Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In a way, dying anywhere other than in the forest would have been strange. After all, it had all begun there.

Thirty-six or so years earlier, an infant had been discovered abandoned—some say hidden—in the very forest. Small and malnourished, his survival had seemed miraculous.

As if the very earth had conspired to protect him.

The weeks after the discovery, the villagers had exchanged stories and theories. Imagine: deep within the woods, far from the safety of the wall. An infant had made it through the night. Untouched by the dreadful creatures that were known to roam the darkness.

Hungry for human flesh.

Will supposed he’d been living on borrowed time ever since—and one day, he’d have to pay it back. To the forest, and its creatures.

The night enveloped him as he rushed past tree by tree. His breath caught in his throat, coming in harsh, ragged bursts.

Return before dark.

The forest eats during the night.

He had been warned countless times and knew it well—only the safety of the town walls could protect them once the sun dipped below the horizon.

He jumped over a fallen log, feet pounding against the moss-covered ground.

But it was too late—night had already descended.

“Come back,” he heard behind himself, like glass over stone.

Knowing that turning around meant death, Will fought the urge to look.

Something closed around his ankle, and his balance tipped, sending him tumbling to the ground. His forehead hit the moss with a painful grunt—and then, silence.

Only his harsh breaths filled the air as he tried to stand, a scream rising in his throat as sharp pain shot through his ankle. He stumbled, half-risen, clutching at the injury. His hand came away dripping with warm liquid—blood.

Will glanced down to assess the damage. A gash in his lower leg, glistening wet.

“You have something of mine,” a voice whispered through the darkness. Will swallowed hard, slowly turning his head as he tried to spot the creature.

Nothing.

But the sound of something dragging across the forest floor echoed around him.

Will inhaled slowly. The forest seemed to breathe with him—a single, drawn breath shared between the living and the dying.

The subtle creaking of branches swaying in the wind echoed above him.

The whispers of the trees grew louder, their voices intertwining with the rustling leaves, as if they were beckoning him to join their eternal dance. The air thickened, crackling with unsettling energy that raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

A sudden chill seeped into his bones.

Then a shadow flickered between the trees, barely visible—a hunched figure cloaked in ragged black.

Will’s heart raced, thudding against his ribcage like a frantic drum. The figure clutched something to its chest—a skull, white and smooth, glinting in the fading light.

Its eye sockets were empty but somehow still staring directly at him.

And Will knew.

This is where he would die.

Six Months Earlier

The sunlight filtered across the tall wall as Will passed through the main gate. Constructed from the forest’s tallest trees, the towering wooden beams enclosed the entire town. There was only one entrance, with gates so heavy they required ten men to open and close.

The nameless village, nestled in the Valley of the Brooding Forest, had existed for centuries.

It had been strategically established near a forest abundant with game, winding rivers, well-known fruit-bearing trees, and plentiful mushrooms. It was no wonder the ancestors chose to settle there and build their first homes.

Only—

The forest had proven to take as much as it gave. As a result, every citizen had learned that venturing in after dark meant never returning.

Will adjusted his fishing rod, casting a quick glance at the hunched woman beside the entrance. Her palms were pressed together, lips murmuring soft prayers—likely for the return of the lost and the safe passage of the hunters.

The soft hush of the forest greeted him with familiar warmth.

A pleasant breeze stirred the leaves overhead, whispering through the trees.

Will knew the path to the river by heart. Once there, it was pure routine—shoes off, wading into the stream, hours passing as fish were caught and cleaned. Around noon, as was his habit, Will allowed himself a soft nap.

Waking an hour or so later, he made his way back through the woods toward the village.

The forest towered above the village wall—vast, ancient, and ever watchful—far more than the wall ever loomed over the forest.

“I heard the Marlows all disappeared…” Brian said, leaning over the table.

Will hesitated, his beer glass hovering just before his lips.

They were gathered around a table at the local bar. It was dark outside and the gates had been shut for hours.

Beverly, Jimmy, and Brian—people Will knew more by shared age than actual friendship—had met for a rare drink. Rare mostly because Will had been invited.

Not that he minded.

Given the choice, he’d rather just fish.

Alone.

Beverly leaned in and lifted an eyebrow. “But the Marlows are a family of seamstresses. They don’t venture outside of the walls.”

“Exactly,” Brian said. “It’s strange, that’s what it is.”

Beverly hummed in response.

Jimmy frowned. "Maybe it’s internal? You know—human causes?"

“Yeah, there’s never been an issue inside the walls… not… from you-know-what,” Beverly added with a nod.

Jimmy and Brian murmured in agreement.

“I heard there were no signs of breaking and entering. Surely the disappearance of an entire family must be the work of the forest creatures,” Will said softly, turning his eyes away.

