Archive of Our Own

It would have been fitting for Will to die at sea. He thinks they’d understand each other, him and the waves: two bodies, one human and one water, both helpless to gravity and the pull of the moon. Death would be his final transformation, refreshing in its permanence.

Of course, it takes more than a knife and a fall to kill something like him.

After they drop off the cliff, Will wakes up sore and bruised in a bed he doesn’t recognize, with Hannibal beside him and a note from Chiyoh on the nightstand. He gets his bearings surprisingly quickly. Hannibal touches his shoulder as soon as he awakes, and seeing him grin and say hello, Will immediately makes this world preferable to the one Will has been living in for the past three years.

It’s not until later, after a week of medication and long naps and changing each other’s bandages, that Will remembers the full moon shining down on them as they took down the Red Dragon. It came and went without his notice. He did not transform.

The realization fills him with cold dread.

*

Hannibal’s insistence on rest and recovery yields results. Three weeks after the fall, Will’s bruises have faded, and his bones no longer twinge with any sudden movements. He’s starting to feel human again.

He shouldn’t be.

His skin is crawling with anticipation for the turning of the moon. When it grows full and round in the sky over their safehouse, nothing happens—it hangs there, mocking him, then shrinks away again. The first missed moon could have been called a fluke. Now, something is officially amiss. Hannibal doesn’t comment on Will’s increasing restlessness, but Will knows he’s noticed. He knows enough about Will’s condition to guess what’s wrong.

Will can feel a change coming on. He just doesn’t know when it will be. Hannibal gives him one more week of anxious pacing and eyeing the windows before he broaches the subject.

“Will,” he says.

Will pauses on the edge of the bed, shirt half unbuttoned. “What?”

Hannibal is freshly dressed in pajama pants, his hair still wet from the shower. They’ve been sleeping in the same bed. It’s another one of those things they just don’t talk about. “How long has it been since you had a full transformation?”

Sick apprehension crawls up Will’s throat at speed, a familiar feeling now. “About two months,” he says. (Ten weeks, two days, sixteen and a half hours).

Hannibal crushes his attempt at nonchalance with a matter-of-fact reply: “Your cycle is disrupted.”

Will swallows and resumes unbuttoning his shirt. His fingers are clumsy on the buttons; it takes a few tries to undo the first one. “I’m assuming so, yes.”

“You’re aware that we won’t be able to stay here much longer.”

Will stiffens. No, they won’t be. Chiyoh did her best to find them someplace safe to recuperate on short notice, but they’ll need to relocate as soon as they’re able, preferably somewhere out of the country. It’ll have to be by boat. That means isolation. That means, whenever Will’s body remembers he’s supposed to turn into a wolf once a month, he will be trapped on a boat with the only piece of live prey for miles.

Will has experienced cycle disruptions before. Once. His first transformation afterward wasn’t pretty—he doesn’t want to know how bad it would’ve gotten without Hannibal’s intervention, and he doesn’t want to find out how bloody a repeat incident might get.

“We could wait it out,” Will says, knowing even as he says it that he sounds helpless. Hopeless. “We could wait until it happens, then leave after.”

There’s no telling when his body will decide to unleash the monster chained up inside him. It could be another month from now, far too long to stay in one place. (It won’t be. Based on the tension building in Will’s chest, he has days, and that’s if he’s lucky). Either way, there’s only one way to guarantee the change won’t create problems.

“Will,” Hannibal says heavily, and the hairs on the back of Will’s neck stand up.

“Don’t even say it,” he warns.

“The collar is—”

Fear bolts down Will’s spine so fast it shoots him up to his feet. “I told you never again, Hannibal,” he says sharply. “Something else, alright? Anything. Anything but that.”

“There isn’t another option. We don’t have time. The next moon is already—”

Will can almost feel the fangs push out from beneath his teeth, the claws his fingers are meant to hold. “I said no,” he snarls, and pushes past Hannibal out of the bedroom.

Momentum carries him down the stairs and through the living room, outside into the cold night air. The door bangs open behind him. Will breathes in the salt-taste of the sea, its distant roll and crash. The stars twinkle down at him from above, and there, a growing slice of moon. He shivers, breathing heavy through his open mouth, waiting for his teeth to sharpen. Come on, he begs silently. Get it over with. Change him, ruin him, release him.

The moonlight casts an unforgiving glow on his pale human skin.

*

The first time it happened, Will’s brain was on fire.

He’d sat in the gnawing silence of his BSCHI cell, fear slowly eating away at him. At that time, he could think of no worse fate than Frederick Chilton discovering what he was. Forget serial murder—he would be known for the rest of his life as a monster, a freak, or worst of all, a medical miracle. He didn’t think he could take droves of scientists pounding at the door to study his body as well as his mind. It would break him.

And in the chaos of it all, no one would give Hannibal Lecter a moment’s thought ever again.

So he sat. He waited. He hallucinated, his brain only beginning to cool with a persistent course of antibiotics, and all the while, nothing happened. For a time, Will started to believe that he’d already transformed during one of his blackouts. That he’d simply forgotten.

But that didn’t explain the headaches. The nausea. The deep feeling of wrongness writhing in his bones, a wolf caged for far too long.

He barely made it through the trial and his eventual release. When he finally got home, the dogs avoided his touch. The little ones skulked by with their tails between their legs. Only Winston was courageous enough to come and nose at Will’s palm, and even he kept his gaze low to the ground. It made Will’s stomach churn.

The feeling grew as he walked toward the house. He stopped, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes in the hopes it would pass. It intensified instead. Will’s back ached. His nails stung, and his bones—his bones screeched with impending disaster.

Will staggered and cried out, his head split open with a lightning bolt of pain. The dogs yipped and howled with dismay. Winston nudged him once, then harder, shoving him onward toward the front door. Will stumbled inside, his mouth flooded with the taste of copper. He landed on his elbows. On autopilot, he ripped his clothes off, muscle memory taking over as his mind shut down.

The last thought to break through the haze was a terrified revelation: it wasn’t even a full moon.

*

Hannibal has left a light on for him.

Will slips into the bedroom, quietly stripping down to his boxers. His feet are damp from the dewy grass outside. If it bothers Hannibal that he crawls right into bed without showering first, then, well. He picked the wrong animal to go on the run with.

Hannibal watches him in silence. Will settles in under the covers, debating which way to turn over. He hopes they won’t have to discuss his problem again tonight. It would be easier if Hannibal let it lie until morning.

“The saving grace of your condition is that it is predictable,” Hannibal says quietly. “Under normal circumstances.”

Of course.

“I realize I’ve been making assumptions, so I must ask. Does the collar help your cycle correct itself?”

Hannibal has collared Will exactly once: after Will changed without the aid of the moon, that first time, when things went from bad to worse. They’ve never discussed what happened after Will left. Will has kept that information close to his chest. Too revealing to admit that Hannibal’s little experiment worked, and by the next moon, Will’s body was functioning exactly as it was meant to. Too intimate to reveal that the confinement only became excruciating when he had to bear it alone.

Will rolls onto his side, his back facing Hannibal. “Yes,” he says, his voice hollow. “I changed back after a day or so.”

“Have you ever attempted it since?”

Will scowls at the wall. “Not all of us have custom-made silver restraints on hand.”

They both know he could have tried. But Will would have had to hide from Molly no matter what he did. It was a choice between going on monthly solo “fishing trips” to shed his skin in the woods, or getting his hands on a collar and hiding what it did to him. He chose the former every time. He couldn’t wear it with her in the house, and he certainly couldn’t do it alone—better to just let the wolf run free.

Hannibal makes his case with caution.

“When you are out of phase with the moon, we have no way of knowing when or how your next change will come,” he says. “We cannot guarantee it will be in a private setting.”

“We also can’t know that it won’t be,” Will mumbles.

“You might harm someone.”

“As if that would bother you.”

It’s not just anyone that would be at risk if the wolf suddenly makes an appearance. It’s Hannibal. The wolf doesn’t discriminate between love and hate, friend or foe. Hell, even in human form, Will sometimes can’t tell the difference when it comes to Hannibal—and as dangerous as Hannibal is, he’s nothing against a pissed-off werewolf. The only way Hannibal would be able to stop him would be the revolver he keeps locked away, loaded with a last-resort round that gleams silver and deadly.

“We’ve barely begun, Will,” Hannibal whispers. On the other side of the bed, his stillness bleeds emotion. A faint note of distress seeps into Will’s periphery, and he winces.

They’ve already done the mutual murder-suicide thing. Will isn’t keen to repeat it, either, even accidentally.

