Archive of Our Own

for when I look at you, a moment, then no speaking
is left in me

no: tongue breaks and thin
fire is racing under skin
and in eyes no sight and
drumming fills ears  

and cold sweat holds me and shaking
grips me all, greener than grass
I am and

dead – or almost
I seem to me.

- Sappho:31

Will wrapped his cloak tighter around him. One eyes on the guards casually loitering around the arena, the other eye on the fight below them.

His target was just a few steps down, chatting with her friend. Will pretended to be interested in the (one-sided) fight in front of them, a bloodbath just for show, and slinked down another step.

Both fighters were dressed minimally; leather straps around their arms and legs, a simple loincloth around their hips. The only armour they had on them was their one-armed shoulder guard.

The older man’s shoulder guard was far more elaborate than that of the younger one. The steel was polished so brightly it almost shone, and it was decorated with golden lines in such it made the piece look like a gaping jaw.

A badge of honour, for a gladiator.

Both equipped with a sword and a shield. The fight should be equal. In theory.

This fight was far from equal. From what Will could see, the older man was toying with the younger one, bating him into aggressive moves and countering them with ease, giving the other wound after wound. It was easy to guess how this would end.

The arena Will was sneaking around in was expertly made. All benches were made of stone, the end of each row carved with delicate patterns of lions, fangs bared. There was enough room to seat half the city, if must. It often must.

In the centre of the arena was a large empty space covered in sand. The walls between the audience and the fighters were high enough to protect from harm, yet low enough to see the carnage in detail.

It was beautiful. It was haunted by the hundreds of souls who died here, slain in entertainment in the fight for their freedom. That might make it even more beautiful.

“He hasn’t lost a single fight yet,” the woman in front of him said to her friend, both their eyes on the middle of the arena. Will leaned closer, eyes on the woman’s pouch, the reason he was here in the first place. “And he chooses to kill his opponent every time.”

The friends gasped. “How exciting! How far along is he?”

The woman leaned closer. “Sixty-eight and counting. Only thirty-two more to go until he’s earned his freedom.”

“I’ve never heard of someone making it that far!”

The older fighter smacks the younger one to the ground, the sound of sword hitting shield vibrates around the arena. People cheer loudly and the two women pause to allow for the noise. Will inches closer, sitting down.

“There was one,” the first woman said. “They called him the Dragon. He killed eighty-nine people before he met his end.”

“Who killed him?” the friend asked wide-eyed.

The woman leaned closer, and Will made his move. Pretending to drop something, he leaned closer, and under the guise of the movement swept the woman’s coin pouch from her waist.

“Him,” the woman said, pointing at the fighter Will had been admiring earlier.

In the arena, the battle was coming to its end. The dangerous man had finished playing with his toy and is closing in with a slash to the knees, following it up by bashing his shield against his opponent’s head.

“What do they call him?” the friend asked.

“The Ripper.”

“Why?” asked her friend, breathless.

Beneath them, the Ripper managed to get his teeth in his opponent’s throat. He ripped it out in one move. Quick, confident, deadly.

A chuck of flesh dislodged from the now dead body as it fell to the ground. The Ripper did not look away from the crowd as he slowly started to chew.

Will couldn’t help but stare.

“Oh,” the friend breathed, and Will made his escape.

Will didn’t make his escape.

“You know the rules, little lamb,” the guard said with a mean grin as he locked the door to Will’s cell.

Will bared his still-bloodied teeth.

“Every fight, you may choose to fight until yield, or until death. The first three fights are yours to choose,” the only kindness the arena granted them, Will thought grimly, “but after that, when one of you chooses death, death it is. If you kill – not defeat – one hundred opponents, well,” the guard said with a shrug, “freedom’s yours.”

Will narrowed his eyes. He kept his eyes and ears open the whole time and did not say a word.

“Don’t worry,” the guard was far too cheery, “I bet you won’t last two weeks.”