Through the bar’s window, the top of the forest was looming over the wall.

Brian slammed his beer onto the table and leaned toward Will, voice low. “Are you crazy? Don’t mention them here.”

Will stared at him for a long moment before sighing. “I’d argue that wasn’t a proper name. More a definition.”

Beverly huffed. “Will, don’t be daft. You may not have been born here, but you know the rules. Don’t name them. Not in any capacity. Naming gives direction. Movement…”

He grimaced and tried to soften his tone. “Apologies…”

The habit of spending time alone had dulled his manners, just enough for the taboo to slip.  

“Yeah… Why do you think the village is still nameless?” Jimmy said gently. “Naming it would give them a place to find... and destroy.”  

They all shifted uncomfortably around the table.  

The conversation stuttered forward, cautiously skirting the Marlows and the forest creatures. Will sat in silence, his shoulders tightening with every new topic. He already knew—too clearly—that this invitation wouldn’t be repeated. Not soon. Maybe not ever.

Just a few days later, Will made a mistake.

He’d gone deeper into the woods than he usually dared, following the winding river as it curved through the trees. The water was clear and cold, teeming with fish.

When he reached a small lake, he paused to watch the water shimmer under the bright sun, its surface glittering like a thousand tiny jewels.

The moment was so serene, so deceptively peaceful, that Will let himself lean back into the soft grass. Just for a moment, he told himself—just to enjoy it.

He closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, the light had changed. It was dusk.

Will jolted upright, heart pounding in his chest as realisation struck— the sun was low, barely clinging to the edge of the horizon.

Night was coming.

Fuck.

He scrambled to gather his things and took off through the forest. Following the river would’ve been safer, but slower. And he had no time.

So he plunged into the woods.

He leapt over logs and darted past trees as the forest darkened with every step. The once-inviting woodland he knew so well by daylight now seemed to shift and twist, its shapes warping, the birds growing quieter—then silent.

Will burst through a dense patch of bushes and stumbled into a clearing. The trees circled it tightly, forming a natural ring of wildflowers and grass. In the center stood a single, broad stone slab.

An altar, Will realised.

But there was no time to wonder. Will scanned the clearing, desperate for a path—any hint of where to go.

He had no sense of direction. For all he knew, the village might be behind him.

“Fuck,” he muttered, turning in frantic circles. “Fuck, fuck.”

To die because of a nap felt too absurd. Too tragic.

His breathing quickened. Heart pounding.

The forest was quiet now.

Too quiet.

The last of the sunlight barely clung to the treetops.

Something shifted behind him. Leaves rustled—delicate at first, then sharp—and a long shadow stretched across Will’s back, born from the last light of the dying sun. The warmth drained from his skin as a chill slid down his spine.

Will froze.

A breath against his skin, then—

"Are you lost?" The voice was like velvet—otherworldly, soft like a whisper and yet deafeningly loud.

Will swallowed harshly but said nothing.

A warm breath stirred the strands of his hair.

He squeezed his eyes shut and gave a small nod. "Yes," he whispered. "I am."

Honesty felt like the only way through.

“How unfortunate,” came the soft reply.

Silence.

Will wanted to run, but instinct warned him that would be worse. So he remained still and said, “Yes, very. I’m sorry for disturbing your evening.”

The being behind him laughed softly—a sound strangely warm, yet sharp.

Like the slow drag of a blade through living flesh—sickeningly intimate.

“I appreciate the apology,” it murmured, the words oddly formal, as if mimicking politeness it had once heard and long forgotten. Then it shifted, and Will felt it lean close, whispering into his left ear, “Would you like the direction home?”

The answer clawed at his throat, but Will bit his lip, holding it back.

He adjusted his bag, slipped a hand into his pocket, and said, “Yes—but only if you’ll accept this as payment.”

He pulled out his best fishhook. Yellow and black thread coiled around its spine, with small feathers woven in at the end. It had taken hours to craft and had never failed him.

Fighting the tremble in his hands, Will turned and held out his offering.

His palm quivered as his gaze finally lifted—landing on the figure before him.

It stood two heads taller than Will, humanoid in shape but unmistakably far from human in nature. Its limbs were coated in a black, glistening texture, which gradually faded into dark grey near its chest and head. From its skull rose two massive antlers, branching and pointy. Its face was disturbingly humanlike—curious, attentive—but its gaze was fixed not on Will’s eyes, but on his outstretched palm.

The creature lifted a hand and took the fishhook delicately, turning it in its long, clawed fingers. It held it up to its face, eyes gleaming with something like delight.

"Beautiful," it murmured.

Then its gaze slid to Will, who was still staring, transfixed. Their eyes met.

Will looked away, flushed with a sudden, inexplicable embarrassment.