“If you don’t act to regulate yourself, we don’t know how long it may take for your body to self-correct,” says Hannibal. “Or if it will at all.”

He doesn’t need to say it. Will already knows what they have to do. He’s known the whole time.

He sighs and turns over to face Hannibal, blankets rustling around him. If they’re talking about it, they’re going to talk about it.

“Why’d you do it?” he asks softly. “Why’d you have it at the ready like that? You’d already figured me out. Tormenting me was… unnecessary.”

Hannibal doesn’t look guilty, exactly, but a little rueful, like he wishes he could tell his past self he was creating challenges in the present. “If it makes any difference to you, my intention was never torment. You were barely coherent until you came into contact with silver, and I preferred the collar to the gun. It was a misguided attempt to keep you tame and stable.”

Will curls his fingers into the blankets. It seems impossible that Hannibal didn’t plan it that way. That he didn’t just magically know what he was doing. But the more Will sees of him, the more stitches come loose from Hannibal’s person suit, the more he realizes how often Hannibal has no idea what he’s doing at all. Will never could have guessed the true extent of his impulsivity. Hannibal is, at his core, a creature of instinct: driven to chase whatever catches his eye.

Will knows how that feels.

“If I let you do this,” he murmurs, “You won’t be able to leave me alone. You might want to, though. You didn’t really see, before. It was…”

He doesn’t know how to describe the visceral horror of being collared. Something tells him that no matter what phrasing he tries, Hannibal will still come away with a mistaken impression of beauty.

Hannibal reaches to brush Will’s curls back from his temples. They’ve grown longer since the fall, enough to fall over his eyes. “The wolf is a part of you,” he says steadily. “And a part of the story we will write together. I won’t turn down the opportunity to get to know it better.”

“But you won’t see it,” Will whispers. “I’ll just feel it, trapped.” His body will be forced into its cramped shape, unable to bend and morph into the form it craves so badly, and the wolf will howl through his fragile, unsatisfying mouth for release.

“Then I won’t turn down the opportunity to care for you,” Hannibal murmurs back. He smooths Will’s hair back again. Then once more. It’s nice. He hasn’t done this before.

Will closes his eyes, and he doesn’t pull away.

*

The first time it happened, immediately after his incarceration, Will’s transformation brought him no joy. The wolf hadn’t clawed its way free, but been shocked out of him. He wandered through the forest in a state of disorientation, unsure what to do with himself. Even hunting lacked its usual appeal. It had been too long since he killed, but he wasn’t used to feeling the snowy ground beneath his paws in daylight, without even a distant sense of the moon.

He caught a strange smell as he loped through the woods, back in the direction of his house. He couldn’t identify it at first. It was bone and dust, metal and grease. Simultaneously ancient and modern. Will paused to scent the air again, his tail held aloft.

The human part of him, still too conscious, snapped to attention, turning his head toward the source of the smell. It gave labels to components the wolf did not understand—hydraulics, headpiece, cave bear—and a name to the human wearing them.

Randall Tier.

It was rather satisfying, how easily recognizable his scent was. How obviously human.

The hunt regained its appeal once Will had eyes on his prey.

His consciousness dissolved in the thrill of the chase. Randall fought back better than most, but he was human, and he tore like one. Will’s teeth sank deep, relishing the crunch of bone. Blood sprayed across his fur, barely noticeable but for the copper scent it bathed him in, the crimson hue spattered across the snow.

He left Randall there afterwards, hunks of flesh and gristle strewn everywhere. He dragged one roughly-severed leg back to the house, and for the rest of that night and the next, he curled up in the living room with his pack to gnaw on it. The satisfaction he felt belonged neither to himself nor the wolf alone; it was a shared contentment.

When the change gripped him by the guts and forced his body to revert, grinding fur and claws back into smooth skin and long legs, Will woke up with his face nestled next to the bloody hunk that was once Randall Tier’s left shin. His mouth was wet and tasted foul. He sat up shakily, smearing his wrist over his lips. It came away streaked with gore.

Once he stopped trembling and gathered his wits enough to examine the corpse, a plan took shape. He’d learned enough from the FBI to hide a corpse. He would remove the teeth and nails, incinerate them. Bury the body in small pieces, none on his property. Dissolve any problematic components in acid.

It would bother Hannibal, Will thought, to realize that Will had killed Randall and not even shown him. He’d want to see. He’d be so proud. If he had his way, Will would go trotting up to his doorstep with Randall’s leg in his mouth, tail wagging, and he’d probably get a treat for it.

The plan had been to hide the body.

Will still doesn’t have an explanation for what actually happened.

His skin came afire with the scratching, crawling sensation of rapid fur growth. All at once, he could smell the dogs, their sudden alarm in seven unique scent profiles. He could smell Randall, too, a rotten stench more powerful than before. His lips drew back in an involuntary grimace; fast-growing fangs nearly cut them.

Will stepped back and looked down at his palms, horror and confusion bearing down on him. His nails were lengthening into claws, fur encroaching over the backs of his hands. It was unthinkable. Transforming without the aid of the moon was one thing, but to do so twice, with barely a few hours between? He never transformed more than once in a lunar month. Something was wrong.

Will could feel the wolf’s eagerness lapping at the edges of his consciousness. Normally, there came a sudden seize and shift, the wolf’s awareness growing into his own until they blended into one seamless, animal whole. That moment did not come. Their realizations came in parallel, a simultaneous burst of shock and fear and confusion.

Will’s hands remained hands, albeit clawed; his body remained human.

The wolf’s fury left him momentarily blinded.

And there was the shift. Will stumbled forward, not entirely of his own volition. His lips curled with a growl. The dogs yipped and scattered. His heart twisted. He wanted to stop and soothe them, but the moment he tried to turn, he found himself shaking his head as if to dispel an insect. He dropped down to his knees. They would not budge from the floor.

The wolf’s eagerness grew into bright, determined focus. Will picked up Randall’s bloody, well-chewed tibia. It was repulsively sticky. He couldn’t let it go. He could barely do more than clench his clawed fingers.

If his previous transformation had been joyless, this one was utterly hollow. There was no freedom, no sense of harmony. Will and the wolf were not of one mind, yet they were one body—and apparently, Will was no longer in the driver’s seat.

He tightened his grip on Randall’s bone, drawing in the smell of death with relish that was not entirely his own. Hannibal would want to see his prize.

*

“If we’re going to do this,” Will says, staring hard out the window, “It has to be different this time.”

“Everything about it will be different,” says Hannibal.

It’s an attempt at reassurance. But Will isn’t only trying to convince Hannibal that it will be better this time around. Hannibal isn’t the one who ran away.

Will couldn’t stomach Hannibal seeing him in such a vulnerable state, before. He was feral, only half himself and starving for something he couldn’t name. He’d already learned that Hannibal couldn’t be trusted to take care of him when he’d lost sight of his own identity—that wound was still fresh, and it stung. But he couldn’t have predicted how painful the loneliness would be when he left to bear it out on his own. He won’t go through that again.

Knowing that Hannibal cannot be trusted to tether him does not stop Will from needing the tether.

He drums his fingers against the arm of the couch. “I need you engaged,” he says shortly. “Constantly. The wolf won’t be able to come out, but it’ll be fighting to. I won’t have much control over it.”

“I won’t let any harm come to you,” Hannibal promises.

Will’s jaw clenches. “It’s not just about the violence,” he says. “It’s…” He risks a glance back at Hannibal, and he fears the anxiety is plain to see in his face. “It’ll be hungry, Hannibal.”

That word is not enough, on its own. But it’s a word he thinks Hannibal will understand.

“Don’t leave me wanting,” Will whispers.

Hannibal’s eyes shine. “Your other half will always be ravenous,” he says. “But I would never permit it to consume you.” His words ring with an unspoken claim: that right belongs to Hannibal alone.

Will, in all his monstrosity, is comforted by it.

*

The first time it happened was a new kind of fever, agonizing and familiar all at once. Will got in the car and drove while the world melted around him. The highway was fragmented with past and present: Garret Jacob Hobbs before the barrel of a gun, headlights and signs he couldn’t quite comprehend, sweating through his shirt. Will couldn’t point to which flashes were memories and which were unfolding in real time. He only knew that he had done this once before, and he would do it again.

As soon as he stumbled from the car, the smell of Dr. Lecter’s house was a wash of emotion. It tasted like comfort. It tasted like terror. The hair blanketing Will’s body stood on end as he approached, the confused animal inside him responding to a spike of half-remembered fear.
He snarled at the door, apprehensive to see it open, and slammed his shoulder into it. He did it again, and again. At the sound of footsteps from inside, he went still, his muscles tensed to spring. Pain cracked at the base of his spine as the beginnings of a tail broke free.