When Will didn’t respond, the guard sighed in disappointment. He retreated with a grumble, leaving Will to stare silently at the man in the cell opposite to him.

The Ripper stared back, the amber-flecked pools of darkness more effective in keeping Will in his place than anything the guards tried.

Hannibal Lecter was bored.

He’d been in this cell for over a year, now, and was not foolish enough to believe he would ever get out short of a miracle. The arena was far too important for that, guarded far too tightly.

He didn’t mind, at first. Hannibal loved life, but most of all, he loved ending it. And here, in front of all these mindless adoring sheep, he was free to do what he did best.

Slaughter the unworthy.

But what had started out as freeing had become monotonous. There were few fighters – gladiators, some called them, as if there was anything glamorous about them – that gave him a challenge, never mind entertained him.

They even started giving him a title.

There were upsides to this. Being the most famous fighter in the arena, attracting the biggest crowd, providing the bloodiest show.

Hannibal got the best food, served first out of all the gladiators. The best treatment, guards addressing him with both respect and fear. The best cell, a window in the wall that allowed him to look out over the arena and study any opponent he wanted.

New sheep entered the pen every day. They were nothing more to him than victims in waiting. Hannibal always made sure to study the new blood carefully as they went in, past his cell to the smaller ones on the end. There had been so many newcomers these past few days, Hannibal might even start getting neighbours.

One day, he did.

A man was put in the cell opposite him. The only interesting thing about the newcomer was his eyes, a blue so bright it was almost burning.

He was attractive, yes, and fit enough. But the eyes, the eyes that did not flinch as Hannibal stared him down and showed his monster, the eyes that teased at a monster of its own beneath-

the eyes, those were interesting.

Hannibal watched, and the boy watched back. A flare of something, arousal or excitement or bloodthirst or life, sparked within Hannibal’s chest as they stared at each other. It spread through his whole body, vibrating and yearning and addicting.

The newcomer looked away, and it was gone.

The feeling settled. The newcomer did not look back. Hannibal turned his back to the boy, sighing softly.

Disappointing.

Hannibal decided he didn’t care for their name after all.

The next day, he learned it anyway. Will’s first fight was against Hobbs, the man who’d killed his own daughter, and since killed eight of his foes. Respectable, though not impressive yet.

Hannibal glanced through the window, too poised to rest his chin on his hand, yet wanting to do exactly that. The first fights were always non-lethal. Boring.

“Our new gladiator, Will!” Frederick, the commentator, thundered across the arena. The crowd cheered.

Hannibal studied the sky. He estimated there would be no rain today. A small blessing.

“Tell us, Will, will you fight today until one of you yields… or, until death!” Fredrick accentuates the last word, and the crowd starts chanting.

Death, death, death!

Fredrick held up a hand, and the crowd fell silent.

Hannibal inspected his nails.

“I choose death.”

Will’s voice echoed strong and certain, bouncing off the walls of the arena, washing over them all. Hannibal’s head shot up, interest renewed.

Was he hoping for a quick death?

Hannibal didn’t think so. Will’s head was high, the sword and shield steady in his hand. Hobbs, opposite him, bared his teeth.

The crowd erupted.

“Will has chosen! Let the games begin!” Fredrick booms.

Hobbs held his sword and shield in a defensive position, planting his feet steady on the ground. Waiting for Will to come to him.

And Will-

Will dropped his shield.

Hannibal’s eyes tracked the metal with fascination. There was no hesitation in the movement, no fear. A useless tool, discarded.

Instead, Will grabbed the small dagger they all had in their belt as a last resort, and took a deep breath, one blade in each hand.

Hannibal took a sharp breath.

And Will moved.

He was like a dancer. Like an ethereal fey playing with a mere mortal, a trickster god handing out just desserts, an expert butcher slaughtering a pig.

Will darted forward, swift and deadly, dancing around Hobbs and dodging out of the way of the other man’s sword. Will’s dagger flashed, and Hobbs screamed in pain, dropping his own shield – and a few fingers with it. Hobbs’ answering slash only barely brushed along Will’s side.

