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The first week after Chiyoh dragged the two of them out of the roiling Chesapeake Bay passes in a blur of blinding pain and medication. The house boat they take refuge in can only be described as a small yacht, with Will tucked away in one of the rooms covered in dated shiny brown wood, but the sheets are plush and luxurious because of course Hannibal couldn’t imagine roughing it for a single second.
Will doesn’t even get to see the outside of his bedroom for a few days. He has an IV drip and he’s pumped so full of painkillers that even if he could speak around the stitches in his face, it would only come out garbled. Chiyoh gives him a liquid diet so he won’t accidentally rip open the stitches, which is fine with Will because any jaw movement sends another wave of pain ricocheting through his skull.
It occurs to him that Hannibal is not in this tiny room with him. Chiyoh must have him on a medication timer because as soon as he’s lucid enough to start attempting to get up, to look for Hannibal, she’s back in and fiddling with his IV bag and then Will is pulled back under.
At some point, Will is able to stay mostly conscious in between being administered medication. He takes stock of his injuries: the gash in his face, a tightly bandaged shoulder where he was stabbed now in a sling, and more wraps around his broken ribs from hitting the water. His pajamas are soft and loose and feel clean rather than like he’s been wearing them for days on end. He’s barefoot.
He is still alone in the room. It’s dimly lit without a window so he has no idea which way is east or west. They could be anchored or they could be moving. He has no way of knowing. Frustrated, Will forces himself up. He uses the drip stand for balance, knuckles white from pain and how hard he’s gripping it.
His knees wobble like a newborn foal. With a hiss of pain, he shuffles forward. One step down. Will realizes he also has to piss (who has been handling all of this when he’s unconscious? Chiyoh?) now that he’s standing.
The door, at least, isn’t locked from the outside. The hallway is just as dim as his bedroom. The bathroom will be below deck with the rest of the cabins. Every step is agony as he shuffles down the hall in the hopes he’s going the right direction. He knows boats better than this; his head feels like it’s full of cotton from all the morphine.
“You should not be on your feet,” Chiyoh says in a clipped tone behind him. “I will not have gone through all this trouble only for you to fall and kill yourself.”
Will wants to retort with reminding her about the train incident, but he barely gets more than a grunt out before the stitches in his cheek pull and he groans in pain. “Bath… room,” he grits out through his teeth. He has to gasp through the pain, which makes his ribs throb. Will feels woozy by the time the pain begins to subside.
Chiyoh lets out a long-suffering sigh, and allows Will to lean against her as she leads him to the small bathroom. It’s barely bigger than an airplane bathroom. With the drip stand and his lack of mobility, the door has to stay open, but Chiyoh does him a favor and stands with her back to him.
“Hn…” Will attempts, pulling at the stitches painfully again.
“He is alive.”
Tension that Will didn’t even know he was holding flows out of him. Alive could mean anything, but Chiyoh wouldn’t beat around the bush and try to soften the blow. Alive… for now. She’d tell him outright, if only to make him feel guilty about the fall from the cliff. Will doesn’t regret it. He’s glad they lived even if it wasn’t his intention.
He hobbles back to his room once he’s done, lets Chiyoh administer more morphine, and then allows himself to drift off again.
He dreams of the Dragon and fighting with Hannibal side by side, of their desperate embrace. Hannibal had smelled of blood and red wine. He’d rubbed his cheek against Will’s head–marking him–right before Will pulled him over the cliff.
He dreams of black water, feet kicking furiously, sucking in as much air as possible before he’s pulled under again. Hannibal like a dead weight holding onto him, then a final surge of power as the boat arrives and Will is shoved up for Chiyoh to haul onto the deck.
The sound of Hannibal’s voice as he drifts in and out of consciousness, soft fingers on his cheek. The pull of sutures as Hannibal murmurs encouragement, with Chiyoh fussing in the background.
He is, eventually, allowed into the galley with great pain and difficulty. He’s detached from his drip stand and drinks water through a straw, sips broth from a bowl. Hannibal’s bullet wound is worse than it seemed and Chiyoh told Will in no uncertain terms that he only riles Hannibal up, so he’s forced to stay out of his room.
There are signs of life, at least, if Chiyoh taking food to Hannibal’s room is any indication, and coming back with empty dishes. Conversations with Chiyoh are hardly productive with Will writing on a notepad and only getting one word answers back. His arm is still confined to a sling, so fishing is out of the question, even though he can see the poles out on the deck.
Hannibal has had this boat for some time, Will thinks. It’s fully stocked with food and medicine, as well as clothes in Will’s closet that fit him suspiciously well. Of course, he’s stuck in anything soft and loose for now.
There are bad days and good days, with the pain so intense sometimes he can’t get out of bed or eat food, but other days he can feel his body starting to strengthen again. His bones are mending, his skin is reconnecting and closing with the help of the stitches. Chiyoh determines that he doesn’t need the bandages around his torso anymore and that his face stitches can come out, as long as he’s careful.
