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Will knew the woods in Wolf Trap like the back of his hand.
It was his happy place, wandering aimlessly along the barely-there trails marked with ribbons and knife notches, wading in the stream to fish. Night or day, he was never afraid here, always comfortable he could find his way home no matter how far he ventured.
So, he knew the woods well.
He also knew something else, very well, that one Doctor Hannibal Lecter was the Chesapeake Ripper. He couldn't directly confirm to Will what he had done, who he was, but Will knew, and Hannibal knew that he knew, and they were caught up in this crazy fucking game together and he was supposed to be turning the fucker in to Jack Crawford in a matter of weeks. It could happen any time now, honestly; it could be today.
But they had shared a dinner of these… whole little birds, and it had been so… intimate. And there was more, there was so much more between them. And afterwards, they had shared wine and cognac and sat silently smouldering in their obvious sexual tension, until something just kinda… snapped.
Will couldn't be blamed. The bastard got so deeply into his head. He didn't think that Hannibal had implanted these fucked up sexual desires into him, because he was pretty sure he had been waking up hard after dreaming about the Ripper since before the psychic driving had even started, but God knows what the man had done to make it worse. Will was sure, certain, he had influenced him to feel the way that he did.
(He hadn't, actually. Will knew that, deep down.)
So he couldn't be blamed for when he cracked down his mostly empty —his fourth drink of the evening — glass of cognac on the table and stomped over to Hannibal and grabbed him by the big stupid Balthus knot of his stupid, ugly tie and yanked him in for a kiss.
A good fucking kiss, too. Will had not kissed all that many people, a few poorly-went college flings and fucking Alana Bloom. And let's not forget the one that tried to use him as a sperm bank. So he hadn't kissed many people, but he knew what a kiss normally felt like, and this was… not that at all.
He had always felt like the expressions were exaggerating. Sparks flying. Electric charge in the air and in their skin. The rush of endorphins and dopamine. But this, this was different, and soon they were pulling and pressing at each other as if they would die if they couldn't be as close together as possible.
Will had Hannibal's garish checked suit jacket halfway off, one hand in the man's hair and the other creeping under the jacket and vest to feel his muscular shoulder. Hannibal grasped him delicately by the jaw and waist, as if treating him too roughly would spook him away, but Will had no such hesitation, and he clawed at the clothing and tugged at his hair and nipped at the other's lips.
Suddenly, it all hit him what exactly he was doing. He had never kissed a man before, let alone a fucking serial killer.
He flung himself backwards, and a petulant little argument started. And still, Will couldn't be blamed — the alcohol maybe could be — when he proposed this stupid fucking idea.
A hunt. A fucking hunt. In the woods. To decide their fate, since the two of them couldn't seem to have a normal conversation like adults about any of this.
If Hannibal wins, he gets to claim Will right there. If Will wins, he can decide in the moment what he wants to do; he can claim Hannibal himself, ravage him, fuck him raw… or he could restrain him, and turn him in to the police. All the while, playing a game of pretend so that Hannibal could really show his true self.
Will needed to meet the Ripper for himself, if they were going to have any sort of life together.
He thought he didn't know which he would pick until he was in the moment. Hannibal knew which Will would choose, but was smart enough not to say so when the empath was already so dysregulated and volatile.
So that's how Will found himself here, in the woods, with a ten minute head start. His pocket knife carved tiny little notches into trees as he plowed through areas without trails, towards a different area of the stream than where he usually went.
He was dressed comfortably, in worn hiking boots and black sweatpants. A light henley, unbuttoned, over a white undershirt. It was late summer, nearly fall, so the underbrush was still wet and lush instead of deep with cracking leaves and dry twigs, which would be good for him.
What would not be good for him was Hannibal's sense of smell. The man was like a bloodhound, and Will had scrubbed himself down as best he could with antibacterial soap. He had bought scent-free antiperspirant for the occasion, avoided any products with scents, actually, especially no Old Spice today. He had left the clothing out on the porch overnight to air out any scent from his laundry detergent. He was prepared. At least in this way. In every other way, especially mentally… well, it was good he was prepared in at least one way.
The thing that would work against him was his natural smell, and it was pretty warm still, so he was already sweating a little by the time his watch showed ten minutes had passed. But he was close to his destination. There was this big fucking tree, with hollow areas around the roots, and it was near the stream, if he could just get there.
But time was up, and he was still a ways off. He paused, the squish and soft crunch under his feet coming to a halt as well. He listened. It was alive, the woods, of course, many creatures, the wind, the distant babbling water. But there was no sign of Hannibal yet. It had only been two minutes though, and Will was walking with the wind the best he could, so it would hopefully take some time to be found. He knew Hannibal would suspect he would veer to the river, and he was, but not to anywhere Hannibal would know about. Far off the paths, he started to roam again. As he went to notch the next tree, he froze.