A low chuckle.

"Run home, little lamb," the creature said softly. "As long as you do not look back, all ways shall lead to your wall."

Will nodded, his voice barely a whisper. “Thank you.”

He cast a final glance at the creature, then turned and ran. Branches clawed at his clothes, roots snagged at his feet, but he didn’t stop.

He didn’t look back. Not once.

Minutes later, breathless and trembling, he burst from the trees. The village gates loomed ahead, already beginning to creak shut.

He slipped through just as the sun vanished behind the horizon.

Will was certain he had spent at least an hour—maybe more—running through the forest. And yet, the sun had clung stubbornly to the horizon, lingering far longer than it should have.

Time, it seemed, had moved differently in the clearing.

With the antlered creature.

Chapter Text

After the incident with the antlered creature in the clearing, something changed.

Will had gone about his usual routine: wake up, walk into the forest at dawn to fish. Then, with the habitual nap now excluded, he would return to the village by early noon. He'd exchange the catch or sell it for a few coins.

Nothing noteworthy, really.

However, a week after the near-death experience, Will began to notice unrest in the village. While walking through the market, some stands hadn’t popped up as usual, and others seemed suspiciously bare of mushrooms, fruit, and meat.

Will shrugged to himself and wrote it off as another village feast—one of many he avoided like the plague himself.

No—Will was better off in his small hut at the edge of the village, tucked up against the wall.

It all changed that afternoon, however. A notice had been sent out to each and every villager:

Spare your food. Ration.

The baker’s corn and wheat had been hit by unusual mold problems. The hunters had not seen wild game for days, and the mushrooms and fruit had all but disappeared from the forest.

Will looked at the pamphlet and decided not to mention his recent increase in catch—how, after mere minutes, fish seemed to get caught on his hook, almost eager.

A quiet guilt itched at the back of his mind, but the lifelong suspicion that had shadowed him since childhood pressed harder—a familiar weight that tipped the scales toward silence and self-preservation.

The bad luck continued for months. Weekly feasts vanished, hunger crept in, and villagers began to comment on his good fortune. Sometimes he cooked his catch in the forest and returned empty-handed rather than meet their eyes.

He might have been raised in the village—but he had always been an outsider. First by birth, and later by personality.

One pale noon, after a feigned fruitless day at the river, he stepped into his hut—only to freeze.

There, nestled against his pillow like a velvet-wrapped heirloom, lay a necklace.

Or something attempting, in its crude and unsettling way, to mimic one.

It was—unlike jewelry of soft thread and gold or silver pendants—made of teeth and fingers, the bones small enough to belong to a child, or perhaps not quite human at all.

At its center, gleaming faintly against the dull bone and enamel, was his fishhook. Threaded through with cord and positioned like a prized jewel, it made the grotesque arrangement feel almost ceremonial—crafted to honor him in some unknowable way.

Will had walked back and forth through the forest many times after the encounter, but never with the intention of finding the clearing again.

Until now.

He pushed a branch from a tree aside as he walked deeper into the woods.

No, returning had been the last thing on his mind.

If anything, he’d rather forget it.

However, the necklace had to be returned.

Within minutes of entering the forest, Will stepped through another bush and found himself back at the clearing. In daylight, it seemed much more inviting—flowers swaying in the breeze, the grass healthy and green.

He walked up to the stone slab and glanced down at it. It appeared to be a normal stone—oddly flat and clearly man-made, but without any particular carvings.

Glancing around, only the silence of a forest moving with a soft breeze greeted him.

Will supposed the forest wouldn’t be any different than usual—not in daylight.

"Hello?" he said softly into the warm air.

The chirping of birds in the trees was the only reply.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair—too aware of the necklace in his bag. If it could even be called that.

What was he even doing?

"How was your gift?" was whispered ever so softly into his ear, and Will inhaled sharply in shock, turning around in a hurry.

The clearing was empty.

He swallowed harshly.

He hadn’t come to chat. He hadn’t come to accuse. He had come to return the necklace.

Accusing the creature of inappropriate gifts might’ve been tempting—but Will was fairly certain beings like this didn’t care for moral reasoning. With creatures like this, exchanges had to be deliberate. Clear.

And honestly, Will had a sense that this particular creature was not one to be trifled with.

"Thank you," Will began slowly to the empty space. "I appreciate the gift."

What felt like a human hand slid through his hair, soft—starting at the base of his skull and gliding over his head. Almost intimate, had it not been for the claws Will felt slide over his scalp.

"I'm glad," came the reply.

The hand disappeared, and Will remained still—breath controlled and measured, lest he start to panic.

"Why are you trembling, little lamb?" Again, soft palms ran over his shoulders, gripping them gently. Will saw the inky black, clawed hands settle there.