She slathers his cheek in a rich-feeling cream from a tub. “For the scar,” she explains before Will can ask. “He hopes you will not be very ugly.”
“Can I see him?” Will asks, voice raspy from lack of use. He winces as the words tug at the fresh, raw skin.
“He is still healing. We had to remove his appendix.” She inspects her work on Will’s suture removal. Chiyoh is pleased with what she sees, so she takes off her gloves and tosses them in the trash. “He wants you to put on that cream every day. And to not go in the sun. I told him I am not your keeper.”
We. Of course Hannibal performed surgery on himself with Chiyoh’s help. She gathers some items, and then takes them back down to the rooms. Will picks up his Hannibal-approved tub of scar cream, gingerly follows Chiyoh, and stops by Hannibal’s room to press his ear against the door.
“I do not see the point of keeping us separated any longer,” Hannibal says mildly. “I was able to control myself at the house.”
“You were ready to let yourself drown as long as he got on the boat,” Chiyoh snaps. “And then where would we be? No, it is not wise. Not until your sutures come out.”
He hears Chiyoh shuffle inside the room and Will hurries–as fast as his broken body allows–back to his own room. Yes, at the house, where they showered separately and there were more mysteriously perfectly tailored clothes for Will. Hannibal told Will of Chiyoh waiting with the boat, of everything he had planned.
A modified version of the original plan, all those years ago.
The scar across Will’s abdomen twinges at the thought. He can see it now that the bandage is off. The scar is raised and white, slicing him in half. It’s the memento that kept him going all those weeks on the water when he went to Italy. He laughs a little in disbelief to himself. He’s back on a boat, healing from injuries, with only thoughts of Hannibal to keep him occupied.
There isn’t anything to pass the time besides watching the light that bleeds through his door move every time Chiyoh walks by. Any attempt to use his useless arm ends in Will gasping for air and dizzy from the pain. It reminds him of the feeling of Hannibal digging Chiyoh’s bullet out of his shoulder, the way he soothed Will through it. He finds himself missing Hannibal fiercely like he would miss a diseased limb.
His meals with Chiyoh are shrouded in silence even with the stitches out of his face. The skin is tight and itchy and Will has to resist the urge to tongue at it constantly. It’s affecting his appetite and he’s struggling to want to eat. Chiyoh shoots him a look, obviously irritated that Hannibal has given her strict instructions about Will’s wellbeing.
“Why are you not eating?” she asks sharply.
“I’m fine,” Will assures her, scrubbing a hand across the good side of his face. “Probably just under the weather from being cooped up on here.” He tries to give her a reassuring smile but it comes off as more of a wince when it tugs at the raw skin.
“If you are getting sick, you have to tell me. We still have several days before we dock. I don’t want to run out of medical supplies before then.”
Several days. They’ve already been out on the water for weeks, probably taking a longer route to avoid running into any authorities, as well as setting up wherever they’re planning on living. A hysterical laugh nearly bubbles up when Will realizes that yeah, they’re going to have to live somewhere, most likely together. Will this house also be full of clothes that fit him too well?
Will feels like his energy is starting to drag. He’d been doing well, but now the short trips to the galley and his bedroom leave him winded and dizzy. He feels snappish toward Chiyoh even though she’s the one who is bringing him pain medication. Maybe she’s been tapering him off the painkillers and it’s leaving him irritable and achy.
He paces his room like a caged animal until Chiyoh brings him a fresh set of pajamas and his pain medication. She looks at him warily as he tosses back the pills.
“You look ill.”
“I’m fine.” He doesn’t bother asking about the dosage. It’s not like she’s going to stop doing it.
Chiyoh rolls her eyes at him. “If you say so,” she says tersely before closing the door and leaving him alone again. He feels restless and exhausted at the same time. Will decides to let the painkillers make his mind blissfully blank so he can settle enough to hopefully get the sleep that has also been eluding him as of recently.
When Will opens his eyes, feeling like he’s only blinked, it’s not Chiyoh adjusting an IV bag, it’s Hannibal. Will smiles even though it pulls at his fresh scar painfully. A hand touches his forehead. “You have a fever,” Chiyoh’s voice says through Hannibal’s mouth. He’s hallucinating. “I am giving you some antibiotics.”
Sweat plasters his hair to his head. His fever must be high, if he’s hallucinating like this. A pitiful sort of moan falls from his lips and Chiyoh looks at him with barely-concealed dislike. The feeling is mutual, as his shoulder never healed right after Chiyoh shot him–even if it was Hannibal’s handiwork that removed it–and now he’s been stabbed, again.
She finishes setting up his antibiotic drip, perhaps being more rough with his hand than she needs to be. Will babbles incoherently, delirious from fever, and Chiyoh forces him down again to pull his blanket up. “Sleep. Hannibal could smell your fever. You are keeping him awake when he should be resting.”