Hannibal’s hands rose without his own volition, clamping around the iron bars of his window. He pressed his face between them, suddenly desperate to come closer.

Will retreated, and Hobbs went after him mindlessly. Will was faster, though, and the more time Hobbs spent chasing him, the more he bled out. The audience was laughing and there was blood everywhere.

It was beautiful.

And then Will moved in for the kill.

Without warning, he turned around, diving low and sweeping Hobbs’ feet from underneath him. Hobbs fell to his knees and scrambled to get up, had to use his arms to push himself up, and Will swung his sword wide.

The muscles in his biceps flexed, and Hannibal’s mouth watered.

It was a clean cut. Hobbs’ head fell to the ground. In the deafening silence of the arena, the flop of flesh hitting sand was like a thunderclap.

The crowd went wild.

As Will rose slowly from his kneeling position, chin tilting up, he tilted his head sideways and downwards until he looked Hannibal straight in the eyes.

A monster looked out from those burning blue depths, bloodied fangs bared in victory, in glee.

Hannibal was smitten.

Hannibal was devastated.

To be more specific, he was feeling both elated and terribly sad. Hannibal had felt more and stronger emotions during this single day than during the last few years.

All because of Will. Strong, graceful, deadly.

And soon, dead.

Hannibal held his head high as he strode into the arena. The crowd welcomed him, chanting Ri-pper, Ri-pper, Ri-pper like the mindless sheep they were.

Just two hours before, Will had fought his second fight with a man named Stammets, with just three kills to his name.

Again, he’d chosen to fight until death.

The fight had gone much like the first, even with Stammets forewarned. Will had started defensive, dropped his shield, and used his speed and dagger to ensure his victory. Hannibal had watched the whole thing with fascination, eyes drinking in every inch of the glorious new gladiator. It had been the most exciting and arousing thing he’d witnessed in his whole life.

But now that would come to an end.

Now, it was Hannibal’s turn to fight Will.

He hoped it would not yet come to this. Will was shaping up to be a favourite, and Fredrick was smart enough to know that they could hype him up more before putting him against the other favourite – Hannibal.

But it seemed like they had chosen for the instant gratification like the animals they were.

“Will has impressed us all with his first fights,” thundering across the arena as Hannibal came to a standstill, eyes locked on the other side of the field where Will would soon appear, “but will he be able to survive… the Ripper?”

The crowd cheered. The doors opened.

Will walked steadily, eyes on the floor. It stirred something hot in Hannibal’s gut. Up close, like this, the man was even more beautiful. Every moment was calculated, every part of his body under his control. And his eyes, blue and piercing, met Hannibal’s gaze for a single moment as he crossed the distance between them.

Hannibal could not look away. Not even if the Gods themselves came down and commanded him to do so. He had stopped breathing, taking in every single inch of Will while he still could.

“This is your third fight,” the guard acting as a referee said with a lot more verve than usual. “This is the last time the choice is sorely yours,” he addressed Will.

Right. Hannibal had almost forgotten about that technicality.

“What will you choose?”

Will’s eyes trailed along Hannibal’s body, from head to toe.

“We will fight until one of us yields,” Will said steadily.

The audience around them oohh-d.

Hannibal blinked.

His earlier devastation dissipated, though the conflict of his emotions did not lessen. Hannibal supposed he should be happy he wouldn’t have to kill this beautiful creature. But on the other hand, he was feeling strangely disappointed.

Even though this is the best outcome he could have hoped for, it seemed wrong. Empty. He would beat Will, and then the next time they’d be fighting each other, he’d kill him, and that would be that.

How pedestrian.

Hannibal sighed, shoulders relaxing. It felt like a switch had been flipped, and his feet slid in their usual stance, shoulders flexing. He would make this quick.

“Will has spoken,” the guard said, a little disappointed. “You may begin.”