It was daylight.

The sun was out.

Will opened his mouth, intending to answer, but exhaled slowly instead. He licked his lips and tried again, forcing out, "I apologise… I…" He squeezed his eyes shut. Fuck. Every story and warning ran through his head. "I'm afraid you are everything I’ve ever been told to stay away from."

A soft laugh behind him. If death could make a sound, Will imagined it would sound like that.

"Ah yes, the nameless village and its stories. Entertaining, is it not?"

The nonchalant response made Will hesitate. His shivering halted for a moment as he furrowed his brow. "Entertaining is not the word I’d use."

"Oh?"

The inky hands had begun to brush over his shoulders, gliding across his neck—soft, without pressure—then cradling his face, brushing over his lips with the oddest reverence.

Will felt entirely confused.

"Aren’t you going to eat me?" slipped from his mouth before he could stop it.

The hands halted, resting on his skin.

Silence. No reply.

Huffing and feeling bold in a way that usually led to problems, Will added, "I mean—isn’t that what you creatures do?"

"Us creatures?"

He had been warned not to speak their names. However, it had never quite stuck, so he continued. "Well… forest creatures… such as you. You—ehm—" Will glanced slightly over his shoulder, seeing the large black silhouette of the creature in the corner of his eye, standing close. Swallowing, wondering if this was the moment he’d die, he continued. "You eat humans like me, don’t you?"

He glanced back at the grass and the flowers, waiting for a response—or doom.

A chuckle, and the hands withdrew.

"You mistake me," the creature replied, and Will glanced behind himself to see nothing.

A sudden wind blew through the clearing, carrying with it the damp, green scent of moss and something faintly metallic. It pushed hard against Will, forcing him to raise his hands to shield his face.

As he lowered his hands, the creature now stood before him. Cool, inky-black hands cupped Will’s face, its claws sliding over his skin.

A sculpted face that was, unmistakably, human. Pearly black eyes.

Then, it whispered, "I am much more than those puny creatures."

Will frowned.

It tilted its head, studying his face.

"More?" Will asked slowly.

"Did you not appreciate the gifts?" it asked. "Only I could bestow such grand offerings upon man."

Will opened his mouth to demand clarification. What gifts? He had only received a necklace. As the words formed, he hesitated. His eyes widened.

"It’s you," he said. "You’re the reason the village is starving. That the sick are dying."

The creature brushed its thumb over Will’s cheek and leaned closer. "That the fish seek your hook."

Will remembered, suddenly, exactly what stood pressed so near. Swallowing, he lifted his hands to grip the creature’s wrist, trying to pull its hands away. It didn’t budge.

The creature frowned. "Is it not to your satisfaction?"

"What—" Will began, then stopped, realising the confusion on the creature’s face was genuine. It seemed genuinely puzzled by Will’s reaction—as though it couldn’t comprehend why a gift of bones, famine, and unnatural abundance might cause distress. "Listen, I appreciate your help getting me home that time, but the mouldy fields, the lack of game and fruit—that is no gift."

It didn’t reply.

Worried he had insulted it, Will added, "I appreciate the thought, though. Really."

It withdrew its hands and stood still, simply staring down at Will, who was growing increasingly nervous.

In the daylight, the black inkiness of its limbs and antlers absorbed the sun like a void, swallowing all brightness in its path. It was grotesque—unnatural in form and presence—but something about the way it stood, poised and still, struck Will as majestic. Terrible, yes. But majestic all the same.

Something resembling satisfaction pulled at its lips.

"What I give can also be withdrawn, if you so wish it," it explained.

Will exhaled in relief.

"But—" it continued.

His shoulders stiffened. Of course there was a but. His mind leapt ahead, imagining the worst.

"But?" he asked.

"It has a price."

Yes, this was exactly the kind of ominous cost Will had anticipated. He braced, every old story whispering the same ending—his life, his body, his freedom. Gone.

He stared and asked, "What do you want?"

"Visit me."

Will wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. "You want me to visit you?"

Again, it seemed delighted. "Yes. Once a week you must come here. I promise I won’t harm you or prevent you from returning home. As long as you keep your promise, I will allow the forest to give again."

Relief came first—no blood, no devouring—and then the cold twist of knowing such a request was rarely as simple as it sounded.

He stared, unsure if he was missing something. "Once a week only," he clarified. "And everything must return as it was before."

"Yes," it replied. "Everything but the fish."

Will began to shake his head, already forming a protest—but the creature raised a finger and gently pressed it to his lips, silencing him with an intimacy that felt more binding than a spoken vow.

"The fish—or the bargain is not accepted." Then it withdrew its hand.

Will hesitated, chest tight, then gave the smallest of nods. "Alright," he said—low and reluctant.