Fuck.
Fucking idiot.
The knife trembled in his hand. He had gone on autopilot and left a fucking breadcrumb trail to his exact location.
He heard sprinting in the distance, the soft crush of underbrush turned into tearing and cracking. Hannibal was not even trying to conceal himself. Christ, what had he gotten himself into?
Shit.
He broke into movement, towards the area he planned still, unable to think of a better option n his blind panic. The stream nearby would provide cover for the noise of his breath and the smell of the water might dull his scent, if he was lucky.
In just under three minutes, he arrived, panting, having run as fast as he could while trying not to disturb things enough to leave a trail. He knew he left one anyway.
Shit, fuck.
He had counted on being careful and slow and that plan was fucked.
Will dove into the hollow of the tree roots, crouched and ready to tackle Hannibal as soon as he saw him. The knife was burning in his pocket, the weight and the sharp edges of the metal handle comforting. He tried to muffle his heavy breath into his sleeve. He listened.
He heard nothing.
He waited.
Peeking out in the direction he had last heard the other, he saw nothing either. Where the fuck had Hanni—
A barreling weight crashed into him from behind, causing his shins and knees to knock painfully against the roots and his waist forced to bend as he tried not to go face first into the leaves.. Blindly, he threw a punch back over his shoulder, successfully hitting Hannibal in the jaw, but not squarely. With his other hand, he threw some damp leaves into the other's face. He tried desperately to scramble out from under, and he did succeed in flipping onto his back, but Hannibal had a forearm across his neck and shoulders and was straddling his hips, pinning him down.
Will tried to claw at the other's face, but Hannibal reared back to dodge and pinned both arms down easily. He tried to squirm, to get a leg up between the other's to nail him in the nuts, but nothing was working, and so he just went lax, panting.
It was then that he noticed the look on the other man's face.
He had never seen it on him before. This wasn't the man he knew.
He was face to face with the Chesapeake Ripper.
The cannibal had clearly felt the knife, because he rearranged to hold both wrists over Will's head in the dirt, and fished under his thigh to get into the pocket.
The knife snapped open with a loud click, and it was at his throat.
"I've caught you." The Ripper smiled, and it was a dead thing, all teeth, maroon eyes glinting in the afternoon sun.
Will swallowed roughly. "Y-you did, ah, you got me. I just — a-are you going to kill me?"
He would like to say he was playing it up for the scene, for the game they had agreed to play… but he wasn't.
Will was fucking terrified.
"Not yet. There's so much more fun to be had before we get to that."
The blade trailed down, cutting easily through the white cotton undershirt and the top later of skin underneath. Will cursed, trying to control his heaving chest to prevent extra damage. The afternoon sweat stung as it mixed into the beads of blood.
They had discussed hunting. Conquests. What they hadn't discussed — entirely — was what happened next.
"A hunter is supposed to bite the heart of their kill, drink the blood."
Will's eyes went wide.
Fuck. Of course. He's a fucking cannibal, of course he would want to taste me.
"Please don't—"
A slash ignited fire across one side of Will's chest, a line only a couple inches long but fairly deep, and he gasped and cried out as he felt a rush of hot liquid spilling from himself.
Hannibal set the knife to the side and ran his fingers across the gash, pulling it open and smearing crimson down over the nipple. Despite the fear and the pain, Will moaned at the wet touch, the air hitting it causing it to go rock hard.
Then the killer was adjusting, straddling Will lower in order to crouch down, to kiss at the weeping cut, before sliding the tip of his tongue across it. He hummed happily at the taste. With the shift in position, Hannibal's erection was pressed against one thigh, and that bloody free hand was quickly finding its way inside his sweatpants to wrap around Will's half-hard cock.
Hannibal locked his lips around the wound, sucking at it and flicking the tip of his tongue across it, and so lost was he in the taste of his easy victory that his grip loosened. Just a little; just enough.
Will whipped a hand free at the same time he bucked, hard, using the free hand to shove sideways into the other man's face, sending him off to bash his ribs against the tree roots.
There was a moment of frantic grappling, and the blood making Hannibal's grip slick might have been the only reason the cannibal ended up face down in the underbrush, his arms wrenched behind him. Will yanked Hannibal's shirt up over his head, pinning his arms behind him with an iron grip on the fabric.
The doctor was still fighting, but quickly Will had the knife against his throat, and he stilled. Panting out a little laugh, Will trailed the sharp edge to the man's shoulderblade.
He wasted no time in making his own claim, a series of cuts that made a W a couple inches tall. Blood dripped down from his own chest to join the pooling of Hannibal's. Will tossed the knife aside into the brush, out of both of their reaches for now, then drug one index finger through the mess, and brought it to his own lips. He savored the taste of iron, sweeter than he thought it would be.