Hannibal couldn’t help but sigh once more, shield covering his torso, sword coming up. He casually watched Will detach the shield from his arm, deciding to be polite and wait for him to drop it before attacking.

But-

Will detached his shield, holding it like a disk, but instead of dropping it, he became a flurry of movement. Almost too fast to see, his eyes flashed and his arm flashed and his muscles tightened-

The shield soared through the air without warning, without precedence, and hit Hannibal square in the face.

He’d tried to raise his own shield in response, but he was so stunned by Will’s actions he was too slow. His ears rung as Hannibal fell backwards, moving his shield to cover his groin – a favourite target of many gladiators – and focusing on not losing the grip on his sword.

When Hannibal managed to re-focus his eyes, he looked straight down the end of Will’s sword.

The tip of Will’s sword rested in the middle of his throat. Will towered above him, a vengeful God, a smirk on his face and liquid fire in his eyes.

And Hannibal felt his earlier fascination return tenfold, magnify and explode into a full-blown obsession, from the tips of Will’s curls to his plump lips to the outline of his cock through the linen cloth to the muscles in his arm as he clenched the sword-

“I yield,” Hannibal said.

-and fell in love.

Will still didn’t meet his eyes.

Hannibal would know. He’d spend the last hour staring at the man in the cell opposite him, the only interesting thing in this entire place.

The man in the cell next to Will is called Bev, a lithe Asian man who is proficient with swords. He tried to make conversation with Will, but the curly-haired man didn’t react.

Hannibal resigned himself to staring at Will in silence. He leaned against the corner of his cell, turning his head to languidly study Will.

Suddenly, the other man moved forward, turning his head in Hannibal’s direction, eyes on his shoulders. Hannibal felt a surge of anticipation.

“We probably won’t have to face each other again soon,” Will starts out of the blue. He didn’t sound disappointed.

“They do not tend to put favourites against each other,” Hannibal said. “Bad for business. They’ll let you build up a name and reputation first, before the grand finale.”

“That’s good,” Will said, relaxed. His eyes suddenly danced higher, meeting Hannibal’s for a hot second. “I don’t mind the view. Want to enjoy it as long as I can.”

Hannibal looked away, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks, though he was sure no colour was visible on his face. No one had ever been so direct with him before.

It was strangely flattering.

Hannibal turned back toward Will’s, refusing to be swayed and cowed by something as mundane (as novel) as flirting.

Will’s gaze was still on him. It was piercing, setting his whole body alight. Never before had Hannibal felt so seen.

Hannibal swallowed thickly. Will’s gaze lingered on his Adam’s apple.

For once, Hannibal had nothing left to say.

Three days passed. Will fought and killed another man. Hannibal spent one Will-less hour in his bleak cell. He watched Will come back, covered in blood and viscera, and felt saliva flood his mouth.

Noon on the third day. The Warden stood in front of his cell.

“It’s your turn again, Ripper,” he said. Behind him, two more guards were preparing Will for battle.

Hannibal closed his eyes and took a breath. He would ask to fight until yielding. He was sure Will would agree. Hannibal wasn’t afraid to beg him for it, not even out in the arena.

“You’ll fight him to the death,” the Warden said, motioning to Will behind him. His voice was definite. “The Emperor has declared it.”

White-hot rage filled Hannibal to the core.

“Why?” Hannibal couldn’t help but ask, gaze trained on Will. But he knew the answer even as he spoke the words. The two guards were bringing Will new armour, a sharpened sword, an un-dented shield.

To finally get rid of the Ripper, lest Hannibal actually earned his freedom.

“You know why,” the Warden said.

They fought.

There was a hush over the crowd, tension as their swords met again and again and again.

Hannibal had walked out into the arena and met Will’s eyes, the sun high above them. He found in them a softness that surprised them.

It’s okay, those eyes said. I know you don’t want this. I’ll take of it. I’ll take care of you.

Somehow, Hannibal thought they wouldn’t accept his sudden urge to bend the knee and surrender on the spot.

