Will enters the house like he owns it. His gaze is hazy, corners soft like looking at them through fog, unable to focus to see the grain of the wood. He's warm, sweat gathered beneath his hairline, behind his knees. He sheds his jacket and crouches, tugging the laces of his shoes free and slipping his feet out of them.
He hesitates by the door, head snapped to one side. He breathes in, closes his eyes, lashes set in a slow flutter. His jaws part and the colors of the coats and shoes all begin to blur into one shapeless off-black. Cold and lifeless, except where his own lingering body heat turns his coat, clutched in his hand, a deep, melancholy blue.
He breathes in again. His mouth floods with saliva. There is the scent of meat, of sweat and the light prickle of body odor that isn't his own. Of course, that makes sense; this isn't his house, this is his mate's house, except his mate belongs to Will and by extension everything he owns is Will's by right.
He drops his coat and takes one of the shoes. It's a comfortable and pricey black dress shoe, a little scuffed at the heel. The leather is worn and cracking just slightly at the seam of the toe. Will snarls lowly, shoving his face against the thin, tiny laces, the abrasion of the cords against his cheek sending a shiver down his spine. He tilts his head, fangs catching on the tongue of the shoe, nose pressed to the back of the hole as he breathes in.
He drops it with a soft clatter, reaches up and paws at the sleeve of a coat. It's wool and thick, much too thick for the weather these days. His mate's scent is here, entwined with the fibers of the wool. Will grips the sleeve and sets his teeth to the seam, where he can smell traces of his mate's sweat where it leaked through. The inside of the sleeve is soft, silk insides cool and slippery under his sweaty touch.
He yanks the coat off its hanger and claws his way up it, bunched on the floor in front of his knees, until he reaches the collar. He grips it with both hands and shoves his nose to it, growling softly. Light, crisp sweat. The ocean-salt of cologne. Plasticky hair gel vaguely reminiscent of sandalwood. Will parts his jaws and bites down around the tag, soaking the collar with his saliva as he sucks at the fabric.
He hears a sound, and his head snaps up, clothing forgotten as he lets it drop to the ground. A snarl, more a rumble in his chest than an audible noise, crests inside his stomach. Deep, deep in his stomach, where he is hungry and impatient. There is a weight there, a seed that begs to be planted, an awareness of his own skin, too-tight, too dry. It begs for slick and warmth, the need to bury himself in sweet damp earth and wait out the storm.
He can only vaguely see the shapes of stairs and the doorway, the chairs around the broad dining room table, the tiles and cabinets in the kitchen as he prowls in a half-crouch, absently rubbing his sweaty neck and smearing his scent over any and all available surfaces. The closer he gets to the kitchen, the more he is aware of other things; the scent of roasting meat, the softer afterthought of a rich wine reduction and simmering wild greens. The heat roaring at him from the oven. The diligent whir of the air conditioning through the vents above him.
He comes to a halt at the kitchen threshold, and sees a blaze of orange and white. There he is – Will's mate. His back is turned as he works at whatever he is cooking, ever the good omega, making sure his alpha stays well-fed and strong whenever Will brings him meat. Will cocks his head to one side, watching the flex of his broad shoulders, admiring the spread of his exposed back, his hips in an elegant and exaggerated taper from the wrap of his apron around his waist.
The kitchen counter hides the rest of him, and Will rumbles again in outrage, prowling closer.
He rises and lunges for his mate as he sees him tense, a flash of dark eyes and a wordless, warning snarl before Will is on him, growling. His mate is holding a knife in one hand, and he grips it tightly, setting it to Will's throat as Will grabs his hair and kisses him. The blade nicks, and the sharp sting of it mixes blood and sweat and Will snarls again.
Despite the protest of his knife, the rest of him is still, yields to Will's rough hands as he grabs the apron and yanks him closer, a purr rumbling in his throat as he bites his way into his mate's plush mouth and tastes him. He has remnants of their meal, absent taste-tests, that white wine he has favored of late flavoring his mouth. So sweet, so rich and warm.
A hand goes to Will's hair, clenches and yanks him back, and this time his knife digs its tip into Will's sternum. Will shows his teeth, gets the sight of a set of omega fangs in answer. But the gold in his eyes doesn't lie – he is as helpless to resist Will as he had been from the moment they met.
Will growls at him, and grips his hand around the knife, daring him to plunge it deeper. He doesn't. He likes to think he's the one in control.
His nostrils flare, his chin lifts. "You're in rut," he says. His voice is so lovely, even and light as though they're commenting on the weather. Will smiles, purring at the familiarity of his voice. He has such a nice voice, and right now it's calm and detached, but Will can make him growl. Can ruin him and make him rough and rasping, hoarse with his cries.