Then, he got to work on yanking down the other man's pants. He couldn't pretend anymore that he didn't know what his choice was. Not after he felt how hard he was against the other's ass when he tasted him back.
It was an easy decision, in the end.
He twisted his grip tighter in the shirt, causing Hannibal's shoulder to flex and him to moan as more of his bodily fluid pooled on the surface of sweat damp skin.
Will ran his fingers through it, and — as an afterthought — through the blood dripping down his own chest, then proceeded to roughly insert one finger halfway into the tight embrace of Hannibal's ass in one smooth motion. He pumped in and out until the entire finger was buried and quickly added another, the crimson going into tacky, dragging territory, but Will didn't care. This is what they both wanted, after all.
Barely giving time to adjust, Will proceeded to spit and add his middle finger to the index, relishing in the heat and the friction and the sharp, broken moan he received when he crooked his fingers up and rubbed hard against his prostate. The thrill of having the Ripper bleeding under him was nearly too much, and he couldn't resist grinding against the man's thigh as he made quick work of a third finger. Hannibal reached blindly behind, arching his back so prettily and trying to grasp at Will's clothing. He had stopped trying to fight back, it seemed, but Will tried to maintain alertness in case that changed on a hair notice.
He yanked down his own sweatpants and switched hands gripping the shirt-restraint to run his clean palm over their mutual wounds again, gathering as much fluid as he could to smear over his aching cock. And it was aching, throbbing and flushed dark, leaking fat drops of precome which mixed with the cooling blood. The sight of red smeared dripping down the entire thick length of himself was thrilling. He had never considered blood to be a turn on… and yet.
He pressed to the rim, meeting resistance which gave way like a pop that shoved the entire first couple inches inside at once. Hannibal was sweating, mumbling in some other language, clenching around the intrusion as he struggled to adapt, but Will didn't give him time. He pulled back a little to shove another couple inches inside, quickly repeating until he was fully wrapped in rhythmically contracting muscle.
Will draped himself over the other, still gripping the shirt but also wrapping a painted palm around Hannibal's throat. He squeezed. The other man gasped and sputtered and cried out as the grip tightened at the same time he pulled back and snapped forward harshly, starting a rough and deep pace.
It wasn't going to take long, Will realized, which was probably a good thing, since the sooner he came the sooner his full victory would be solidified. He had been sure for a moment that he was going to be the one claimed, and honestly, he would have liked it, but this was… intoxicating, having the FBI's most wanted moaning on his cock, both of them covered in blood and sweat and dirt. The violence, the taboo, the sick sexual thrill of it was driving him insane as he choked the Chesapeake Ripper and fucked him into the ground.
And he was right, it wasn't long at all, and Hannibal was not at the finish line with him when he felt that tension build in his groin. He leaned down to lap and suck at the W shaped wound, bite at the skin he found around it, and as he felt his orgasm crest, he moaned into the wet flesh.
It was strong for having built so quickly, the adrenaline of the fight and the injury to his chest lending itself to feeling like a truck hit him, knocking the breath out of him as he emptied pump after pump of sweet release into the man underneath him.
He was dazed, riding out the aftershocks when abruptly, Hannibal threw them sideways, ripping the shirt with one huge flex of muscle and scrambling to get on top of Will. It wasn't that difficult, but as soon as he was there, pinning Will once again on his back but this time with his legs spread wide around Hannibal's hips, Will's brain came back online.
"What the fuck, Hannibal? I won! Let me go!"
He thrashed, cursing. It was no use, Hannibal was a weight crushing his hips and pinning both arms with his own. Their shared breath was hot in the space between them.
"I can't just let you win so easily." It was a threat as much as it was a confession. "No matter how thoroughly you claim me, Will, you still belong to me as well." The pad of one thumb brushed over the congealing blood and plasma webbed across ivory skin.
For a brief moment, the pendulum swung across his vision, and he could feel, he could see the devotion in the other, and his breath faltered as everything hung suspended forever in it, and then it swung the other direction and reality came back into focus.
Their lips met, both of them trembling with emotion and adrenaline, and for another brief moment they rested forehead to forehead.
Will's hands were released in favor of one hand buried in luscious, damp curls, and Hannibal breathed them in like the finest cologne as he left a trail of little kisses along the hairline of his temples.
The empath inhaled sharply and cried out, as a slashing cut sliced his abdomen open nearly side to side.