Sharp white teeth gleamed as the creature grinned. "Accepted," it replied, then leaned down.

Will froze—utterly, absolutely still. Shock splintered through him and his breath caught as the creature placed its lips on Will's. The press of lips was brief, but disturbingly tender and warm.

The creature withdrew to stare at him. Still for a moment.

The taste of iron and rain-soaked leaves lingered.

"You may have the name of the forest god," it whispered. "The forest and its god is named Hannibal."

Will swallowed hard, the taste of dread sharp at the back of his throat. There was no longer any doubt—he had entangled himself with something ancient, otherworldly, and far beyond his understanding.

Something dangerous in ways he couldn’t yet name.

"Thank you," he said slowly. "Hannibal."

Hannibal looked almost pleased, its—or his—head tilting like a curious bird, antlers glinting gold in the sunlight. "A name for a name?" he asked, voice dipped in something ancient and amused, like he already knew the answer and was only waiting for Will to offer it freely.

Will hesitated, a cold weight settling behind his ribs. He wondered if giving his name—even just his first—was already too much. Probably.

Still, he answered.

"Will," he said, carefully omitting his surname as if that might spare him.

Something shifted in the air, and in his chest—a thrum deep and foreign—and he wasn’t certain he hadn’t just bargained away his soul.

Chapter Text

The return of wild game, mushrooms, and fruit was gradual—so deliberately paced that Will might have joined the rest of the village in believing it had simply been a bad month or two. But he knew better.

All too well.

The first two visits to the forest god, Hannibal, had been uneventful. 

During the first, Will spent hours alone in the clearing. The creature had only whispered to him quietly before he was about to leave—a soft murmur asking if he had not appreciated the return to normalcy. 

If catching fish after fish, each seeking his hook, was not the most wonderful feeling of all.

Will kept his replies sparse but had, of course, thanked him. 

Lest he anger the god.

Which, no thank you. 

The second visit was much the same—hours alone, no words. This time, however, the creature occasionally slid a clawed hand through his hair, always from behind and out of sight. The touch over his scalp, along his neck, and down his arms and legs was soft yet firm.

Will left without exchanging a single word with the creature.

As he stepped through the bushes and into the clearing for the third time, Will silently hoped it meant the creature had finally grown tired of him.

He strolled up to the stone slab and sat down. Resting his bag across his lap, he pulled out the sandwich he had packed that morning. Leaning back, he took a bite and closed his eyes, savouring the taste and the warm, bright sun.

It was never cloudy in the clearing. Even if rain plagued the village and the rest of the forest, here the sky stayed blue. Sun bright but not oppressive. A cool, late-summer temperature.

“Tell me,” the creature whispered in his ear, and Will twitched in surprise. He opened his eyes and saw Hannibal standing in front of him, head tilted. “What are you consuming?”

Will glanced down at his half-eaten sandwich, then back at Hannibal. “A sandwich,” he replied.

Hannibal hummed, then walked behind him. A quick look over his shoulder revealed the god had disappeared again.

He sighed and leaned forward to massage the bridge of his nose. 

The appearing and disappearing was subtly horrifying—like shadows shifting and twisting in the corner of the eye. Not overwhelmingly scary, but still deeply unsettling.  

Soon, he sensed Hannibal’s presence behind him. With the sun at their backs, Will could see both their shadows in front of him—and for a moment, it almost looked as if the antlers were his.

Large and looming spindly shadows.

Smooth, inky hands slid around him, palms opening before his eyes to reveal a slab of meat, fresh and glistening.

Blood pooled in Hannibal’s palm. Then, as it overflowed, began to drip softly onto Will’s pants.

“If you’re hungry, you need only ask,” a low murmur from behind him—close enough to feel the breath ghost against his neck.

Will swallowed down the sudden nausea and placed his own food beside him at the stone—appetite gone. 

“Thank you,” he began, but eating something offered by a creature—especially an antlered god—seemed foolish. 

He settled with, “but I am only human. I cannot eat food meant for a god such as you.” After a pause, he added, “Hannibal.”

Hannibal made an odd clicking sound, seemingly pleased at the mention of his name.

After a trembling second, he withdrew his arms, then said, “Pity.”

Will exhaled slowly in relief at Hannibal’s easy acceptance.

He was beginning to realise the creature—this god—seemed to have no interest in harming him. 

Feeling bold, Will glanced behind himself and found nothing—as expected. As his focus swung back, he found Hannibal in front of him again. 

The consistent attempt at keeping track of the god left him disoriented. 

Like the world had tilted—ever so little—not enough to see, but leaving him with a perpetual feeling that he was walking on crooked ground. 