It must be killing him, however many feet away he is, that he can’t play nursemaid to Will while incapacitated like this. This must be Hannibal’s dream: stuck in close quarters with nowhere to go and Will is literally unable to move quickly.
Not that he wants to leave. He just wants to see Hannibal. He needs to see that he’s solid, that he’s real, that they both survived the fall.
Will’s eyelids grow heavy, and the last thought Will has before falling asleep is that he wonders what the other IV hooked up to him is for. He’s off the drip painkillers, but he falls into a deep, sedated sleep and barely notices Chiyoh leaving the room.
He’s not sure how much time has passed when he wakes up again, but Will knows there is something very, very wrong. His head is pounding, his skin is burning, and oh god, he can feel slick soaking through his pajamas.
“No,” he moans miserably. He’s obviously had no access to any suppressants since being on the boat, but he’d pushed it out of his mind due to the extent of his injuries and, frankly, his age. He doesn’t have heats like he used to in his twenties. He writhes on the bed, feeling too exposed even in this small room.
Since he now knows it’s not an infection, Will deliriously pulls out the IVs. He still feels syrupy slow from the sedatives he was clearly given. Hannibal’s idea. Keep him docile. The bastard probably smelled his heat and thought he should just be sedated for it, see if he can ride it out by himself.
Will is still in the fucking sling. He can’t jerk off like this. He feels like a teenager, the way he starts grinding against the mattress for relief. Maybe this was what Chiyoh was trying to prevent.
I was able to control myself at the house, Hannibal had said.
That was before two weeks of detox from all the medications they pumped Hannibal full of to keep him from getting aggressive. Will remembers how surprisingly controlled Hannibal had been when he showed up at the BSHCI.
He’d always had a level of self-control other alphas did not, now that Will thinks about it in his heat-induced haze. The sheets underneath him are soft against the over sensitive skin of his cock. It’s not what he needs. He imagines Hannibal’s controlled movements, deftly manipulating his body in a way to make him the perfect vessel for his knot.
Will groans against the pillow, pushing his ass up into nothing. He’s being reduced a set of base instincts, which makes Will glad, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he got the birth control implant however many years ago to avoid doing anything unwise during heats.
He gnaws at his pillow case and ruts his hips down against the sheets. There’s relief at every drag of fabric against him, but Will knows it won’t be enough to get him through a heat. Omegas can get through it alone, but certainly not with one arm in a sling and without any toys to offer relief. He wonders if Hannibal, at any point, planned for Will to go through heats alone and stocked anything.
The idea of asking Chiyoh to look for knotted dildos makes him want to crawl in a hole and die. He whimpers pathetically when he finally comes, with zero relief. His skin still burns and his body feels empty. Will grimaces at the mess he’s now made on the sheets that he still has to sleep on, as well as his formerly fresh pajamas.
When he gets up to get undressed, he locks the door in the process. The last thing he needs is being walked in on. Will manages to get the sling off by himself and very gingerly removes his shirt, gets the sling back on (his shoulder is fucked forever), and changes into a clean pair of soft boxers. Similar to the ones he would normally wear, but obviously upgraded when Hannibal decided to stock his drawers.
Begrudgingly, Will has to admit that during his heat, the softness of the cotton is much more bearable on his sensitive skin than his usual choice of clothing. He uses his old shirt to wipe up some of the slick between his thighs, even though he knows it’s a lost cause. Another shudder runs through him and he feels a fresh rush of slick.
Perhaps the stress on his body sent everything out of whack. He can’t imagine how else his body would decide right now is the best time to be mounted and make a baby. He whines in the back of his throat as he gets onto the bed again and squirms uncomfortably, trying not to let his thoughts stray too much at the thought of Hannibal on top of him, knotting him, breeding him….
Will has to push his face into his pillow again to muffle the truly wanton moan that falls from his lips. His heat is hitting him like a freight train and there’s no relief. He’s not sure how much time passes in his haze of rutting against his bed and trying to use his left hand to jerk off, but he’s pulled out of his heat trance when there’s a knock at the door.
He stops where he’s tearing at his blanket with his mouth and rocking against the corner of the bed and listens, but there’s only the soft sound of something being set down outside his door and footsteps retreating. Will is ravenous suddenly, and he waits with his ear against the door until he can’t hear anything before opening it and grabbing the tray.
Will immediately knows Hannibal prepared this. A protein bar cut up into bite-size pieces, with a mandarin orange and a fucking gatorade like he’s playing soccer on a Sunday morning. Will wants to balk at it and leave it in the hallway, tell Hannibal to shove it, but his energy is rather depleted after the last few hours of his heat.