The door opened. The thing at the threshold smelled like a human being, but something in Will knew it was much, much worse. Worse than himself, even. He launched himself at Hannibal with teeth bared.

They were a tumble of limbs that ended with Hannibal slammed into the wall. “Will,” he said breathlessly. Will snarled and grabbed him by the lapels, his claws tearing clean through. “Come to finish the job, I presume?”

Will couldn’t form words. He couldn’t think. He was still clutching Randall Tier’s bone. He pressed it into Hannibal’s chest, breathing hard. Hannibal’s eyes flicked down. He inhaled through his nose, just as Will did the same.

Fascination. Pride. Curiosity.

Hannibal cocked his head. “Did you do it with your hands?” he asked. “Or with your teeth?”

“Both,” Will growled. Consciousness forced its way through, enough to make the connection: “You sent him. For me.”

“Consider it an act of reciprocity,” said Hannibal. “You hadn’t come to see me after attempting to have me killed. I was left to assume your intentions.”

“Reciprocity,” said Will, a fanged smile curling his lips. “I send someone to kill you, you send someone to kill me… I guess that makes us even.”

It was easier to gather his thoughts with Hannibal right in front of him. The part of him that was Will could see clearly. The part of him that was animal made his mouth water. They both wanted to sink their teeth into Hannibal’s throat.

“This wasn’t the first time you’d taken a life this way,” Hannibal said, looking pleased.

Will’s breathing was heavy, his lips parted over fangs too long to contain. “Not quite like this,” he said. “I never… It wouldn’t have… if not for you.” Rage boiled up inside him all at once, and he sank his claws into Hannibal’s chest. Hannibal held eye contact, enthralled. “You knew what I was,” Will hissed, the pieces coming together in rapid succession. “You knew what would happen if you had me locked up, you knew—”

“I suspected,” Hannibal said, his eyes shining. “But I had no words to describe you, nor means of confirmation. I only knew that you were something entirely your own.”

Will laughed, a wild sound made thin by adrenaline. He was not his own, and this was only one scenario out of a thousand torturous outcomes that might have been. Hannibal might have seen him exposed and dissected for the rest of his life. Hannibal might have had him killed in prison. Hannibal saw something unique, something free and untamed, and his first instinct was to test how he could break it.

Will was struck by the thought of turning Hannibal. A life like Will’s, subject to biological imperative, always at the moon’s beck and call—that would break him. And in that moment, Will couldn’t think of a reason not to.

Hannibal must have seen it in his eyes, because he slipped from Will’s grip, lightning-quick, and landed a blow to the jaw that sent Will reeling. Will snarled and shook it off; Hannibal ran for the stairs. Will raced after him. His senses were set afire with instinct. A howl built in his throat. He banged into the doorway in his haste, still too hazy to fully embody the predator he was.

The stairs were light beneath his feet. He scrambled after Hannibal, the familiar cold scent of him. Up the hall. To the bedroom.

Will hurtled inside and straight into the barrel of a loaded gun.

The sudden stop made him trip over himself, his forehead knocking into it. Will’s body knew what he was facing before he did. Every hair stood on end, all screaming in unison; his sense of self whited out in the face of sheer, blistering terror. He faltered back, and somehow, he ended up on his knees, fighting with the urge to roll over and show his belly. The howl curled inside him became a whine.

Silver. It had to be. He always gave it a wide berth whenever he sensed it nearby—this was his first time confronting it in such a deadly form, aimed directly between his eyes. Hannibal had a gun loaded with silver fucking bullets. How long he’d had it, Will couldn’t begin to guess.

He swallowed hard, his heart jackrabbiting in his throat. “Seems like you had a pretty damn good word to describe me, if you were this prepared,” he rasped.

Hannibal studied him without a trace of fear. Will couldn’t fault him for it. He wouldn’t be afraid either, seeing this pathetic display. It was shocking even to him. “You have a unique scent,” said Hannibal. “It’s distinctive, unlike anyone else I’ve ever encountered. Like the dogs you surround yourself with, but with a sharper edge. Elegant. Predatory.”

Will’s eyes crossed trying to keep the gun in focus. “You didn’t figure out what I was because I smelled like dog,” he said, his voice wavering. His stomach twisted with anger and humiliation, but it was nothing compared to the bullets. They made him cringe like a prey animal.

Hannibal almost smiled. “There was also the fact that you were always very particular about not scheduling your appointments around the full moon. Jack wasn’t successful in contacting you on those days, either. He prefers to have you at arm’s length, easy to reach. Ordinarily, you are his perfect tool—you save lives, and you prioritize it. Curious, then, for you to lock yourself away at regular intervals.”

Humiliation was beginning to win out against Will’s anxiety. He had kept this secret since he was turned at twenty-three, and no one, no one, had ever managed to notice. Half of that was the fact that he tended not to stay in one place long, but the other half was that people simply didn’t pay attention, and if they did, their first conclusion wouldn’t be werewolf.

It probably wasn’t Hannibal’s first conclusion either. But when Hannibal couldn’t explain something, he paid it more attention, not less.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” Will spat.

“And satisfaction brought it back,” said Hannibal, smug as could be.

“It’s not a full moon,” Will snarled, and with it, a few new inches of tail burst forth. A seam ripped somewhere. “It’s happened twice in a week now, that’s never happened, you—you did something to me.”

Hannibal tilted his head. He did not explain himself. Instead, he asked a question: “When you killed Randall, did you fantasize you were killing me?”

When Will killed Randall, he was unstoppable. Even Hannibal couldn’t have stopped him. He might have been proud to bear witness, though. After all, when Will tried to have him killed, he was impressed—impressed that someone could measure up to him. What would he think, if he saw the kind of killer Will really was?

Will could show him.

“It was an echo of what it could have been,” Will said raggedly. “If it had happened naturally.” His words slurred together, an afterthought to the memories of Randall’s chest splitting beneath his claws. He was losing the focus that came upon seeing Hannibal. “He should’ve been… a taste of freedom.”

“What did he taste like?” Hannibal whispered.

Will’s breathing was loud around his teeth. Hannibal appeared mesmerized, his fingers loose around the trigger. He had no intention of pulling it.

“A threat,” said Will.

“Did you come here to eliminate another threat, Will?”

Will didn’t know why he had come here.

“I don’t want to kill you,” he said. He was helpless to explain any more. He needed something from Hannibal; he just didn’t know what it was.. The longing to roll over was stronger than ever.

Hannibal gave him an appraising look. “No,” he said. “You want me to fix you.”

The long-repressed whine finally made its way out. “Yes.”

Hannibal slowly lowered the gun. Will let out a bottled-up sigh of relief. “I may not be able to reverse the effects of whatever’s happened to you,” Hannibal said. “But I might help you bear them.” He held out his hand. Will reached for it gratefully, and Hannibal pulled him up to his feet. He didn’t let go, instead pausing to examine Will’s blood-streaked hands. “Starting with these.”

*

After nearly four years, the collar is no less intimidating.

Its sleek black leather is buttery-soft to the touch. Through the middle, a chain of silver is woven into place, deceptively delicate in its appearance. The thick silver ring attached to the front makes no such pretense. It’s meant to be fastened to something solid, to give Will as little mobility as possible.

Will curls his fingers into it. Fear drips slick and ice-cold down his spine.

“Would you prefer for me to put it on you?” Hannibal asks.

The silver makes Will’s nerves screech with alarm, a danger signal written deep in his biology. The thought of touching it a moment longer, let alone willingly fastening it around his neck, produces a spike of adrenaline so sharp he drops his hand and backs up a step.

Hannibal takes Will’s hand in his. “Will,” he says. “Will you allow me to put it on for you?”

Will can’t take his eyes off that shiny silver chain. He nods, his heart racing in his throat.

Hannibal guides him to move, turning his shoulders around until he’s facing away. It’s stupid how much calmer Will feels with the collar out of his immediate line of sight. His nerves jump again when Hannibal fits the leather band around his neck, but he’s able to take a deep breath and stay still as Hannibal fastens it in place.

The effect is immediate. It’s a subtle change in air pressure, but a noticeable one; it feels as though his ears should pop. Will shifts uncomfortably. He flexes his fingers to remind himself he still has full range of motion.

Hannibal watches his fidgeting with interest. “It’s alright,” Will says in response to the unspoken question. “For now. I’ll let you know when it gets worse.”

“What does it feel like?”

Right now, it’s only uneasiness, a feeling of foreboding that looms over him like the crest of an incoming wave. The wolf is stirring. Will can try to look past the tightness in his chest, but it always tugs his attention back, impossible to ignore for long.