Hannibal had gotten the fucking knife again. He tossed it back aside, and ran one rough palm across the fresh gash, jagged and deep, how many fucking stitches would he need —
But Hannibal had his red fingers painting a line up Will's torso that ended with a gasp and the taste of iron blossoming fresh on his tongue. He pumped those fingers, pressing to the back of Will's tongue, and his eyes watered and his spit and blood helped clear the way for two fingers to end up deep inside of him somewhere else, immediately seeking the tender spot with a crook as Hannibal latched his sharp teeth on the nape of Will's neck, and God, it was good, it was perfect, so good he could cry, and maybe he was crying.
And Hannibal kissed his tears with bloodstained, cracked lips as he worked him open reverently. Slowly, aching, tender, until Will would have been ready to cry from that too.
However, the claiming was no less physically intense for the weight of the emotion and adrenaline hanging in the air between them. Will arched and grasped and clenched as Hannibal entered him, his body unprepared but starving, exhausted but wired, thriving and buzzing as his blood trickled thickly into the remains of his shirts and slicked between their bodies, rubbed down onto his cock, already hard again.
Hannibal laid one more devout kiss, petal soft to the corner of Will's eye. He moved to press his lips against the shell of his ear, and when he spoke he moved.
"You're mine now, Will."
Will gasped and make a pained noise as his abdominal muscles spasmed. But all he did was nod and whimper so softly. He clutched at Hannibal's bloodstained shirt as he whispered out,
"Please."
And that was all it took.
The rest was a blur of sweat, and bites and bruises, and blood coating the slide of Will's cock against the other's stomach. Everything else floated away, and for a while all Will could do was cling to the other desperately.
Hannibal quickly went from his thorough lovemaking to thoroughly fucking Will into the ground. He didn't hold back, and the burn of drying lubrication and the burn of his wounds was the only tether to reality that Will could hang onto.
Fervent whispering brought him back to present, mumbling strings of Italian, French, Lithuanian, who could say, but it was clear when Hannibal said,
"Come for me, come with me, Will."
And God, he did. They climaxed together; the shared bond of their union, the shared fluids from each of them, the stickiness and friction and slickness of the violence between them, it was all so much and so perfect.
The sting of his own ejaculate filling the cavity of an abdominal wound probably should have been alarming, but that was perfect too.
Will nearly lost consciousness for a moment, between the loss of bodily fluids and coming again, reviving only with a wet, iron-tinged kiss, Hannibal with one drying-crimson palm placed gently on the side of Will's face, holding him so delicately, as if he would shatter into dust with one more second of pain.
They lay together for a moment, until an ant crawled onto Will and they both realized just exactly how much they needed to get cleaned up and do some fucking medical care on each other.
"We have a ways to go to get back," Hannibal mumbled into Will's shoulder, leaving tiny kisses across any skin he could reach.
"Yeah it's… a little bit of a hike. I guess we didn't really think this through that far, did we?"
He felt Hannibal grin against his skin.
"Perhaps you haven't thought about it. I've thought about what comes next for a while."
Will had a suspicion that he was referencing more than just the walk back to Wolf Trap.
~~~~~
After trudging home for a half hour, half-carrying each other and mostly silent except for the occasional grunting and mumbling, they had the fun task of wound care. And they were fucking covered in blood and dirt and sweaty grime and come.
So a kind of sponge bath was in order. Hannibal insisted on fussing over Will himself, thoroughly bathing and flushing and sanitizing the area before suturing everything shut.
It would scar, of course, but wasn't that the point of it all?
Hannibal decided the W on his shoulderblade didn't need stitches, or maybe he didn't want them to mar the artwork Will had deigned him worthy to bear, but it still needed a good amount of cleaning as well, both of them scrunched into one red-stained bathtub.
Laid out on the bed finally after such an eventful night, Will felt… dizzy, disconnected, strung out. He was about to say something, concerned, when Hannibal did.
"We need to eat something. You'll be crashing and so will I. What do you have in your home?"
"Uh... I have… lunchables?"
Hannibal blinked at him.
"They're the pizza kind and the kind with like…crackers and cheese and shit?"
Hannibal closed his eyes, feeding his neverending suffering into every minute twitch of his face.
"I'll grab our… lunchables, then."
"Yeah, I want the pizza one." Will smiled brightly.
They sat on the porch steps together, eating their snack for a while before Hannibal broke the silence.
"We're getting real food after this."
Will felt a crooked smile twist into his face. "Yeah, I suppose this pizza doesn't have people on or in it."
The doctor sighed heavily and Will bumped his shoulder against the other.
Without any fanfare, for the very first time, Will said, "Love you."
Hannibal practically snapped a cracker in half. Will plopped his head on Hannibal's shoulder with a contented little sigh, and they watched the sun set on the last day of their previous lives. With a kiss to the crown of his lover's shower-wet curls, Hannibal spoke into his hair.
"I love you, as well, Will."