his senses; he can taste him on his tongue, feel his cock carving out a permanent place inside him, like it was always meant to fit there. He’s got nowhere to go.
So he does the only thing he can do. He bites.
He clamps his jaw shut hard around the fingers in his mouth, tearing at the skin, emitting a guttural moan as the metallic tang of Hannibal’s blood meets his tongue. Hannibal hisses, recoiling as quickly as he can. Those fingers wind into his curls instead, yanking his head to the side, forcibly displaying the junction between his throat and shoulder. “Fuck-”
The curse is barely past his lips as his vision whites out. His head swims, his body shakes—there’s too many sensations at once. The flood of pain nearly barrels him over as Hannibal’s teeth sink into the skin over his scent gland, tearing the flesh to keep him in place, tongue lapping at the fresh punctures like a man starved.
A bonding mark. A claim.
The realization makes him cry out, tears clinging to his lashes as he comes, convulsing against the desk with the force of it. He feels his own release coat his stomach in hot, thin ropes, clinging to his sweat-slick skin. The alpha—his alpha—manages a few more brutal thrusts before he shoves his hips forward, forcing his knot past Will’s rim as he pumps him full. He doesn’t stop thrusting until he’s wrung completely dry; Will squirms against the wood beneath him as he tries to get away from the pain of it, despite the knowledge that his attempts are futile. They’ll be locked together until the swell goes down.
They stay like that, bodies completely flush, the only sound their racing heartbeats and panting, labored breaths. It feels like an eternity before Hannibal retracts his teeth from the wound, lets his fingers unwind from his hair. He can feel Hannibal stiffen at his back, the realization settling heavy over the room. The full weight of what he’s done is suffocating.
“Delight in your wickedness, Will.” Hannibal’s voice is thick when he speaks, raw with use, measured and collected. His rage is dissipating, replaced with that uneasy calm he wears so naturally. “You got what you wanted.”
And Will does. He lays lax against the desk, a blissful, lazy smile curling at the corners of his mouth. Well and truly sated.