“Ask me again when it’s over,” Will mutters.

Hannibal nods. In one hand, he holds a length of thick silver chain, one end concluded with a heavy-duty padlock. Will has his doubts that it will hold, but at the same time, he’s become all too familiar with what silver does to him. Hannibal opens the lock. “This much is optional,” he says. “If you’d prefer—”

“No,” Will grits out. “Put it on. Better to do it while you can, I’d just try to bite your fingers off later.”

Hannibal’s eyes glitter like he wouldn’t be entirely opposed to that idea, but he hooks the lock onto the ring of Will’s collar anyway. Will shudders when it comes near. “I do appreciate your cooperation,” Hannibal says. He pulls something from his pocket—a key, presumably—that goes click when he turns it in the lock. “Would you like me to hold onto this for you?”

The other end of the chain is a loop of black leather, matching Will’s collar. If it were metal through and through, touching it would be out of the question. It makes Will’s muscles go rigid as is. But he isn’t in his wolf form—the chain is only a chain, even if it feels like so much more—and the handle settles him just enough to swallow his instincts. He gingerly takes it from Hannibal.

“If I understand your relationship with silver correctly, you’ve just accepted custody over an instrument of death,” says Hannibal. “Akin to wearing a noose as a necklace.” He glows with admiration. Will’s bones want to rattle out of his skin. He flinches when Hannibal touches his shoulder. “You can let it go when you need to. The remarkable thing is already done—you place the noose around your neck and refuse to hang yourself with it.”

Will doesn’t feel remarkable. He feels skittish and a little stupid, holding his own leash as he follows Hannibal down to the kitchen. Hannibal has a simple meal planned, by his standards—steak and potatoes, the meat served rare. “For the distinguished carnivore,” he says, a twinkle in his eye. Will is only barely paying attention to his monologuing as he moves about the kitchen, but when Hannibal grins at him, he can’t help returning it.

Dinner is delicious as always. Will tries to enjoy it. By all rights, he should—as the minutes wear on, the lights seem brighter, the clink of silverware louder, the scent of perfectly-seared beef more mouthwatering. Each bite is soaked with flavor.

“Will,” says Hannibal.

Will chews mechanically. The more his senses tune up, the more the walls seem to press in on him. He can ignore it for now. It’s just claustrophobia. His clothes feel oppressive, swaddling him in cocoon-like warmth, but it’s only heat. He’s fine.

“Will,” Hannibal repeats.

Will belatedly notices he’s been chewing the same bite for several minutes now. It had felt like the right thing to do. His teeth are so dull.

“Your pupils are dilated,” says Hannibal. “How are you feeling?”

Hot. Itchy. Anxious. The wolf is awake, though still too groggy to assert itself.

Will sets his fork down and pushes his plate away. He can taste his last moments of clarity approaching, bittersweet. “We should go upstairs.”

They stand, and Hannibal holds out his hand.

Will gives him the handle of his chain.

Hannibal leads him to the bedroom. He opens his mouth, but Will cuts him off before he can ask: “On the floor. You don’t want me close to you.” Really, it would be better if they had a cage, but the chain will have to be enough. Hannibal nods.

There’s a metal ring freshly bolted to the floor, close to the far wall opposite the bed. Will crouches and sits down next to it. Hannibal kneels beside him and sets to fastening him in place: his chain locks onto the anchoring ring, just like it does to his collar. Will is distantly grateful that Hannibal did not rely on clips or carabiners to do this job. The locks are comforting in their strength: Hannibal will hold the keys somewhere far out of Will’s reach, and if all goes as planned, Will won’t have to worry about slipping free and hurting him.

When Hannibal has him secured, he sits back on his knees, at eye level with Will. “Do you trust me?” he asks.

Will stares at him. “I’m not sure you understand what I’m going to be like in a few hours,” he says. He’s not the one exercising trust here. “I’ll be violent. I won’t stop because it’s you.”

Hannibal inclines his head. “You may enter a more reactive state, yes, but with what you’ve shared about your state of mind, it’s your impulsivity that will prove the most troublesome. I’m here to provide impulse control. Allowing me to serve that purpose requires significant trust.”

“It’s not something I’m allowing you,” says Will. He taps his nails against the floor, growing agitated; it’s important for Hannibal to understand. It’s important that he sees Will for what he is, that this doesn’t become some spectacle of inhumanity for him to drink in.

After all they’ve been through, Hannibal trusts Will implicitly. But the Will that Hannibal knows is not the only party he’s contending with.

“The wolf won’t just surrender,” Will says emphatically. “You’ll have to keep it down.”

“Which requires an even greater degree of trust,” Hannibal says steadily.

Will searches his expression, his heart squeezing in his chest. There is no guarantee that Hannibal truly knows what needs to be done. That he can ensure Will gets what he needs, and this whole endeavor isn’t a repeat of last time’s misery. No guarantee at all.

Perhaps Hannibal has a point.

*

The first time it happened, Hannibal led Will downstairs to the dining table to clean him up. Will leaned on him most of the way, dizzier than he would’ve liked to admit. Hannibal sat him down. “I’ll be just a moment,” he said. He disappeared and returned with a tub of water and medical supplies.

He cleaned Will’s hands carefully, washing away the blood soaked into his claws. Some of it was his own, from when Will had pinned him to the wall. Will didn’t apologize. His eyes were closed, his mind fuzzy. It felt good to let Hannibal care for him this way. The confusion and stress of his incomplete transformation faded into the background, both halves of him relaxing at Hannibal’s admiration.

“Is it different, to take a life as a human being and as something else?” Hannibal asked as he began to clean the half-healed wound on Will’s forearm. It seems Randall Tier had managed a few good slashes when they fought—Will hadn’t even noticed.

Will nodded absently. He’d spent a decade in law enforcement avoiding deadly force encounters for fear that it would feel the same—that the wolf’s compulsive violence might be a trait he shared. There was always the fear that if given permission to hunt in human form, he would give in to instinct and tear his prey to pieces.

When he killed Garret Jacob Hobbs, though, he didn’t see prey. He saw a vicious piece of shit shot dead. Will was entirely present in killing him, and entirely satisfied with his death.

As it turned out, the version of events that came to be was even more troubling than the one he’d feared.

“It is different,” Will said. “Like, uh…” He wet his lips. “Dreaming that you did something, and then waking up and doing it again.”

Hannibal carefully wrapped a bandage around Will’s arm. “Which part of yourself is the dream, and which is the reality to which you wake?”

“I don’t mean to say one of them isn’t real,” said Will. “It’s more like…” Will’s thoughts wandered to faraway places, woods he’d sprinted through in the dark of night. The wind in his fur. “In one state, killing is only one of endless possibilities,” he said distantly. “You could fly, you could breathe underwater, you could kill. All are beautiful. All are acceptable. You could act on any of them at any time, whenever you felt like it. And in the other state, it’s a path you have to turn yourself toward, knowing it will have lasting consequences. It’s…”

“Less natural?” Hannibal offered.

“Not unnatural,” Will corrected. “Just… more deliberate.” He glanced at Hannibal from the corner of his eye. “I can’t imagine what it feels like for you.”

“Nor I you,” Hannibal murmured. He fixed Will’s bandage in place.

Will didn’t even see the syringe before it sank into his neck.

In the dreams that took him, he was whole again. He prowled the yard surrounding Hannibal’s home on four legs, snuffling along the ground. Police sirens wailed somewhere in the distance.

He lifted his head, and there behind him, the ravenstag waited. It recognized him. Will approached and gave it a cautious sniff. It nudged him with its broad, flat nose; Will flattened his ears and nudged it back. He was happy. He was where he belonged.

*

The hard part doesn’t come until later that night. Will wakes from a hazy state of half-sleep with his skin prickling, the collar feeling much tighter than it had in the evening. He turns his head, stretching his neck until he hears a crack. The leather holds him in a tight grip. It digs into his throat when he pulls against the leash.

His head is fuzzy. His limbs no longer feel like they’re fully attached to his body. He’s awake and aware, still Will, still himself, but there’s a growing sense of separation between his knees and the carpeted floor beneath them. All he can feel is the collar, harsh and unyielding.

Rustling from the bed beside him. “Will?”

Will clears his throat, blinking in vain to clear the haze from his mind. “I’m okay,” he says. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Not to worry. I wasn’t asleep.” Will can’t quite see him in the dark, but he hears every brush of movement against the blankets as sharp and loud as if it were directly in his ears. Hannibal shifts over to the edge of the bed, leaning over to inspect Will closer. He looks a little sleepy, his hair loose and swept down from its usual style, but he doesn’t seem like he’s just woken up.