So, they fought.

Everything disappeared but Will and their dance. The mud under Hannibal’s feet, just solid enough to fight on. The feel of the golden band against his arm. His hair, tied in a long braid, sticking to his sweaty back.

The way Will’s hand clenched around the sword. How the sun glinted off his shoulder plates. That Will bit his lip, slightly, whenever Hannibal forced him on the defence.

It felt like they were in a trance. A balance. Offence, defence, offence, defence. There were no openings, no blows that actually hit, neither one of their stamina failing.

Hannibal could live in this moment forever.

But then-

The mud under his feet, just a little slippery. The glare of the sun on Will’s shoulder plate, blinding him at just the right moment.

Hannibal stumbled.

It was barely more than a second. He wasn’t sure most people would even notice, with the show they had been putting on. But Hannibal noticed. And he saw Will noticing. Will only needed to change the angle of his blade, take a single step forward, and spear Hannibal straight through his chest.

Will did not.

Will dodged left instead, anticipating Hannibal’s clumsy and panicked (and futile, if Will had-) counterattack.

Hannibal is astonished.

He moved on autopilot. Will’s dodge was inconvenient, and Hannibal rammed his shoulder into Will’s underbelly, and Will stumbled.

Fell.

Before Hannibal could stop himself, his sword was at Will’s throat. A perfect reverse of the position they had been in just three days ago.

Will’s eyes were open, alert, forgiving.

“It’s okay,” he rasped as Hannibal stood above him, frozen. “If there is anyone on this earth I would give the honour of killing me,” Will said and Hannibal felt it in his soul, “it would be you.”

Hannibal’s heart pounded. The exited chants of the crowd echoed strangely in his ears. His mouth fell slightly open.

No.

Dropping the sword, Hannibal straightened. Without another word, he turned around, and walked away.

Will’s stare on his back burned him like a mark.

Crack!

“The Emperor has decided to be lenient,” the Warden said as he raised the whip once more. “Thirty lashes and no food for three days.”

Crack! Crack!

Both of Hannibal’s hands were tied to the cell bars, thick rope holding him in place. He was bowed forward, naked back exposed to the air. There was a collar around his neck made from thick iron, connected to the ground by a sturdy metal chain.

Hannibal had not made a single sound. His eyes were aimed forward, his face neutral. His back was littered with angry red lines.

Crack! Crack!

“If you disobey again, Ripper,” the Warden snarled, “you will be executed.” Crack! “Painfully.” Crack! “Publicly.”

Hannibal was positioned facing the corridor. Facing Will. He stood in such a way that his gaze ended on Will’s feet.

Crack!

Twenty-four, Will counted in his head. He’d been fascinated when Hannibal decided to have mercy in the arena; then, anticipatory as he waited for the Emperor to react; a flash of fear, next, quickly morphing into anticipation as he realized what Hannibal’s punishment was.

After three strikes, the anticipation morphed into searing hot anger.

Will was surprised by how furious he was, watching Hannibal get whipped again and again by the Warden. The thoughts in his head were not of enjoyment, but of possession.

He’s mine. I decided to save his life, which means he belongs to me. Will was thinking so loudly he was surprised the Warden could not hear him. Will’s eyes followed every up and down of the whip.

His pain belongs to me. His bloodlust belongs to me. Every single inch of his skin belongs to me.

The whip came down again and again. Will was sure they’d reached thirty by now, but the Warden kept going. Will bit back a snarl. This was not the time.

Hannibal was still and silent as stone, even as blood ran down his back.

Good boy.

After thirty-six lashes, the Warden stopped. He untied Hannibal’s arms, but left the collar on. Hannibal swayed on his feet.

“I hope you learned your lesson,” the Warden spat at Hannibal as he locked the cell behind him.

Hannibal did not react.

When the Warden was gone, silence reigned. No one spoke, not even the other prisoners. Hannibal was standing unnaturally still in his cell, eyes on the edge of Will’s bare feet.