Hannibal knelt down slowly, with a grace Will had only ever seen in wild, carnivorous animals. Then, he took Will's hands and lifted them, guiding his palms to cradle the god’s face. 

Petrified of denying the movement, Will looked on with wide eyes. 

Hannibal pressed Will’s palms against his cheek while his large hands enclosed Will’s, holding them still. His skin was smooth and warm—nothing in the touch felt different from that of a human.

Will studied him as Hannibal closed his eyes, the faintest shiver of pleasure crossing the god’s features as if he were savouring every trace of Will’s touch.

So much for losing interest, Will thought in defeat. 

“Why do you seem to not only want, but desire my company?” 

It was the first time Will had voiced what he’d seen so clearly in the creature’s behaviour.

Hannibal’s eyes opened, dark as midnight, and for a moment Will wondered if he was imagining faint stars glimmering in their black depths. After a breath, he pressed Will’s hands more firmly against his own skin. 

“You were promised to me.”

“What?” Will asked, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

“Yes,” Hannibal replied cryptically.

Annoyed by the vagueness, Will cradled Hannibal’s cheeks and tried to pull him a little closer—only intending to meet his gaze with frustration, to demand answers. But the god took it as permission to close the distance entirely, surging forward until Will toppled back with a gasp, his shoulders striking the stone slab with a thud.

A protective hand slid behind his head, cushioning it as he went down.

Hannibal loomed over him.

Will swallowed, hands now free to push at Hannibal’s chest. “Eh—” he managed, licking his lips, uncertain, alarmed and suddenly forgetting what he’d meant to say.

The creature did not move away. He simply stared down at Will, a soft chuckle rumbling from his chest. “A pity so much time has been lost, but no matter,” he said.

“You did return to me. As intended.”

Leaning down, Hannibal pressed their lips together. His mouth parted, sharp teeth grazing Will’s lower lip without breaking skin. A long, warm tongue slid over Will’s teeth and deeper into his mouth. 

Will made a muffled sound of protest, but the creature only pressed closer—one hand cradling his cheek, the other tangled in his hair. The tongue pushed past his own, reaching toward his throat, impossibly long. Will gagged and shoved at Hannibal, who yielded and allowed him to push him away this time.

Harsh breaths tore from Will as he glared at the creature. “Don’t do that. Not without permission.” Spit streaked his chin.

Hannibal studied him in silence.

“Then I’ll make certain it’s with permission next time.” His tone was calm, almost amused.

Will frowned at the reply and shook his head. Face flushed with both embarrassment and horror.

“No—that’s not what—“

Hannibal stepped back, gaze simply lingering on Will’s tousled form laid out on the stone slab, before he turned, ignoring Will’s spluttering corrections and fumbling words. 

He walked away—into the forest.

Pushing himself upright, Will wiped his mouth and frowned, noticing something dark red smeared across his hand and shirt. The faint tang of iron coated his tongue. Probing his lips, tongue, and mouth, he found no wound to explain the blood.

Which only unsettled him more.

The blood was not his.

It was only a few days later that Will was reminded the forest was haunted by more than just Hannibal.

He'd been on his way to the river, his mind humming in quiet anticipation for long, peaceful hours fishing. He’d probably have to leave the hook off for the first hour, lest he finish fishing too quickly.

Only catch what you eat.

The river wound between the trees, the forest pressing close to its edge. Will strolled along the bank, passing beam by beam, enjoying how the sun glinted through the leaves.

The birds chirped, his feet thudding softly against the ground. 

A sudden splash. Then, a whisper.

Will went rigid.

No villager ventured to this part of the forest.

The forest stretched farther than the eye could see, vast enough to swallow thousands of men. Large enough for none to ever meet unless they meticulously tried to find each other. 

Standing still, half hidden by leaves and shadow, Will followed the river downstream with his gaze.

The river ran in soft waves—the water gurgling as it moved. 

Soft and quiet. Grass growing close to the water’s edge.

The sun bright. 

There—

Not far ahead, something moved in the water.

A black mass—no, a creature.

Large, red, leathery wings hung heavy from its back, half submerged. Its skin was pale, unsettlingly human in tone.

It turned, revealing a face that was anything but human. Long, tangled hair fell across its features, hiding its eyes and showing only a row of large, protruding teeth. A deep, gaping scar cut along the left side of its mouth.

“Reba,” it whispered. “Isn’t this nice?” Its voice carried the agony of bones breaking—not in sound, but in the raw, splintering pain it conveyed.

It turned around in the water, leaning forward—and that’s when Will saw it:

A skull, cradled like a prized relic, its bone gleaming as the clean, flowing river water washed over it again and again.

“Soon.”

A visible shudder rippled through the creature. It exhaled into the morning air.