He touches the collar around Will’s neck. “It’s beginning, isn’t it?”

Will can only manage a tired nod. Hannibal’s fingers slide up to his chin, tilting it up. They’re warm to the touch. Will looks up at Hannibal. He feels him more than he sees him; his fingers are a grounding point of contact, reminding his body that it exists as more than the band of silver at his neck.

“Will you be able to sleep any more?” Hannibal asks.

It takes effort to locate the right words and string them together. “I don’t know,” Will says blearily. “I should.”

Hannibal lowers himself down to the floor so he’s at eye level with Will. “You should probably stay up there,” Will says. It’s only a halfhearted warning.

Hannibal hooks his fingers into the metal ring at the front of Will’s collar. “Don’t concern yourself with me,” he says. “Try to sleep.” He pulls Will toward him, gently enough that Will could break away if he really wanted to.

Will is too on edge to maintain inhibitions. His elbows give out, and he slumps to the floor, curling up with his head nestled in Hannibal’s lap. The room spins around him. He twitches as a fresh wave of prickling erupts across his skin, a thousand pins and needles testing how deep they can pierce.

Hannibal cards his fingers through Will’s hair. It tingles, a strange and comforting counterpoint to the discomfort swirling in the rest of his body.

“Watch out,” Will mumbles. “I’ll bite.”

Hannibal pauses. “Should I be concerned by that?”

It takes Will a moment to realize what he’s really asking. “No, no,” he says. Hannibal isn’t going to catch what Will’s got. “If I had changed, that’d be an issue, but these teeth aren’t going to do much.” He grins, crooked in his exhaustion. “It’d still hurt, though.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Hannibal says, gently amused. “Now, sleep.”

Will drifts off with Hannibal tracing soothing patterns against his scalp.

*

The first time it happened, Will woke up unable to move. He couldn’t breathe. A weight pressed down on him from all sides, locking him in place. He thrashed against it—aha, so he could move after all—but the pressure did not abate. He gasped, his mind reeling at the inexplicable intake of air. His hands found his neck.

Wrapped around his throat was a thick band of leather. No—not only leather. A spark zipped down Will’s spine and made him jump, recoiling from the thing. It was threaded with silver.

Will sat bolt upright. He was in a bed. He whimpered, pushing back until he hit the wall, wanting to claw at the collar around his neck but unable to bring himself to touch it. He scratched at his neck instead, desperate for any kind of relief from the unrelenting pressure. His nails were harmless against his skin. They were nails once more. He startled and looked himself over—his half-grown fur had fallen away, his claws shrunken back. Probing his tongue against his teeth revealed them at a normal human size. Even the stub of a tail had vanished from his backside.

To an outside viewer, he was wholly human. But inside, the wolf was as present as it had been the night prior, and it was panicking.

He was trapped. He was small and he was wrong, and the silver at his throat was keeping him that way, he knew it like he knew the moon’s call. He writhed against it to no avail. When he tugged, it would not budge. When he snapped his little human teeth, it was no use.

It took an embarrassingly long time to see past his immediate distress and recognize its source.

Hannibal.

Will was alone in the room, and it was dark out—whatever he’d dosed Will with, he must not have made it strong enough to account for the changes in Will’s metabolism. Still. He couldn’t be far, and eventually, he’d want to see what this thing he’d put on Will did. Rage burned silver-bright and brilliant in Will’s veins. He wrenched at the collar again and only succeeded in making himself gag. He had to leave this place, and quickly.

Something within him remembered how to walk. This was the body he occupied most often; he should know how to work it. Will threw his legs over the side of the bed and immediately toppled over. He hit the floor with a thud. An involuntary, distressed keening followed.

Where were his legs? He climbed to his feet awkwardly, his sense of balance utterly disoriented. He had to lean against the wall to reach the edge of the room. His teeth were so small.

The house smelled dull and uninteresting. Will couldn’t find his way to the door from scent alone, but his eyes told him where to go. He understood the layout of the house, or at least he remembered understanding it. The drive home was the harrowing part. He nearly crashed three times and had to pull over on the side of the highway twice, hyperventilating through his nose. His entire body felt compressed. He was missing limbs and didn’t know where they were.

He pressed his forehead into the steering wheel and howled. In his state, it sounded more like a scream.

He couldn’t have said how long it took for the agony to pass. Once home, he spent his hours twisting on the floor, panting and scratching until his neck bled. His pack stuck close to him the entire time, sniffing him worriedly and offering sympathetic nuzzles. He wished he could comfort them. He couldn’t even comfort himself.

The pressure abated slowly. By midday it was over, and he was able to grasp the back of the collar and shakily undo its buckles.

He flung it into the wall so hard it made a dent in the plaster.

After re-orienting himself, Will found that it was a Sunday. His usual appointment with Dr. Lecter fell on Tuesdays. He cut his hair, shaved his beard, and dressed himself to look more than passably human. That was never a goal he’d considered around Hannibal before.

When the door to Hannibal’s practice opened, Will turned.

“I’d like to resume my therapy,” he said coolly.

He held out the collar. But before Hannibal could take it, he pulled it back. “Try anything else like that,” he said, “And you won’t see me again.”

Hannibal already knew Will’s mind inside and out—the wolf was the one part of Will that was untainted. It was pure, unadulterated Will. Hannibal could have Will’s mind, but he wouldn’t take his soul. If he tried to study Will’s condition, tame him, break him, then Will would find a way to disappear.

He extended the collar once more. Hannibal took it with a smile, his eyes dark and pleased.

And so they continued. Will never spoke directly about the other half of his identity. Hannibal never spoke directly about the other half of his. It was a neat little system, each of them permitted to be halfway honest.

Will didn’t forgive him for the collaring. But he had never been able to share this part of himself before, and his human side was perhaps less wise than the animal. He was as curious as Hannibal where this type of mutual understanding might lead.

*

By morning, Will’s skin is too tight. His first thought upon waking is of suffocation. He rips his shirt off immediately, and the air against his skin isn’t enough to soothe the cramped feeling inside him, but it’s a start. He’s down to his boxers by the time his mind catches up with what he’s doing.

He looks up, and Hannibal is sitting on the edge of the bed, watching. “Good morning, Will,” he says pleasantly.

Will doesn’t have time for pleasantries. There’s a deep, insistent ache threaded through his bones, and he needs it gone. He reaches for the unbearable clamp around his neck. Touching it makes him shudder. He can’t tighten his fingers around it. It stings like a cold shock of electricity every time he tries.

“I would advise against that,” Hannibal cautions.

“Fuck off,” Will says, strangled.

The sound of his own voice reels him back. He draws in a deep breath, trying to think through the clamoring anxiety insisting that he yank the collar off. It won’t come off; he knows that. Hannibal put it there for a reason. He can find the memory if he looks for it: Hannibal locking him in place, promising to keep him secure.

Will squeezes his eyes shut. “Sorry,” he manages. “It’s—hard. To focus.”

“So I see.”

Will’s center of gravity is in the wrong place. He pushes himself up onto his knees, and his limbs feel untethered in space, ready to swing off in unplanned directions. His fingertips slide against the floor. They are useless as anchors. Hannibal is saying something else. Words and words. Will props one leg up and tries to stand. He only gets about halfway before meeting resistance from his chain.

Restraint is infuriating. Will knows the taste of forest air at midnight, starlight on his back. He’s meant to be running, hunting. His purpose—his existence—is the chase. He pushes up against his tether once more, panic rising in his chest when it does not budge. A third tug makes him cough, his throat crying in protest. He strains against the chain’s farthest point—

And a forceful yank sends him tumbling straight back to the floor. He groans, rolling over onto his side and massaging his throat.

Hannibal drops the chain. “You’ll injure yourself if you continue,” he says. “Are you able to sit calmly?”

It hurts to breathe. Will inhales deeply. “Yeah,” he says, his voice cracking. “Thank you.” It’s less than what Hannibal deserves—there are words Will would like to say about what he needs, about how Hannibal should treat him in this state, that he cannot locate. But thank you is real, and it’s what he’s capable of saying.

Hannibal smiles. “The pleasure is mine.”

Will stays down on his side. It seems best to stay in place and not to think about the chain itself, an ever-so-tempting length of freedom that can only ever culminate in frustration. That doesn’t stop him from scratching at his neck, though. The collar burns like a brand.

“If I bring you something to eat, will you be able to?” Hannibal asks.

Will nods absently. “Maybe,” he says. “But no, um…” He gestures vaguely, his hand wandering toward the chain of its own volition and then away again when the spark of danger becomes too bright.