Will stepped forward. Crouched. Waited.

Twenty seconds later, Hannibal’s eyes rose to meet his.

“You did so well,” Will whispered. “I’m proud of you. You can rest now. I’ll make sure this never happens again,” the last part accompanied by a snarl.

At these words, Hannibal seemed to relax. His mouth opened to let out a sigh, eyes slowly slipping shut, as if dazed. Will ached with the need to touch him.

Hannibal sat down on the floor, leaned sideways against the cell bars. The chain was barely long enough to facilitate the movement.

He closed his eyes and stilled.

Will paced in his cell, eyes stark on Hannibal’s sleeping form. When two hours later he was taken out to fight again, he took out every ounce of his rage and frustration on the poor soul set in front of him. The crowd cheered, but Will only wanted to go back to Hannibal.

His inner monster must’ve shown through his eyes, as even the guards gave him space as they escorted him back to his cell.

Hannibal had not moved. At the sound of footsteps, his eyes opened blearily, and he tilted his head towards Will.

Will took his chance. Before the guards could do anything to stop him, he stepped forward, yanked Hannibal towards him with the chain, and pressed their lips together through the prison bars.

Hannibal let out a soft and broken sound and pressed back into him, arms coming up through the bars to grab Will’s face and pull him closer. Though the contact was shallow, everywhere they touched was searing hot. Will felt electrified. He grabbed Hannibal’s chin and pulled him so far through the bars it must be painful for the older man. It did mean Will could invade Hannibal’s mouth with his tongue.

Hannibal made a wanton sound and went lax. Will was painfully hard.

The moment was broken when hands pulled them apart roughly. Will snarled at the guards, who were both terrified and horrified at what they’ve just witnessed. They threw him back in his cell as fast as they could.

Will was left staring at Hannibal, just too far apart to touch. Hannibal’s face was flushed, eyes half-lidded, body lax and obedient against the bars. If only Will could touch him now.

He had to touch him. He had to.

The Emperor gave them both time to recover (to let the anticipation build). This was his mistake.

“We fight here for freedom,” Will mused the next day as Abel Gideon was returning from a fight, “but the Romans are the ones who took that very freedom from us.”

“The evening guard gets drunker every time,” he remarked to Bev the next. “First they rob us of booze, then they flaunt it. I bet the sucker wouldn’t even notice if you stole the keys right out of his pants,” he sighed.

“It would be better if they treated us like dogs,” he said to Randall the next day, his other neighbour. “Strong and fierce animals, deserving of respect. But they don’t respect us at all, don’t even see us as threats, even though we have proven our worth in the arena over and over again.”

The whispers spread. Will kept his eyes and ears open. Noticed the talk about how they murdered our families, about the conditions of their cells. Saw the increasingly dirty looks and bared teeth as the guards went about their day. Felt the tension rise, day by day, until it reached a tipping point.

And through it all, he kept watching Hannibal. The older man used half of his water to clean the wounds on his back, so Will shared some of his. Hannibal made sure the wounds did not touch the sand or the bars, so Will called his name to wake him as soon as Hannibal threatened to turn on his back in his sleep. The times the pain flared up and became unbearable for Hannibal, so Will whispered stories of his days as a simple thief and conman through the bars.

Will also watched Hannibal. The arch of his lips. The lines on his back. The outline of his cock through the linen, half-hard more often then not. The way he would try to stand straight and square his shoulders whenever Will talked to him. How he would then, every time, without fail, look away and bare his neck.

An unspoken thing bloomed to life between them. Will’s gaze became bolder, provocative, burning along the whole of Hannibal’s body. Hannibal’s movements became more elegant, suggestive, almost indecent to Will’s greedy gaze.

The time was soon.

Will’s teeth ached almost as much as his cock.

On the day of the riot, it rained.

The water masked the sound of the cells opening, of the first fighters gathering. It was one of the better days to attempt their plan.

It didn’t have a chance of succeeding.