With an alpha, the pheromones they share during a heat quiet all other senses. An omega doing it by themselves is going to run into the risk of exhaustion and dehydration. Will resents the alpha paternalism Hannibal is no doubt showing, but he’s begrudgingly thankful for the calories. It gives him something to focus on instead of the clawing desire to be filled.
He tries taking off his sling just to use his fingers since no edge of his heat has been taken off with external stimuli. His ribs ache fiercely and his shoulder is already fatigued even in the sling. The attempt to reach behind himself stretches the gnarled scar tissue in his shoulder uncomfortably, and Will becomes lightheaded for a moment.
If Hannibal was here, he could sink his teeth into the mating gland in the back of Will’s neck. Bonding hormones are a natural analgesic and he could go the rest of his heat without worrying about his broken ribs or fucked up shoulder.
The thought doesn’t horrify Will as much as he thought it might. He gives up trying to use his injured side, puts the sling back on in defeat, and tries his hardest to ignore his fever and the constant stream of slick. He won’t die if he’s not knotted during his heat, but it’ll be uncomfortable.
Can’t be more uncomfortable than being gutted or having his head sawed open.
He tosses and turns. The room reeks of come and sweat and slick, and every rut against the mattress just makes the empty ache inside him worse. His head pounds with every heartbeat. At this point, Will’s jaw is aching from holding it so tightly to keep the scream he’s been holding in. If he cries out in anguish, Hannibal might come to rescue him.
Or Chiyoh, which would be mortifying.
The idea of Hannibal coming in, all alpha, and just taking Will has him groaning and rutting again. His ass clenches around nothing. Fuck. If Hannibal could walk, could fuck him, he probably would. Will doesn’t want to open stitches or break ribs anew in the heat of the moment.
The room is wrecked. Will’s ribs throb in pain from all the movement and his shoulder screams with every jostle. He needs relief before he slams his head through a wall. He’s already torn up his pillowcase with his teeth.
Time passes slowly and in a blur all at once, Will all but sobbing as he does anything to get even the slightest relief. He’d be embarrassed if he were in his right mind, but he’s acting on pure instinct.
He could just see Hannibal, be close to an alpha, and maybe his body will calm down. Maybe he could breathe in those pheromones and it will be enough. He’s used those plug-in alpha pheromone diffusers before with mixed results. This would be the real thing.
Will pokes his head outside his room. There’s no light coming from the deck. It’s night time. The chances of Chiyoh being asleep are higher. Will tries to finger-comb his sweaty, knotted hair to no avail, and his clothes are a lost cause, so with his dignity out of the way, he slips down the hall to Hannibal’s room. After briefly listening at the door to make sure Hannibal is alone, Will lets himself in.
Hannibal is awake and propped up in the bed, hands folded in his lap as if he was waiting and nostrils flaring as Will’s no doubt heavy heat scent hits him. As Will’s eyes travel upward, he sees one of Hannibal’s delicate ankles tightly wrapped and elevated on a pillow. He has no shirt on. There’s a bandage covering his appendectomy, right next to the ostomy bag. Will blinks, clear-headed for a few moments.
“Oh,” is all he can manage to say.
“Please stay, Will,” Hannibal replies, gesturing to the empty spot on his (noticeably larger) bed.
“This was a mistake.” He was expecting Hannibal to be just as bruised as he is, maybe a broken bone or two, but he wasn’t prepared for this. What would he even do? Sit in the corner and jerk off? It still wouldn’t give him what he needs and Hannibal won’t have the ability to knot him like this.
“Will. Please lay down. You look dreadful.”
“I look dreadful?” Will says incredulously. He shifts uncomfortably on his feet. Slick runs down his thigh and he tries to squeeze his legs together where he’s standing to stop it. His body is already responding to his proximity to an alpha. “You’re all… laid up.”
“It’s only temporary. I have made arrangements when we make landfall to have it reversed. I would normally do it myself but there’s a high risk of infection.” He gives Will a sphynx-like smile and taps his hand on the spot next to him again. “Come here.”
The omega instincts strain to get close, to rub all over Hannibal and mark him as his own, to beg for his knot, but Will knows what kind of infection Hannibal could get if they rip open any of those internal stitches. Maybe Hannibal deserves it, after doing the same to him.
Will shudders and shakes his head. “I should go back to my room,” he says hoarsely. “This was a stupid idea.”
“Will. I want you to stay. Lock the door behind you.”
Fuck. Will bites back a moan, twisting the lock behind him, and slowly slinks over to Hannibal with his head bowed. A classic sign of omega submission, as much as Will wants to fight it, but he feels his resolve crumbling under Hannibal’s smouldering gaze.
He sits on the edge of the bed by Hannibal, unwilling to commit any further. His spine is rigid and straight and there’s a slight tremor to his body with the effort of sitting still. Slick still soaks through his boxer shorts. He can only stare at the wall; if he makes eye contact, he will fall to his knees.