He forgets to finish the sentence. Hannibal comes back with a bowl of sliced fruit and no silverware, and Will is grateful. He chews on pieces of strawberry and pineapple, and though swallowing feels strange, it eases a pit of hunger in his stomach he hadn’t realized was there.

The discomfort comes in waves throughout the morning. Will’s body tries to force a change. It fails. He rests. Rinse, wash, repeat. It’s unpleasant, but he tolerates it. Hannibal sits at a desk chair he’s pulled into the middle of the room, just out of Will’s reach, and sketches. Whenever Will’s restlessness threatens to swallow him and he claws at his own skin, Hannibal gives his chain a sharp tug and forces him to relent.

It’s enough. For a while.

Will’s hairline is damp with sweat. He lays on his back, shifting every few seconds to search for the correct curve of his spine. It all feels incorrect. If he moves this way or that, surely he’ll find what he needs.

The despair that skewers him is sudden and excruciating. Will cannot exist like this. Nothing is worse than this. The pain bundled up inside him has nowhere to go. He whines and tosses his head, and in desperation, he sinks his teeth into the meat of his arm.

Torment gives him new resolve. If it won’t come out, he’ll tear it out. Blood gushes around his teeth, and the sensation is so heartbreakingly familiar, it makes him groan aloud.

A yank at his neck drags him forward. His teeth are torn free, interrupting his moment of reprieve. Will snarls and snaps his head up. Hannibal has him by the chain. He is bound by his own flesh and then further bound. It’s a fucking insult.

Will lunges.

He doesn’t even reach his full range of motion. Hannibal strikes him hard. It’s like throwing gasoline on a fire. Will hits the floor and lashes out again, tackling Hannibal in the legs to knock him down. They tangle together on the ground. Hannibal fights dirty, and the strength in his broad frame makes Will’s heart race when he’s slammed into the floor. Hannibal presses his chest down, pins his arms beneath him. Will hisses and spits, writhing against containment. He’s too incensed to be contained for long. He rolls out from under Hannibal and snaps blindly: his teeth connect, and triumph sings in his veins at the taste of blood.

The next thing he knows, he’s flat on his back, his head spinning.

Stars wink before his eyes. Hannibal crouches over him, one knee planted firm on Will’s chest, breathing heavy. He presses a hand to his shoulder, the fabric of his shirt spotted red. “Savagery becomes you,” he says, after a beat to catch his breath. “How fearsome you must be under a proper moon.”

He presses down harder on Will’s chest. Will struggles to breathe. Hannibal leans over and takes up the links of chain closest to Will’s collar, using them to yank Will’s head up from the floor. Will isn’t supporting his own weight. He pants at the end of Hannibal’s grip, held tight.

Hannibal’s shirt is getting redder. It’s distantly alarming. Will can’t bring himself to touch the chain itself, so he grabs onto Hannibal’s arm instead. His teeth ache, and desperation overtakes him—to bite Hannibal again, to be struck by him, something. Anything that isn’t watching that red stain expand. “Please,” he says weakly.

Hannibal watches him, expressionless. Will squirms, his body pulled in different directions: up by his collar, down by Hannibal’s knee planted on his ribs. It feels… gratifying. A craving satiated. He can feel the bruises that will flower his skin in a few day’s time, glowing with warmth.

Hannibal drops him. Will’s head hits the floor; he groans weakly. His body is humming with adrenaline. He doesn’t want to be done fighting. But he somehow can’t argue with the pressure on his chest—it eats at him, a different kind of anticipation than the futile urge to shed his skin.

Hannibal sits back, and Will’s lungs can expand again. Instead of a gasp, it’s a punched-out, disappointed whine that escapes his lips.

A flush crawls its way up from his chest to his cheeks.

“It’s nearly time for you to eat again,” Hannibal says, not unkindly. “Can you manage it?”

Hunger has been one of the less diverting sensations Will’s body is suffering through. Yes, he is starving. He could eat a whole deer. He could eat Hannibal alive. But the thought of food brings no relief if it means Hannibal has to leave him. Lightning-quick, Will’s hand shoots out to grasp Hannibal’s arm again. “No,” he gasps. “Don’t—don’t go.”

“I need to retrieve your food from downstairs.” Hannibal glances at his shoulder. “And perhaps a bandage. I fear I underestimated your agility.”

Will tries to jump up again. He doesn’t get far. In his momentary weakness, Hannibal is able to reprimand him with only a sharp jerk on his collar. “Don’t go,” Will slurs, still dizzy and now sick with sudden anxiety. “Please.”

“I’ll be only a moment,” Hannibal promises.

Will cannot help but suspect this is punishment. As far as punishments go, it’s worse than a beating. Hannibal gets up and leaves the room, and his absence is so stark, so profound, it feels as though Will has been dropped into a void. There is no moonlight dappling his skin, and now there is no Hannibal. He can’t say if it’s panic or fury that makes him howl, but he does. Even in the isolation of his own home, he’s always had his pack when he transforms.

Now there’s only him and the tight, uncaring ring around his neck.

It feels like Hannibal is gone forever. Will resorts to biting himself again. It’s hard to break the skin with his terrible omnivorous teeth, but the scorch of pain is just barely enough to keep him sane. He leaves double-crescent marks etched all the way down his arms, delirious, and licks over them when blood trickles free. He’ll do the same to Hannibal. Tear him up, make sure he can never leave. He’s not supposed to. Will is his. Doesn’t he know that Will is his?

Will smells the food before he sees Hannibal. His stomach gurgles. He’s been breathing shallow while Hannibal was away, and he’s begun to feel lightheaded. He sits up on his knees to wait.

When Hannibal comes in, Will snarls at him, and he isn’t even sure why. Resentment, maybe. He hurts all over and it’s Hannibal’s fault.

“I apologize for the delay,” Hannibal says, not looking sorry at all. “I didn’t realize my absence would have such an effect on you.”

This tugs at something in Will’s fuzzy memory, something that makes him laugh. He thinks Hannibal is a liar. He thinks he would taste good. It would be nice to curl up in Hannibal’s lap again, safe, and gnaw his fingers off at the bone. He thinks Hannibal would let him.

Hannibal looks him over, taking in the bruises already scattering his skin. “You described your wolf as hungry,” he says. “Is this what hunger does to you, Will?”

It hurts Will’s head to think of what Hannibal is referring to. The wolf? Will? He knows those things; they’re the same, they’re him, yet he’s not quite either one. He nods, unfocused. Hannibal sets down the plate of food he’s brought. Will leans toward it. His chain stops him short, leaving the plate just out of his reach. He strains further, a growl rumbling in his throat.

“I must admit, you aren’t what I expected you’d be,” Hannibal says. “You have a streak of violence in you, but it’s turned as often toward yourself as it is toward me.” Will bares fangs he doesn’t have, and Hannibal grins. “I wonder what would happen if I were to set you free.”

Will growls louder. Hannibal reaches out and brushes his curls behind his ear. Will turns and bites into Hannibal’s wrist—right over the white scar that marks his artery. Brimming with fury and distrust, he meets Hannibal’s eyes. Hannibal doesn’t look away as Will clamps his teeth down harder. His flesh sinks so easily. It contorts to the shape of Will’s molars.

“I wonder if you could bear to kill me like this,” Hannibal asks softly. “Your rage at war with the devastation of solitude. One form of hunger always doomed to defeat the other.”

Will aches to tear the veins from beneath Hannibal’s skin. His heart pounds. Excitement and fear toil in his gut, and his grip slackens.

Immediately, Hannibal backhands him so hard he cries out.

Will is knocked over onto his side. He spits blood from his mouth, an inexplicable wave of relief crashing over him.

Hannibal moves quickly. Before Will can even try to sit up again, Hannibal is behind him, fingers wrapped around one of Will’s wrists. Will snarls and moves to pull away, but a sudden sting makes him yelp and drop to the ground. His mind becomes a mess of no and stop and hurts and that’s silver on his bare skin, only for a second, but it’s there. He keens as it goes away, replaced with a smoother, softer pressure around his wrist.

“No,” Will says weakly, “no, nonono,” even as something in him hisses yes, yes.

The same pressure grips his other wrist. Will whimpers and slumps to the floor, shuddering. His arms stay behind his back, locked together. He’s become acclimated to the collar, the low-grade anxiety it produces receding into the background, but this is a fresh torrent of agitation on already-strained nerves. He feels raw and overstimulated.

“Much better,” Hannibal murmurs. “I haven’t forgotten what you’ve entrusted me with, Will. I promised to be your impulse control, and I shall be.”