There were too few of them, too many guards. But wasn’t actually a problem. Freeing all the fighters and killing all the guards was not Will’s actual goal here, no matter how much he incited his fellow prisoners to do so.

When his cell opened, Will gestured for Bev to go on, to take the rest of them. Bev is glad to leave him to free the Ripper. Hannibal’s reputation scared more than just the audience, especially now that he’s recovered.

Will stood before Hannibal’s cell, key in hand. He tapped the key against his lips, gaze steady.

Inside the cell, Hannibal watched him back.

A drop of water travelled down the arena wall, damp from the rain outside.

“Do you want me to beg?”

Will hummed. “You’d like that, won’t you?”

Hannibal did not answer.

“I would, too,” Will said, taking a step closer and putting the key in the lock, not yet turning. “But not for this,” he said as he inclined his head towards the lock.

Hannibal’s pupils dilated. “You don’t intend to join the chaos?”

Will scoffed. “You know as well as I that they have no chance of succeeding. The best bet would be to wait out the chaos, escape as they are cleaning up, with guards either dead or busy.”

Hannibal smirked. “I would have thought you more excited for a chance of blood.”

Will turned the lock. The click echoed softly in the now empty dungeon, barely loud enough to rise above the rainfall.

“There is more than one way to sate my desires today.”

Will stepped inside the cell, turned around, and locked it behind them. Hannibal’s gaze followed him every step.

“I could have killed you, before,” Will stood straight, “but I did not. As I see it, you belong to me now.”

Hannibal’s gaze was heavy. “I could say the same of you.”

Will pressed forward, pushing Hannibal backwards against the wall. The other man went willingly. Will put one hand on either side of Hannibal’s head, caging him in. Hannibal let out a shaky breath, but managed to keep Will’s gaze.

Will trailed one hand along Hannibal’s cheekbone, down along his jawline until he laid it loosely along Hannibal’s throat.

“Then I suppose we belong to each other now, don’t we?”

Hannibal whimpered.

Will kissed him.

Their kiss was not sweet. Hannibal’s hands flew to his back and his nails dug into Will’s skin, marking him. Will growled into the kiss and tightened his hand along Hannibal’s throat. He felt Hannibal’s hips twitch forward, the hardness between his legs matching Will’s own.

“You are mine,” Will snarled, biting along Hannibal’s neck. Hannibal’s breath hitched as he bared his throat.

“Yes,” Hannibal breathed. “As you are mine.”

Will kissed him again, fiercely, before stepping backwards. He manhandled Hannibal, filled with a sense of urgency. Hannibal obeyed. Will’s cock twitched.

He placed Hannibal’s hands on the wall, pressed a hand on his lower back to make him bow forward. Hannibal’s back was littered with thin scars, still a little tender. When Hannibal had truly recovered, Will shall whip him again, re-marking Hannibal as his own.

Will undid Hannibal’s belt and yanked his pants off.

His ass was round and smooth and perfect, a canvas for Will to play with. His cock was thick and heavy between his legs, already leaking pre-come.

“You’re so gorgeous,” Will breathed, and Hannibal whined in pleasure. His eyes were half-lidded, movements a little sluggish. Giving himself over to sensation, to Will. Will felt almost high from the rush of arousal at that observation.

Taking the belt in one hand and petting Hannibal’s back with the other, Will leant close to whisper in Hannibal’s ear.

“Ten, for now,” he said sweetly. “You’ll get the rest later.”

“Please,” Hannibal begged.

Who was Will to deny him?

The sound of the belt against Hannibal’s skin was wonderful. Each lash resounded through the empty corridor, the sound of fighting and bloodshed far off in the distance as the riot commenced. Hannibal arched into each stroke, hips twitching, hands forming fists against the wall.

Hannibal moaned sinfully at a particularly hard lash. After that, it was like a dam broke, and each of Will’s strokes with the belt made Hannibal moan and whimper like temptation itself. Will had to use every ounce of his willpower to finish the lashes.