He nods. "Turn around."
His mate's head tilts, a swirl of heat signature more than expression, but Will doesn't need to be clear-sighted to know his brows are lifted, his mouth curled into an amused smile. "Or what?" he purrs. He turns the knife easily, presses the full edge in a line across Will's stomach, set against his forearm so he need merely add pressure to cut. Will wants to lunge for him, test his resolve, but he didn't get to where he is, with such a perfect and prime mate, by being stupid.
He grins. "You want me to fuck you face to face, darlin'?" he murmurs, reaching with both hands to pet over his mate's bared neck. Overconfident thing; he should know better than to leave his neck exposed around Will. Such an easy thing to exploit and take advantage of. "I can make love to you, if you want."
Whether it's the words or the touches, his mate shivers in answer, biting his lower lip. His grip on the knife slackens, just enough for Will to shove his way closer, only saved from being gutted by his mate's quick reflexes, his eager surrender as he drops his hand by his side and lets Will close.
"You're not going to tell me 'No'," Will says, because he is alpha and his word is law. His mate answers him with a snarl of aggravation, fingers flexing warningly in Will's hair. Will smiles, his rut eased by the proximity of his mate, the scent of him, the sound of his voice. His vision clears enough for him to take in flushed cheeks, lips bruised and parted, eyes so gold they hold none of the original color. Will tucks his thumb against his mate's pulse and feels it rushing. "Tell me 'No'," he whispers in challenge.
"I'm cooking, Will," his mate reminds him.
Will knows that. Such a good omega, making sure they are both well-fed. He probably already sensed Will's rut approaching. Foolish thing left the door unlocked, left his scent there in such a grand pile, so that Will could find him and track him down like a hunting dog. An aggressive growl rumbles and dies in Will's chest as his mate lifts his chin in defiance.
"You're going to take my knot one way or the other," he says quietly, with all the assurance that the sun will continue to rise and set and the oceans will maintain their tides. Another tremor runs down his mate, his fingers flexing in Will's hair, breath catching as Will leans in and licks at his lifted chin. "I can make it good for you, or you can keep fighting me."
His mate swallows, the flex of his throat caught by Will's hand.
"Shh," he whispers, nuzzling the other side of his neck, nosing the collar of his shirt down to reveal the splatter of dried, crusting scabs, the deeper welts of scar tissue in the shape of Will's teeth. He parts his lips, licks with too much saliva over the exposed, flushing skin, and purrs when his mate trembles against him. He slides a hand down to his mate's wrist, pushes it back and presses his thumb to the nerve cluster at his wrist to get him to release the knife, his other hand digging in with nails against his spine. "I can make it so good for you, baby."
His mate growls, but it's a paltry protest at best. He doesn't resist as Will turns him around, putting him back in place in front of whatever he was cutting. He plasters himself to his mate's back, purring loudly in satisfaction as his mate widens his stance, plants his feet, bows his head. He lets go of Will's hair and places both his hands on the counter instead.
"Good," Will whispers raggedly, flattening his hands on his mate's flanks hard enough he can feel the raised mark of the first bite he ever laid, across his flank. He's marked to all Hell these days, just as Will likes him – part of it a visceral need to plant his teeth and his cock in his mate and flood him, part because his mate is so beautiful, the pinnacle of his species, and Will wants to ruin him for all others. To clip his claws and sand down his fangs, to rip muscle from his legs so he cannot run. To break his neck so he can't fight back.
He worms his hands beneath the apron until he finds a button, yanks it so it snaps off and clatters to the floor. His nostrils flare at the sound and he snarls, sinking his teeth through cloth and skin until he tastes blood.
He kneads his jaws, hearing fabric tear, and stops just before he rips his pound of flesh completely free. His mate's pain scent, mixing with his sweat, his slick – it's divine. It's maddening. Will is quickly losing his ability to see, to think of, anything but heat and the promising wetness between his mate's legs.
He shoves his pants down and snarls at the resistance of underwear he finds. He knew Will was close to his rut cycle – stubborn, foolish, proud omega. He should be naked and open for Will whenever Will wants him. He tears at his mate's underwear until it, too, drops to his ankles in tatters.
He falls to his knees and grabs his clothes in a tight knot so he can't move, his other hand around the tie of the apron and yanking him back. He's slick, his hole pink and shining with it, his cock hanging thick and red between his thighs. Will shoves his nose to his mate's perineum, smearing slick across the bridge of his nose and his forehead, since he knows how possessive his mate can be, and Will still smells of the outside. Of others.
That must be why he was so resistant. But Will can certainly fix that.