He retrieves the plate of food from the floor, then pulls his chair in and draws Will up onto his knees. Will leans into him, his cheek resting on Hannibal’s thigh. He can’t help but grimace at the fresh bindings on his hands. “Forgive the imposition,” says Hannibal, running his fingers softly through Will’s hair. Will closes his eyes. “They were always intended to be a matching set, but you fled before I had the chance to put the cuffs on you, the first time. I feared you might reject even the collar if I were to suggest them now.”

“S’okay,” Will mumbles. It doesn’t feel so awful when he’s touching Hannibal.

“I’ll take them off if you can be good. Or at least not devour yourself alive.”

Will’s belly stirs with warmth at the notion of being good. “‘M hungry,” he protests weakly.

“I know,” Hannibal says gently. He guides Will to turn his head up and holds out a small chunk of steak. Will opens his mouth. To have Hannibal’s fingers so close to his teeth makes his mouth water. Those little bones would crunch so nicely. He swallows the first bite Hannibal feeds him, and Hannibal comes back with another. Will opens his mouth with difficulty and allows Hannibal to pass through his teeth once more. The third time, he whines in spite of himself, trembling with apprehension. “Very good,” Hannibal praises. “You’re right here with me, Will. Stay with me.”

“I want,” Will starts in a fragile voice, and sighs when Hannibal feeds him a piece of meat. “I want to—hurt you.”

“Of course you do. It’s in your very nature. And yet here you are.”

Will closes his mouth to swallow the saliva pooling up behind his tongue. He can still taste copper. The world around him is dull but for the roar of blood in his ears. Hannibal parts his lips and presses another bit of steak onto his tongue. Will swallows and moans, feverish with longing. “One might think I had tamed you,” Hannibal says, pleased.

“I can’t do it,” Will says, turning to press his face into Hannibal’s thigh. He’s going to bite him again; he can feel it itching in his teeth. He squeezes his eyes shut and draws in a shaky breath, resisting the urge to sink his canines straight into Hannibal’s leg. “Hannibal…”

Hannibal grabs him by the collar and yanks him back up. Will’s eyes fly open as he’s held at attention. His neck is so sore. The sensation bleeds all the tension out of him, scarcely-repressed violence banished with a flick of Hannibal’s wrist. The angle is uncomfortable, but he lets Hannibal pull at him. Hannibal’s grip is like that of the moon: strong, steady, purifying. Will holds his gaze with his arms tied back, pulse beating fast in his throat.

“I have a theory,” Hannibal says conversationally. “Would you like to hear it?”

Will barely manages a nod.

“You appear to be less destructive in my presence.” Hannibal pulls him an inch forward. “You despise being left alone.” Another inch forward. “You permit yourself to be led by me, despite your earlier warnings that you would be unable to control yourself under the wolf’s influence.” Another inch closer, and Will is teetering into his lap, unable to balance on his knees. Will pants. He can’t tear his eyes from Hannibal’s.

“The natural world has its own ways of keeping order,” Hannibal whispers. “And it’s order that you crave in your disorganized state. You respond exceedingly well to direction. A pack leader, if you will.” As if to illustrate the point, his free hand threads into Will’s hair and yanks his head back. Will gasps. Hannibal smiles widely. “What a burden it must be, to lose yourself to instinct. To fear waking and looking upon the carnage your own claws have wrought.” He squeezes Will’s hair tight; it’s equal parts loving and painful.

“And how much easier, if you were no longer the apex predator,” Hannibal says, his voice gone soft and soothing. “You could forgo all responsibility. Defer to a greater authority, when even your conscience melts away.”

The hair on the back of Will’s neck stands up. He tugs at his bound wrists, and they do not budge. The lattice of leather and silver wraps around all his pulse points, keeping him small, burning up with unused energy. His skin, his boxers, all of it is too tight to hold him. “Hannibal,” he says shakily. The craving makes it hard for him to breathe. He needs something to make him forget his restrictions, whether it’s clawing Hannibal’s chest open or a solid punch to the face. Pain. Blood. It can belong to either of them. He just needs—

Hannibal presses his foot down hard against Will’s crotch, and Will’s entire body jolts.

Oh. Oh.

His dick is rock hard. The friction is an impossible relief: he lets out a shocked moan and tries to grind into the contact, but Hannibal withdraws at once. He lets go of Will entirely. Without hands on his collar and in his hair, Will topples forward into his lap, trembling.

Hannibal smooths his hair back, horribly tender. “This is better, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Will breathes. “God, yes.”

Hannibal extends his leg so his shin presses firmly between Will’s thighs. Will’s hips stutter forward. His face is warm. Hannibal is still fully dressed, while he’s only in his boxers. Nearly every inch of his flushed and bitten skin is on display. There are only two scant layers of fabric between them. He wishes it were one. If it weren’t for the handcuffs making him so useless, he could be fully naked at Hannibal’s feet, his tame plaything.

The idea should be humiliating. Will has killed men for merely existing in his proximity; no part of him should accept this treatment, much less bask in it. But he can’t help rocking into Hannibal’s leg, biting his lip as a shudder works its way down his spine. He finds no shame in doing so. It’s a relief, and it’s more than physical—something inside him that’s been fighting all day is letting go. A paradox is resolving. He feels lighter, like he could float away.

This body is not human or animal. The distinction itself no longer feels urgent. Will is Hannibal’s, and that is the only thing he needs to be.

“Go on,” Hannibal murmurs. “Take what you need.”

Will grinds against him, shifting to get the greatest friction directly against his stiff cock. He can’t stop. Everything else, all the stress and pain, melts away into sweet pleasure. Soft gasps and breathy moans tumble from his lips as he ruts helplessly. Hannibal watches him, occasionally stroking his hair, as easily composed as if he were watching Will sleep. It makes Will’s cock throb. He wants to be touched; he wants to be disregarded.

He leans into Hannibal, pressing his forehead into Hannibal’s thigh as he drags his cock against him. He inhales shakily, desperately. Hannibal smells like comfort and power. Like he could break Will’s neck if Will ever tried to hurt him. He’s hard too, Will can feel it, but it scarcely seems to affect him—he’s utterly in control, graced with self-discipline that is only a distant memory to Will.

Will moans into him, something incoherent that might be please or maybe Hannibal.

Hannibal curls his fingers into the back of Will’s hair, secure at the roots. “You need more than this?” he asks fondly. “Insatiable thing. What else?”

He doesn’t really need to ask. Will leans into him, beseeching, and Hannibal lets him go to unbutton his pants. He shifts to the edge of his seat so Will can come closer between his thighs. Will misses grinding on his leg as soon as he’s moved, but even without it, his boxers are wet; he’s leaking straight through them.

Hannibal should not let him do this. He knows on some level that Hannibal should not let him do this, not when he’s one spike of adrenaline shy of drawing blood, but the boldness of it makes him weak. It feels like a challenge. No, more than that—it’s an order. Will is not allowed to lose control.

“Be good,” Hannibal says simply, pulling his cock out. Will doesn’t need the hand on his collar tugging him forward. He swallows him down eagerly.

The feeling of Hannibal’s cock in his mouth nearly makes his eyes roll back. Hannibal’s smell is one thing, but the taste of him is another. He is flesh and blood, tantalizingly delicate, but absolutely ringing with authority. Be still. Be still. Will takes as much of him as he can, nearly vibrating with the effort to remain passive. It feels like a rebuke. Hannibal will let him taste, feral thing that he is, but only with a reminder of who’s in charge.

He holds Hannibal’s cock on his tongue, his mouth watering. The urge to bite melts away rapidly. It seems so insignificant now. Now, he only needs to do as he’s told.

Will can’t stand to wait any longer: he slowly eases back up to suck at the tip of Hannibal’s cock. He lavishes it with his tongue, teasing around the head and into the slit. He can picture how he looks, tied down and still so enthusiastic about sucking Hannibal off, squirming with anticipation and arousal. It only makes it feel more urgent. He licks Hannibal’s shaft, pressing sloppy, open-mouthed kisses along his length, and takes him in again. Hannibal lets out a breath. His fingers tighten in Will’s hair. Will moans, and Hannibal pushes him further down until Will’s nose is buried in his pubes. He keeps him there until Will’s eyes start to water, then pulls him back. Will is allowed one gasping breath before Hannibal’s cock is in his mouth again.