“Ten,” Will said, voice strangled with arousal as he brought the belt down one last time. The last stroke was horizontal, Hannibal’s pale ass now littered with red marks. It was far too attractive on the older man.

“Please,” Hannibal begged, though it was unclear for what. “Please.”

Will snarled.

He grabbed Hannibal by the hair, forcing him to turn and drop on his knees. Will put one foot forward so Hannibal’s cock was brushing against his shin. Hannibal’s hips twitched involuntarily. Will barely noticed, so busy was he with discarding his own pants.

“Open,” he commanded impatiently. Hannibal opened his mouth immediately. Will grabbed Hannibal’s hair with one hand, his own stiff cock with the other, and shoved in.

Hannibal’s moan vibrated around his cock as Will delved deep into that sweet, hot heat. Will could not help his own wanton sounds as he grabbed Hannibal’s hair with both hands and snapped his hips forward, again and again. The hot column of Hannibal’s throat was like a perfect sleeve around his cock.

Hannibal offered no resistance, hips twitching meekly against Will’s leg. Will pressed forward completely, until Hannibal’s nose was against his pelvis, and held Hannibal there.

One, two, three, and Will pulled back, watched Hannibal gasping for air, eyes closed in bliss. His hips twitched once more, then stopped. Hannibal shuddered, took another breath and pressed forward once more, desperate to get Will’s cock back into him.

“You’re so good,” Will groaned as he obeyed, shoving back in. Hannibal curled his tongue around Will’s cock, licking and sucking on the head, and Will felt his orgasm curl hot in his stomach. “So hot for me, such a good little cocksleeve,” he groaned as Hannibal pawed at his upper legs, wanton. Will pulled out on purpose, Hannibal’s wine at the loss music to his ears. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to fill Hannibal with his come.

“I’m going to use you now until I come,” he warned Hannibal. “And you’re going to take it.”

“Please.”

Will closed his eyes and gave himself over to pleasure. He fucked Hannibal’s mouth relentlessly, deeper and deeper until he could not go a single inch further. Hannibal gagged around his cock, the feeling heavily as Hannibal’s throat fluttered around him, coaxing him to a climax.

“Fuck, Hannibal,” Will moaned loudly as he sped up faster, and faster, until he shuddered and came, still lodged deep into Hannibal’s throat. Feeding him his come, claiming him from the inside.

Will waited until the delicious aftershocks were over until he pulled back from Hannibal’s throat. Hannibal gasped and spluttered, sagging. He had never been as beautiful as he was in that moment.

After giving them both a moment to recover, Will knelt, tilting Hannibal’s chin up with one hand. The other sneaked downwards. “Let me help you, now,” Will said as he found Hannibal’s cock.

But Hannibal was already soft, the sand in front of him wet with come. “No need,” Hannibal rasped, coming back to himself. “I have already enjoyed myself immensely.”

Will could not help but kiss him deeply, sweetly, and Hannibal moved with him.

For a moment, it was just the two of them. They put their foreheads together, breathing in unison, perfect.

“Are you ready?” Will asked tenderly.

Hannibal’s eyes flashed. “With you at my side?” he asked, voice still a little raspy. “Always.”

The riot did not succeed.

Dozens of guards were slain, the casualties on their side far higher than they needed to be. Under orders of the Emperor, guards had to catch instead of kill the gladiators, the greedy man unwilling to let go of his prized cash cows.

But in the end, the gladiators were simply outnumbered. It might be quality above quantity, but quantity is a quality of his own.

When the battle had died down and the remaining guards brought the unconscious and bleeding gladiators back to their cells, they breathed a sigh of relief. Most cells were filled. The Emperor would surely not be that angry if a few morsels slipped through, dead or alive.

Most, though, not all.

When the Warden came to inspect the cells, he marched straight to the one he dreaded the most.

The Ripper’s cell was empty. As was the one opposite him.

The Warden’s angry scream echoed through the halls.