“Look at you,” Hannibal murmurs, fingers ghosting over the overheated skin on Will’s back. Will bites back another moan. “You came to me during your heat. Surely that means something. Even broken and bleeding, your desire for my knot exceeds all other function…”
“I only came here to borrow some pheromones,” Will snaps. He hopes he sounds firm rather than desperate. “I feel calmer already.”
Hannibal tuts and pulls his hand back. “And yet you are empty on the inside. We both know what you need but you are too proud to ask for it.”
“You can’t give me what I need, not like that.”
“Oh? I do believe I have use of my hands.” There’s a smirk in Hannibal’s words that Will could strangle him for. Not because he doesn’t want it, but because Hannibal is so right it physically pains him. His hands would help immensely, since Will can hardly do it himself with his shoulder out of commission.
“Will.” The way Hannibal commands his name makes another rush of slick leak out. “Get in bed.”
Stiffly, Will swings his legs onto the bed. He tries to focus on Hannibal’s wrapped ankle instead of letting his eyes wander to the rest of his body, and certainly not his cock. He can smell Hannibal’s arousal–muted, probably by the pain, but still heady. His mind begins to fog over, the omega instincts fighting for control, but Will can’t allow himself to lose it like he has been for the last twelve hours. He could rupture Hannibal’s still-healing gut wound.
“There we go,” Hannibal murmurs. He reaches over and puts a broad palm on the back of Will’s burning neck, right over the mating gland. A typical omega-calming gesture. “Isn’t that better?”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“You’re already purring.” And fuck, he’s right, and Will couldn’t even make it stop if he tried. Hannibal continues rubbing his thumb against the back of his neck, slowly moving upward to card his fingers through Will’s sweaty, tangled hair. He gently combs through each knot he encounters. “Poor boy. All alone and needing an alpha. It was torture, wasn’t it? Unable to satisfy yourself? I’m here now.”
Will grunts in response. He won’t give Hannibal the satisfaction of answering, although judging by the way he cradles Will’s head, he already knows it. Will melts into the touch. His pulse flutters and Hannibal must notice, because he puts two fingers against Will’s throat.
“Let me help, Will,” Hannibal murmurs. “Your body is begging to be filled.” He slides his fingers down Will’s body, sending a violent shudder through him, and stops at the waistband of his boxer shorts. “Your heat will only last longer if you don’t get bred.”
“That’s a myth,” Will mutters, but his body unwinds inch by inch as Hannibal attempts to pull him closer. He doesn’t have much mobility, but his long arms can still pull at Will, and the flesh is all too willing.
“Of course, we’ve come a long way, and there are many things that can mimic a knot and satisfy the part of your hypothalamus that needs to be mounted and bred.” Will bites back a whimper at Hannibal’s accent wrapping around those words. Now unobstructed, Hannibal slides his hand fully into Will’s boxer shorts, fingers skating the sensitive skin of his thighs, his cock. Will gasps as his nerves light up.
He can’t fight it, not when Hannibal is already touching him, and he’ll rip him to pieces if he stops. Hannibal seems to sense this and dips his hand lower and he slides two fingers through the slick, now almost uncontrollably leaking everywhere. Will lets out a breathy whine and rocks hips down against the lightest of pressure.
Hannibal hums, clearly pleased, but Will’s brain is already fogging over. All he can think about is getting what he needs. The alpha pheromones make him relaxed and pliant, so Will’s thighs fall apart to give Hannibal easier access. His fingers brush behind his balls and Will lets out a low, displeased growl at the teasing.
“Impatient,” Hannibal murmurs. Will throws his head back against the headboard in frustration, thrashing back and forth. His shoulder lights up in pain, which just adds to his overstimulation. Hannibal rubs the soft skin of Will’s perineum experimentally, spreading the now-steady stream of slick up to his balls and then his shaft.
“Hannibal,” Will gasps desperately. They’re situated in such a way that Will’s bad shoulder is on Hannibal’s left side–which thankfully is not the side he was shot on–and Will lets his head drop to Hannibal’s shoulder. He takes care not to aggressively scent Hannibal, since all that will do is rip open the brand new skin keeping his cheek together.
He nips sharply at Hannibal’s shoulder and then slides down the headboard–Hannibal’s hand sliding out of his boxer shorts in the process–and plants his feet on the mattress, trying to give Hannibal the best possible angle. They both work to get his boxers off and tossed somewhere to the side. Next to him, Hannibal sighs languorously, and slides a palm up Will’s thigh.
“All that talk about heat lasting longer if I’m not bred and then you do nothing about it,” Will mutters as he lifts his hips up to give Hannibal access and hope he takes the hint.
“Perhaps I want to draw it out. You are lovely like this,” he says while he dances his fingers closer back to where Will wants, but still not touching him enough. “So debauched. Only driven by instinct and need. I meant it when I said this is all I ever wanted for us.”