“Do not worry, I'll give you what you never had.” The words were a whisper, a promise—yet Will heard them all too clearly. A shiver climbed up his spine.

Will swallowed, hunched down and began to withdraw ever so slowly. 

Shifting slightly, Will brushed against a bush. The sound was small, but the creature’s head snapped toward him. It went still in the water, clutching the skull protectively to its chest.

Will froze. Breath caught in his throat. 

It seemed to scan the forest. Water dripping from its tangled hair. 

After a long, tense moment, the creature seemed to relax and turned back to the skull, resuming its careful tending.

Exhaling shakily, Will backed away on silent feet. When he was far enough, he turned and slipped from the scene entirely.

The fact that it had ventured out in broad daylight frightened him more than he’d admit.

At least Hannibal only appeared in the clearing.

At the next visit Will allowed himself to ask the god. 

“Do other gods—“ Will began, but Hannibal, situated directly behind him, had wound his long, inky arms around Will in an embrace that felt less like comfort and more like possession. Clawed fingers rested lightly, almost teasingly, against his ribs, the weight of the antlered god’s head close enough that Will could feel the whisper of breath against his ear. 

Hannibal huffed at his question. 

“There are no gods but me.” Almost petulant. 

Will’s lips twitched. “Okay, correction—are there any creatures—apart from you—and yes, I know you’re not a creature, but a god,” he replied. “Any other creatures that can come out during the day?”

Hannibal seemed to consider his question for a moment.   

“Why do you ask?” 

Will, who had settled into the unnerving position a couple of hours earlier, leaned cautiously back against Hannibal’s chest, as if testing the limits of the god’s hold. “I saw something in the river.”

When he received no answer, Will continued. 

“It—it wasn’t entirely human. Large wings and a twisted face… but outside during daylight.” Will studied the green grass shifting in the breeze. "It seemed almost sorrowful."

And it had. 

Hannibal hummed behind him, the sound low and resonant, as his long arms coiled tighter around Will in a slow pull.  Cool breath, laced with the scent of moss and wet leaves, brushed Will’s ear as he spoke.

“Most creatures began as human,” he said and Will shuddered. “This one may not yet be claimed by the night—or by my forest." 

After a pause, Hannibal added. "The day cannot banish mankind—not until every last trace of humanity is gone."

He’d tried to avoid thinking of the god’s cryptic talk of promises and returns for weeks. However, every time he remembered, the insinuation left a foul sensation in Will’s stomach.

Will was certain he had never met the creature before. Still, as everyone in the village knew, Will had been found in the forest as an infant—a fact he had been reminded of again and again.

Determined to find out how much of Hannibal’s claim was fiction meant to fool him and how much might be truth, Will did the only thing he could think of: he went to the head of the village, Jack Crawford.

Jack, at least fifteen or twenty years older, had been a young adult when Will arrived. As part of a long line of family heads, he was known to keep documents and records going back several generations.

“Crawford,” Will mumbled, stepping into the man’s office. Always open for inquiries.

Jack glanced up and raised an eyebrow. “Graham,” he said slowly. “Unusual to see you here.” 

It was true. Will had never approached the man, and the fact that Jack even knew his name was unpleasant.

Will shifted and looked away from Jack, who was staring expectantly at him.

“I was wondering if I may take a look at the papers concerning… my discovery.” Then, afraid he would be misunderstood, he added, “As an infant.”

At the silence, he looked back to see Jack light a cigar and lean back in his chair.

“Why?”

Because it’s about me, you fucker.

Instead, he said, “Just curious… really. Wouldn’t you have been?”

Jack shrugged. “Possibly, but why after so many years? Or is there a particular reason?”

Will huffed at the suspicion. He knew most in the village found him odd—mostly, if not entirely, because he was an outsider. Which, really, an outsider brought into the town as an infant wasn’t much of an outsider, if you asked Will.

“Crawford, can I look at them or not?” he asked, with clear annoyance.

Jack frowned at his outburst, lips drawing in disapproval, as though he were Will’s father, judging his behaviour.

“No need to be so harsh,” Jack replied.

“Well?” Will said, not intending to apologise in any manner whatsoever.

Inhaling deeply from his cigar, Jack studied Will for a moment before exhaling smoke. “There’s no papers,” he said finally.

Will sighed in disappointment.

He shouldn’t be surprised.

Turning, he waved a hand. “Okay, then I’ll just take my leave—”

“But—” Jack continued, halting Will’s withdrawal. His hand rested on the doorknob as he looked back at the older man. “I know you were found one morning in a clearing no one’s been able to locate since. Lying on some kind of stone. Your name was embroidered into the white blanket we found you with. Beyond that, there’s not much more to say.”

Will swallowed, nodded slowly, and walked out on stiff legs.