He plants his knees over his mate's clothes so his hand is free, reaches between his legs to cup his cock and pull it back so Will can lick at the tip, the flavor of his precum exploding across Will's tongue. He snarls, parts his lips and slicks it with his extra saliva, wrapping his fingers around the blushing head and stroking him lightly as he continues to nose at the slick leaking from his mate's hole.
He's easily the best thing Will has ever tasted. He could eat of his mate forever and never be full. He snarls, and tilts his head, biting the sweaty crease of his mate's thigh perilously close to his balls. His mate lets out a mix of a warning snarl and a startled whine of pain, tensing for his teeth. Good, that'll just make his blood sweeter.
He moans, licking the new bite. "You taste so fuckin' good, sweetheart," he purrs, continuing to stroke his mate's cock, which despite the pain he's in is still hard, leaking at the tip. He licks it clean, drooling onto his own fingers as his mate shivers, shoulders tense and arched.
He tightens his grip in the apron, licks a long, broad line over his balls, up his perineum, and sinks his tongue inside his mate. He gets a shiver and weak moan in response, his mate's head tipping back as he straightens, thighs and ass clenching at the sensation. Will releases his cock to drag his nails across the flexing muscle and earns another impatient snarl for his trouble.
His mate turns, knife back in hand, and yanks on his hair. Because of Will kneeling on his clothes, they end up falling together in an ungainly sprawl, and Will snaps his teeth together, grabbing the knife hard enough it slices clean into his palm, stinging with remnants of ginger. He hisses through his teeth and shoves the knife down onto the floor, grabbing his mate by the throat and slamming him down hard enough his head cracks against the tile.
They release the knife at the same time, knowing they will cut and continue cutting until grievous harm is done if they don't mutually agree to let go. Will smears his bloody hand through his mate's hair, yanks his head back and kisses him deeply as he forces his way between his legs.
His mate, it seems, is done with mere acquiescence. He tears at Will's clothes and skin, raking his nails down Will's back and opening the lines already left by his claws from every morning, every night they share together. They are many, almost constant, both of them savagely branded and marked by each other. Will watches his mate's eyes flash with pleasure as the scared 'H' is revealed on his chest.
Will snarls, when both hands wrap around his neck and squeeze tightly, cutting off his air. He gasps, forced eventually to relinquish his hold, and his mate sits up, shoving Will back so he's crouched between his feet, panting and struggling for breath.
He claws at his mate's hands, but his mate is strong and will not be so easily overcome. "Will," he says, and his voice is low now, hoarse. Will blinks, blinks again, unable to catch his breath. Weak as he has been made by lack of oxygen, it's easy for his mate to roll Will to his back, pinning him with his weight. The apron robs Will of the sight of his cock, of his empty stomach, which is Will's right to fill. He growls, showing his teeth.
"Will," he says again, as Will's vision begins to fade out at the edges. He swallows, blinking slowly, and gasps as his neck is abruptly released. His mate offers his wrist and Will clings to it, breathing in deeply, his heart racing.
He clears his throat, and rasps, "Hannibal."
Hannibal smiles, purring softly, and leans down to nuzzle Will's forehead. "You needn't be so distressed, darling," he murmurs. There is blood on Will's neck, and his cut palm smears more fresh up his mate's bare forearm. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, so he can give Will all of his scent. Hannibal licks the smear of his own slick on Will's cheek, his purr for a moment growing louder. "When have I ever denied you?"
Will snarls, and snaps his teeth together. "You need to -. Get on your fucking knees."
Hannibal laughs, and shakes his head. "You should have drugged me if you wanted that," he says with a pleased, smug smile. Will glares up at him, the haughty angle of his mouth and his bright-gleaming eyes. He rears up, lunging for Hannibal, sending them rolling again. He gets Hannibal to his stomach and pins him with a hand to his nape, claws deep furrows around his hip and leans down to lick over his rim again. He moans, trembling, salivating as he licks as deep as he can, eager to drink his mate down. Hannibal gasps, a weak whine stuck in his throat in answer, arching helplessly up as Will drags his tongue over his wet hole and then in again, thick and curling.
He knows it's a gamble, but his mate is here and it's Will's right, his duty, to mount him. He lets go of Hannibal's hip and fumbles with his belt, and the lack of handhold is enough for Hannibal to buck up, clawing Will's hand from his nape and kicking himself free. Will snarls, working his cock free, and catches him halfway to his feet. He slams Hannibal against the stove, which while not on, still has a warning light of a hot hob.
Hannibal hisses in pain, arching away from the heat of the stove. Will's nostrils flare at the scent of singed hair and burned clothes. He pets a hand down his mate's chest, shivering when he finds the small 'x' where the corners of one of the hot grills met over Hannibal's chest.
He's not burned, he wasn't pressed to it long enough to be damaged too badly. Will should apologize, but that's what fucking happens when Hannibal tries to fight him.