Will huffs out a breath and continues to angle his hips toward Hannibal. He doesn’t want any more of his talking. He wants him to be an alpha already and work him through this heat. Two fingers slide between his cheeks and Will’s chest rumbles with another impatient growl.
Two slick-soaked fingers start rubbing around his rim, not yet breaching, and Will’s fingers dig into the sheets below as he starts thrashing again, each movement causing his ribs to ache, but the pain is secondary to everything else he’s feeling right now. He pushes down against Hannibal’s hand, trying to force him inside, and Hannibal rubs his hole harder, smearing slick everywhere and making Will’s entire body tighten in pleasure.
Will snaps at the air, snarling, and as a reward for his aggression, Hannibal finally pushes one finger in. It’s barely anything, but Will immediately starts moving his hips down against Hannibal’s hand, attempting to ride the one finger as best he can. He manages to open his eyes to look at Hannibal, who is watching him with his mouth slightly open, eyes dark and pupils blown.
If this is how good his heat feels with Hannibal operating at minimal capacity, Will wonders what it would be like if both of them were well. He has to push the thought from his brain quickly before he says something ridiculous that he might regret like I love you.
The intensity in which Hannibal is staring makes Will moan wantonly, pushing harder against his hand. “More, Hannibal, please,” he groans. The pain is giving way to pleasure with oxytocin and alpha pheromones numbing the worst of it. A second finger joins the first, much to Will’s relief, and he starts riding them harder.
He closes his eyes because Hannibal’s gaze is too intense and it’s beginning to overwhelm him; his heat-fever is making him delirious. With each passing moment, Will’s consciousness falls to the wayside as heat and instincts take over.
Two fingers slide in and out in time with the gyration of his hips, spreading and curling and stroking Will from the inside. The sound Will makes can only be described as a wail and he uses his good arm to wrap his hand around his cock to start stroking, despite how raw his skin feels from all the rutting against the mattress he did earlier.
Hannibal’s fingers fuck him ruthlessly but Will meets each pulse with just as much enthusiasm. The burning desire to tear and scratch quiets down a little. Hannibal might be talking to him, but Will is too far gone as he clenches around his fingers. His body desires a knot and two fingers is not nearly enough.
The third finger burns a little, but there’s so much slick that it slides in effortlessly. Will doesn’t even know the last time he took this much but his body adjusts quickly to the sting. He won’t last much longer, if the way Hannibal’s fingers keep battering his prostate is any indication.
Will’s hand moves faster on his cock, thumb massaging the sensitive spot right under the head, blissfully thoughtless besides needing a knot and his alpha and breeding. If Hannibal didn’t have a bullet hole in his gut and Will had both his arms working, Hannibal could mount him, bite the back of his neck as he spilled deep inside him.
Somewhere, Will is grateful yet again he has the birth control implant, but that Will is not currently at the wheel. Pleasure pools in the base of his spine as he moves his hand in time with every press of fingers into him.
The orgasm is better than anything he could have done himself, but even as he works himself through it and Hannibal continues to finger-fuck him, he can already feel heat building again. The way it curls in his stomach and makes his heart race, unsatisfied, makes Will screw his face up in discomfort. Every cell in his body is screaming at once, all for different things.
“It’s not enough, is it, Will?” Hannibal all but purrs. His voice is steady, but Will can hear in the edges, all the desire he’s holding. Will has fingers buried to the last knuckle inside him but he still wants more. He nods his head, unsure what he’s even agreeing with, and Hannibal curls his fingers in such a way that he chokes out a moan.
“Show me what you need, Will.”
Will pulls himself off Hannibal’s fingers and moans at the loss, feeling too loose, too empty without them, but situates himself on his knees on the bed next to Hannibal. He’s not unaffected by Will; his hair is loose on his forehead, the scent of his arousal is now thick, and his own soft pajama pants are tented by his erection. Will leans forward on his one good arm and nuzzles Hannibal’s cock through the fabric.
The purring starts almost immediately and Hannibal sighs appreciatively, stroking a hand down Will’s spine as he arches his back in the lordosis position. Will’s arm already shakes a little from holding himself up, so he drops to his one good elbow and keeps his face buried in Hannibal’s lap. Hannibal brushes his sweaty bangs from his forehead, thumbing across the scar.
“How beautiful you are,” Hannibal murmurs. His other hand cups the curve of Will’s ass, massaging it gently, before pushing all three fingers in at once. Will gasps and pushes back against it, already trying to take it deeper. Hannibal’s hand slides from the top of Will’s head and traces his cheekbone and jaw before finding the swell of his bottom lip. His thumb presses for entry and Will sighs, opening easily and sucking Hannibal’s thumb into his mouth.
“Eager boy.”