Hannibal moves his head for him, bobbing him up and down. His grip is half of what’s keeping Will upright. His thighs are trembling from holding himself up on his knees, and behind him, his hands are falling asleep. It’s bliss. It’s easy. He surrenders to the pace Hannibal sets for him, whimpering when Hannibal begins to fuck his mouth with short, shallow thrusts. Will must be a fucking mess, his lips wet with drool and precome and his eyes full of involuntary tears, but he feels whole for the first time all day. He has Hannibal’s full attention.

He looks up through his lashes to meet Hannibal’s eyes. Hannibal’s pupils are like twin black holes. Will sucks gently on the head of his cock, and Hannibal grabs him by the back of his neck. “In my wildest dreams, I never could have predicted you,” he sighs.

His grip tightens to the point of pain, and he shoves Will down to the base of his cock. Will moans around him, encouraging, begging. Hannibal fucks into his throat with a few hard thrusts, and then, with a low curse in a language that is definitely not English, he comes. Will’s throat constricts. He struggles to swallow it all; he gags a little, and some of Hannibal’s come escapes the seal of his lips, dripping down his chin. Hannibal tugs him off so he can breathe again. Will sucks in grateful gulps of air, his chest heaving.

He feels filthy and used, but equally proud. He blinks dazedly up at Hannibal. Hannibal’s lips curl into a smile. He presses his leg back into Will’s crotch. “Good boy,” he says lightly. “Now let me see you.”

Will takes a moment to catch his breath before settling against Hannibal’s leg and grinding into him. He goes slowly. If he doesn’t, this will be over too soon—he’s wound up tight as a bowstring, and even a long, slow stroke makes his cock twitch and leak.

Hannibal tilts Will’s chin up. He studies Will clinically, then swipes his thumb over his chin, wiping away his own come. The sheer sensuality of it hits Will like a truck. He struggles to breathe.

“Much easier to give in, isn’t it?” Hannibal asks. His thumb strokes back and pushes against Will’s lower lip. Will’s lips part automatically. Hannibal smiles. “I’ve always known you would be more comfortable surrendering to your desires,” he says, pressing his thumb into Will’s mouth. Will’s eyes flutter closed as he sucks on it. He can taste Hannibal’s release. The resulting swell of lust makes his head spin.

He’s never experienced anything so intensely in his fucking life. “Look at you,” Hannibal murmurs. “You of all creatures were born to feel. The agonies you suffer would annihilate a lesser man. And yet how glorious you are, when it’s pleasure that obliterates you.”

He pulls his thumb free from Will’s mouth. Will works his hips against him, faster now, sloppy with desperation. He’s so hard it aches. His balls are growing tight.

“Are you close, Will?”

“Yes,” Will moans. “Yes, Hannibal, please—”

“Good,” Hannibal whispers. “Let me see what you are when you’re unable to hide.”

Will humps his leg frantically, a dog in heat. He chokes down a sob. He’s right there, grasping at the edges of euphoria that threaten to burst, and—

“Let me see what I’ve made you,” Hannibal purrs.

Will’s orgasm is blinding.

His body stiffens, rocked by waves of pleasure that pulse through him. He curls into Hannibal and lets out a shocked, relieved moan. All he can feel is the dizzying sweetness of release as he spills, once and again, probably making a mess of Hannibal’s pants. He can only ride it out.

Even when the initial ecstasy recedes, it settles into a thick, syrupy satisfaction that warms Will’s bones. He rests his cheek on Hannibal’s thigh and breathes in the scent of him. Hannibal runs a hand over the back of his collar, a gentle reminder of ownership. It makes Will shiver and then jolt as an aftershock zings through him.

Hannibal lets him stay there a long time without moving. He scratches Will’s hair while Will’s rapid pulse ebbs down to a normal pace. Will clings to him. Despite the discomfort of his position—his arms now prickling with pins and needles, knees aching, boxers sticky—he is utterly content. Sated.

“Will,” Hannibal murmurs.

“Mmm?”

“I’m going to remove the handcuffs now.”

“Mmhm.” Will blinks sleepily and shifts back. His knees hurt more when he puts his full weight on them, and his wet boxers chafe. He grimaces. Hannibal moves behind him, and with a tug and a click, he can separate his hands again. The tightness around one wrist falls away, and then the other. Will’s arms shake as he brings them back around in front of him. The pins and needles spike into a crackle of painful static. He tries to flex his fingers; they’re stiff and weak.

Hannibal sits back down and pulls Will’s hands up into his lap. He massages each one, kneading between the bones of Will’s palms and into the valley of his knuckles. Will winces at first, the touch creating sparks of pain as circulation returns, but it mellows quickly. He sighs with relief, his hands carefully worked over until they’re not only comfortable, but relaxed.

Hannibal frowns when he finishes, inspecting Will’s left hand. “They shouldn’t have been tight enough to cut off circulation. I hope it was tolerable.”

“It wasn’t cutting off circulation, it was just how I was holding them.” Will’s voice is hoarse with overuse. He smiles faintly. “And the silver. Makes it feel tighter than it really is.”

Hannibal absorbs this. “I’d like to have a better understanding of exactly how it affects you.”

“Later,” Will says. “Later you can.”

“You seem to be significantly improved.”

“Mmm.” Will gingerly shifts off his knees. His joints protest the movement, but he manages to clumsily adjust so he’s sitting properly. “I’m distracted. Easier to bear it when my body has other things to complain about.”

Or to appreciate, as they’ve discovered, but that goes without saying. It truly is remarkable how content Will feels. He didn’t think it was possible to feel this way with the collar on.

Hannibal is silent for a minute. Long enough that Will glances up at him. “Are you present enough that you do not pose a danger to either of us?” he finally asks.

“Think so, yeah.”

Hannibal gets up and unlocks Will’s chain from its anchor point. “Can you stand?” he asks.

Will reaches up for his hand.

Hannibal helps him to the bathroom. Will can barely walk without his legs wobbling. Hannibal supports him in the hall, then in the bathroom as Will strips his boxers off. He runs a bath for the two of them and extends his arm to Will so he can clamber in.

They sit in the warm water together, Will laid against Hannibal’s chest, his chain arranged so it falls over the side of the bathtub. Exhaustion burrows its way into Will’s skin. He closes his eyes.

After Hannibal has him cleaned up, they return to the bedroom, and Will is permitted to climb into bed with Hannibal. He’s tired, but clearheaded at last. His gut tells him what’s safe. He reaches for the back of his neck, his arms still trembling with the effort, and undoes the buckle of his collar. It comes away with ease.

Hannibal kisses him then. Will clutches his face in both hands, their lips meeting in a slow, soft drag. It goes on and on, and Will has long since melted into Hannibal by the time it registers that they have not done this before. It’s as natural as breathing, and Will knows with certainty that this is what their future will look like: brutal artistry, man-made horrors, and more of this. It’s a wonder they took so long to find their way here.

Later, Hannibal’s fingers lace into his over the pillow. Will doesn’t want the moment to end, but he can’t let it continue, either. There’s something he has to get out before this goes down as a pleasant memory.

“I can’t do this every time,” he murmurs.

He can admit that he was wrong: the collar wasn’t horrible. He’d be willing to put it on again. But as much as Hannibal must have loved having Will under his thumb—as much as Will enjoyed it—he won’t compromise his freedom for it.

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” says Hannibal, squeezing Will’s fingers. “And neither would I wish for it. I told you I intended to get to know your wolf better, and I stand by that.”

Will smiles, fatigue weighing down his eyelids. “I want to hunt with you,” he whispers.

Darkness has fallen again, and Hannibal’s face is mostly shadow. Still, Will can make out his eyes, the shine of delight. “Under the moonlight once more?” he asks.

Will nods sleepily. He’s curious to see how he’ll react to Hannibal when fully transformed. It won’t be the same without the collar. The wolf won’t need Hannibal the same way—but it might like him anyhow. The exhilaration Will felt on the cliffs, moonlight blackening his bloody hands, was akin to what he feels in his other form. The same freedom. The same hunger.

He doesn’t yet know if it will lead him to worship Hannibal or slaughter him. But the scale is tipping.

Hannibal slides his hand over Will’s bruised neck, coming to cradle the back of his head, and kisses him. Will sighs and parts his lips, opening for Hannibal to slip his tongue inside. They could do this forever and it wouldn’t be enough. They kiss for a minute more, then Will pulls away to roll on top of Hannibal. It’s a reversal of their earlier position, Hannibal looking up at him.

“I don’t just want it as an animal,” Will whispers. “Once more, twice more, I’m not counting. I want it in any and every form.”

“All of them magnificent,” Hannibal whispers back. “I could never leave you wanting, Will. You will have as much as it takes to satisfy you.”

They share a smile, there in the dark. There is not enough blood in the world to satiate the two of them.

That won’t stop them from trying.