He offers his bloody fingers to Hannibal as recompense, and moans when Hannibal sucks them between his lips and bites around his knuckles with a growl. He's open and ready, and Will is ready. He ruts forward and grits his teeth as his cockhead meets Hannibal's wet, open hole.
He's not slow and he's not gentle. They never are, but it works for them. He grabs Hannibal's hair and holds him still as he shoves his way in, snarling in satisfaction as wet, clenching heat surrounds his cock. It's good, it's so good, his mate is so good.
He wraps his hand around the front of Hannibal's throat and holds him tight as he fucks in, every sweet judder and sore clench of Hannibal's inner muscles goading him to knot. To fuck in and spill and leave a piece of himself behind in his mate. He can't breed Hannibal, but his rut mind is stupid and doesn't care about shit like that. It doesn't matter – his mate wants him, his omega is being so good now that Will has given him what he wants. He wants blood, he likes it, he demands it. Will has plenty to spare.
He yanks his fingers out of Hannibal's mouth and wraps them in the knot of the apron, hauling him back into Will's thrusts as he mounts his mate brutally, until his hips crack and bruise against the unforgiving counter. He nuzzles Hannibal's nape, slides his hand from his throat to his chin and bruises his jaw as he grips tight enough his knuckles turn white.
Hannibal laughs at him, turning so Will can see the gold in his eyes. "Rut makes you weak," he taunts, and Will's eyes narrow. "Am I supposed to take care of myself while you use me? Is that how you take care of your mate, alpha?"
Outrage, for a moment, blinds Will completely. His vision goes red, and then utterly black. He pulls out and throws Hannibal to the floor, tearing through the rest of his clothes and flattening himself over Hannibal's body. He sinks back in with another snarl, their foreheads shoved harsh together, hands shoved behind Hannibal's thighs and lifting him into Will's thrusts.
He has no smart remark to throw back. Rut dulls his tongue, but everything that makes him an alpha is howling, outraged at the idea that his omega, his mate, might be left unsatisfied by Will's touch and his cock and knot.
Hannibal is panting, one hand gripping Will's ass tightly and urging him on, the other wrapped in his hair. He cranes his neck up, kisses Will breathless and rough as Will plants a hand on the floor, nails bending back. He breathes out, swallowing Hannibal's soft moan as he slows his thrusts, from graceless in-and-outs to deep rocks, eyes closed and brow creased in concentration.
He pushes out with his stomach, giving Hannibal something to grind his cock against as he lifts Hannibal into his thrusts, rutting as deep as he can. Hannibal sucks in a harsh breath, licks Will's lower lip, then his jaw, then his bloodied neck. Will moans as Hannibal's teeth find his pulse and sink in around it.
Hannibal's body starts to bear down around him as Will's knot swells, for a moment so tight and resistant that he can't push it in. Will grits his teeth, breath punched out with a snarl as Hannibal comes between their stomachs, a single moment of slack allowing Will to fit his knot in like a fist, immediately sealed and locked tight.
He slams his fist down on the ground and moans as Hannibal bites him again, one of his hands smearing his come and painting Will's neck and face with it. Will is the one shaking, this time, sweat dripping from his hair onto Hannibal's shoulder. He clings, nuzzling the strong muscle, laps at the sweat and blood on him like a kitten at milk.
His vision clears somewhat, rut tempered by his orgasm and the scent of his mate. Unlike heats, which will last as long as necessary to ensure a proper chase and breeding, ruts are usually one-and-done; an incredibly powerful surge of adrenaline, both to kill pain and increase stamina, until a knot is achieved.
Above them, the oven timer beeps, and Will goes tense, snarling in anticipation of having to fight off a distraction, a rival for his omega's attention.
Hannibal hums, beneath him, and nudges Will's jaw with his nose until their eyes can meet. He fixes Will with an expectant look. "I told you we didn't have time," he admonishes, voice flat.
Will huffs. "If you'd have just let me fuck you instead of fighting me -."
Hannibal laughs, the tightening of his body around Will's knot rendering him mute. Will shivers, clenching his jaw, blows out a heavy breath. Hannibal's lashes go low, and he hums, tucking Will's wet hair behind his ear affectionately. Will smiles, and turns his head, arching into the absent petting.
"I could just pull out," Will says, brow arched, smug at the look of displeasure that flashes in Hannibal's eyes. For all his protests and his pride, he's an omega at heart, and fiercely possessive of Will's knot. He may deny it, but they both know it's true.
"You will do no such thing," Hannibal snaps at him, low with an undeniable note of warning. He clings to Will with his strong thighs for emphasis. "It will survive a few more minutes."
Will grins at him, and leans down for another kiss that holds teeth and a heavy purr. "If you say so."