Will groans around the thumb in response and Hannibal adds a forefinger while his other hand is occupied. Drool pools around the fingers in Will’s mouth. Hannibal’s skin tastes of salt and soap. His hands are soft, softer than Will’s working hands, and he rubs the pad of his finger against Will’s tongue. It earns him another muffled moan.
Will’s mind is hazy. The urgency of his heat has passed for now. He loses himself in the taste of Hannibal’s fingers and the feel of them moving in and out in a steady rhythm. He has no free hand to start jerking himself off, but the skin of his cock is so raw and sensitive already, he knows he’ll be able to come just from this.
Hannibal pulls his fingers away from Will’s mouth, who follows in a daze with glossy, swollen lips. He’s lost in his heat now, running on pure instinct, and Hannibal puts a soothing hand on his head while he continues to spread and thrust his fingers against Will’s prostate. A fourth finger nudges against where his hole is stretched and Will whines high in the back of his throat.
Will knows he could take it, if Hannibal wanted. A knot would stretch him further than four fingers, but Will doesn’t want fingers anymore. He can see the thick outline of Hannibal’s cock, the way his knot is starting to swell at the base, and it makes him hungry. He presses his cheek against Hannibal’s thigh, nuzzling and scenting even though it hurts.
Heat and adrenaline guide him, not caring about all the bruises on his body and the way his ribs are definitely still broken, and he pushes himself back to a kneeling position. He takes in the way Hannibal is breathing hard, the light sheen of sweat on his brow, and the way only a thin ring of iris can be seen around his pupils.
With great care, he straddles Hannibal and then steadies himself with his one arm against the headboard. Hannibal turns his head to kiss it sensually, inhaling deeply against his bicep. “You have the implant,” he murmurs before laving his tongue over the area. Will shudders and Hannibal nips at it. “I could take it out with my teeth.”
“No,” Will grits out, even though every atom in his body desires the opposite. Hannibal presses a wet kiss to the spot and then pulls away. Will’s head swims with how much he wants Hannibal’s knot. He can’t think of another time he’s ever wanted anything this bad before. “How hurt are you really?” he asks in a moment of clarity. He remembers Chiyoh’s words from the other day: they won’t be docking for a few days, and medical supplies are limited. If Will rips open sutures and causes an infection after they managed to survive the fifty foot drop into the Chesapeake, he’s pretty sure Chiyoh will just shove him overboard like she did with the train.
“I will need surgery to fix broken bones in my ankle,” he replies after a moment of thought. He licks his lips and nods at Will to keep going. “Broken ribs, much like you. A concussion. Nothing that won’t heal.”
“Even if I’m on top of you?”
“It’s not advisable but the alternative is worse.” Will raises an eyebrow in question. “Spending your heat alone without a knot could have health complications. We will make landfall in a few days and any damage you do will be fixed then.”
Will chews on his lip in hesitation, but the way Hannibal’s cock twitches under him sends a shudder through his body. He’s not sure he could stop now even if he wanted to. He feels Hannibal’s hands deftly pull his pajamas down just enough for his hard cock to spring free. Will looks down between them and sees that it’s already hot and red, leaking at the tip, with a knot that’s ready for taking.
Will shifts to get comfortable and to make sure his knee doesn’t press against the gut wound or where the appendix was removed. He runs his trembling finger down Hannibal’s chest with a soft sigh. Hannibal uses one hand to hold Will’s hip and the other to press his cock between Will’s cheeks. The slick makes the slide easy and Will buries his face into Hannibal’s neck, breathing in deep.
His heart rate is returning to a more normal speed and urgency of heat is calming down with their proximity. But when Hannibal presses the thick head of his cock into him, the haze of heat once again fogs over Will’s brain. His one free hand curls around the base of Hannibal’s head and he pants, hot and humid, against his neck.
Hannibal has to curl his hands underneath Will’s ass to keep him at the right angle to not rip open his stitches, spreading his cheeks a little further apart to work his knot in. Will whimpers against his skin, curling and uncurling his fingers in his hair, trying to rock down against him. The swell of the knot pushes against the tight heat of Will’s hole and normally, this would already be inside him and he wouldn’t have to work it in like this.
A hand pushes his sweaty hair off his neck. Hannibal follows the curve of Will’s ear with a wistful sigh, and then pushes his hips up roughly to get his knot finally in. Will yelps and digs his nails into Hannibal’s skin, growling, but Hannibal shushes him and brushes a hand through his hair to soothe him.
Will rocks his hips experimentally, getting Hannibal as deep as he can go, and then begins to contentedly purr as the sensitive spot inside him is brushed again. Their bodies are flush together and the friction is eased by the steady flow of precome from Will’s cock. Everything feels right, like puzzle pieces that fit together, and Will wants to stay like this. He keeps his face buried in Hannibal’s neck, where his scent is the strongest, and lets himself get drunk on it.
The pheromones are meant to keep an omega docile during mating, but Will feels like a fire is burning within him. He wants to bite and maul, but he settles for scraping his nails against the side of Hannibal’s neck and down his chest. There’s no reaction from Hannibal, who just continues to nuzzle the top of his head in the same manner he did on the cliff’s edge.
They move together in unison and Will begins to nip and bite at Hannibal’s jaw as he feels his orgasm building again. He moves faster and Hannibal tangles a hand in Will’s hair to tug his head back. Hannibal’s mouth is curled in a half-snarl and his pupils are blown so wide that there’s only a thin ring of maroon that Will can see. He’s never seen Hannibal this undone, not even in the moments before a linoleum knife went through his belly.
The memory of it makes him flinch as Hannibal uses his other hand to reach between them and start working Will’s cock. He holds onto Will’s hair painfully tight and Will snaps at the air in front of him.
“Vicious boy,” Hannibal growls, and Will surges forward, wincing at the pain in his scalp, to try to catch Hannibal’s mouth. The kiss is less of a kiss and more of a bite, teeth clacking together and open-mouthed panting against each other. Hannibal laves his tongue along Will’s bottom lip, nipping at it, and then following the line of his mouth until he gets to the pink, tender skin of the newly forming scar on his face.
Will groans and rolls his hips harder, trying to push his cock into Hannibal’s fist and get more direct stimulation on his prostate. Hannibal drops his hair to dig his fingers into Will’s thigh instead, bright sparks of pain that have Will crying out as he tosses his head back wildly. He’s held down as he feels Hannibal come deep inside him in hot pulses, fully knotted now to keep them pressed together.
Will tips over the edge with a loud cry, scrabbling at Hannibal’s chest and half-sobbing in his neck. His whole body tightens with the force of it, pain and pleasure mixing to make him delirious. Their chests heave in time and Will finally finds the energy to open his bleary eyes. The world spins and all he can hear is Hannibal’s heartbeat–hardly raised underneath his cheek–and his own breathing.
His brain fog begins to clear and the urgency of his heat is quiet now. Will slowly unsticks himself from Hannibal’s chest, eyelids heavy, and takes stock of what’s hurting. His entire body is sore and his ribs are beginning to throb now that the adrenaline of heat is beginning to ebb away.
Hannibal keeps his hands on Will’s waist, rubbing his thumbs against the skin, murmuring something in another language against the top of his head. The moments after a knot during heat are intense and Will finds himself holding tighter to Hannibal as if someone is going to come take him away.
“Can we stay like this?” Will asks in a quiet voice, gently biting Hannibal’s collarbone and then licking it in apology. He tastes of clean sweat and skin.
“Of course,” Hannibal says. He presses a kiss against Will’s hairline. When the knot finally goes down enough for Will to lift up on his knees and let Hannibal’s cock slip out, he feels a thin stream of come trickle down his thighs. With two fingers, Hannibal pushes it back into Will and makes him grunt.
“Sensitive,” he complains.
“I want as much of me in you for as long as possible.”
Will half-groans, half-laughs and drops his head to Hannibal’s shoulder. “For a minute there I really wanted it to happen. Mating.”
Hannibal raises a pale brow. “And now?”
“It’s not the time,” Will admits quietly, his heat flush now becoming one of embarrassment. He can’t just go right to the mating bite with Hannibal after a single heat. That would be insane.
“Is it ever the time?” Hannibal wonders as Will starts to ease himself off. The pain is starting to return and Will’s movements are sluggish and slow.
“If there is ever not a time, it’s now. We’re officially on the run. They’d never believe me if I said you kidnapped me. Not this time.”
Hannibal hums thoughtfully as Will finally manages to get off of him and then tries to salvage any clothes from the floor, but they’re all ruined with sweat and slick.
“Put something of mine on. And feel free to use the en suite.”
“Thanks.” Now that Will feels mostly clear again, the weight of what he and Hannibal just did begins to sink in. It’s one thing to hook up, it’s another to be knotted during his heat. Without so much as a glance at Hannibal, Will ducks into the bathroom to splash his face with water and take stock of the damage. Livid bruises on his throat from Hannibal’s mouth, as well as fingerprint shaped smudges on his thighs.
His cheek looks alright, if sore and tight, and his shoulder is still wrapped and in its sling. His hair is tangled and mussed and the circles under his eyes are deeper than usual, so he looks like hell, but at least he doesn’t look half-dead.
He rejoins Hannibal to find him lifting the bandage over his appendectomy to watch it bleed sluggishly.
“Oh, shit,” Will says. “How bad?”
“Burst a few sutures. It will be easy to clean up. Would you like to help?”
“I only have my non-dominant hand,” Will warns, but Hannibal gives him a small smile and pats the spot next to the bed. Will follows obediently and sits down.
“Mostly I will need to be handed supplies. And perhaps Chiyoh never needs to know.”
Will can’t help his smile. “Yeah, I can do that.”