Not much to say?

It had been entirely too much. 

Chapter Text

There was a fish. 

An enormous, glistening fish lying across the stone slab in the clearing. Will had entered expecting the antlered god to greet him—but instead, placed neatly in the center, was what could only be a gift. 

Will stared at it. 

The stone was slick with seawater, and the fish still gave faint, dying gasps as though it had been pulled from the lake only moments ago. 

“Does it please you?” Hannibal asked with quiet curiosity, stepping up beside Will.

Will glanced at Hannibal, considering his words. 

At last he said, “It’s an impressive catch.” And it was—larger than any fish he had ever pulled from the water, even with the way they seemed to seek his hook now. 

“She is,” Hannibal murmured, crouching down to stroke the glistening scales. “One of my oldest children. Just for you.” His eyes lifted back to Will, their blackness betraying nothing. 

The fish had stopped gasping now, lying still and lifeless. 

Will had no wish to accept gifts from the antlered god, not more than necessary. Yet staring at the fish, he felt it would be dishonourable to refuse. 

She was beautiful. 

He settled on a quiet, “Thank you.” 

The antlered god rose smoothly and stepped closer to Will, a soft rumble rising from his chest. Otherworldly, reminding Will of thunder in the distance. His large frame towered over him.

Will lifted an eyebrow as Hannibal threaded a hand through his hair, as he often did, tucking something behind his ear before stepping away. 

He brushed a hand over his ear and drew out something delicate: a white flower, soft and pale, resting innocently in his palm. 

Fragile, like a child. 

Swallowing, Will shifted uneasily on his feet. He tucked the fragile bloom carefully into the pocket of his loose jacket. 

The flower had pulled his thoughts back to his conversation with Jack Crawford.

He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to ask the god. He had, after all, avoided it for weeks. 

Perhaps he was afraid of the answer—

or the lack of it. 

“Do you—” Will began, then cleared his throat. 

Hannibal had turned from him, wandering lazily across the grass as though savouring the ever-present sun. Will’s gaze followed, and he frowned, noticing at last how the ground where the forest god stepped seemed to stir. 

Grass lifted, sprouting delicate flowers, growing just a little taller with each of his movements—subtle changes, almost nothing at all, yet undeniable if you looked closely. 

“I was found here,” he settled on, before he could decide to stay silent.

Hannibal stilled and tilted his head toward the sun, eyes closing, as if Will had said nothing at all. 

Annoyed, Will exhaled and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Hannibal,” he pressed. 

At his name, Hannibal’s head swung toward him, suddenly attentive. 

Uncomfortably so. 

“A couple of hunters found me here as an infant,” he said more slowly, briefly wondering if he had been too bold.

Hannibal made no movement or indication he was about to reply. He merely stared at Will’s figure. Silent. Watching. 

Will inhaled slowly, now more and more certain he might have made a mistake. Been too bold. 

A couple of birds flew from the nearest tree, their shadows fluttering over them both. 

After several suffocating moments in silence, Hannibal replied.

“It is time for you to go home.”

It felt final.

Will nodded slowly, disappointment pressing in, yet he had no interest in testing Hannibal with arguments. He shifted, readying himself to turn away.

“Remember the fish,” Hannibal said, the words oddly weighted. A look at the fish pulled at him—he should have left it—and then, because you don’t waste fish, Will returned to the stone slab to pick up the fish. 

Hannibal had still not moved. 

Will turned and walked slowly out of the clearing, heart beating in his chest. 

As he passed through the market on his way back to the cottage, Mr. Jacobi hailed him from behind his stand. The man’s eyes gleamed at the sight of the fish—it was, after all, a spectacular catch. His wife had just given birth, he explained, and such a gift would be a wonder to bring home. He pressed eagerly, offering both payment and exchange to take it from Will’s hands. 

Will agreed—perhaps foolishly—and let the fish go. 

A crowd quickly gathered at the Jacobi stall, voices rising in admiration, wooing and awing over the gleaming catch. 

The moment was memorable, the kind that lodged itself in gossip. 

Will left with a fair trade in his hands and thought no more of it. 

Not until several days later. 

“Did you hear?”

“It happened again.”

“The Jacobi family disappeared. I saw them that very morning!”

“I saw Will Graham trade with him just the other day. You know—the outsider.”

“You think it’s him?”

“No…”

“But—”

Will kept his gaze on his shoes as he walked through the market, trying to ignore the low voices and the stares drilling into his back. Plenty of people exchanged and sold their catch every day; he could hardly be the only one who had spoken to Mr. Jacobi. And yet, being the outsider, suspicion clung to him all the same.

Not that it should have been a surprise.

Still, the knowledge that he had passed on a fish—a gift from the forest god himself—to someone unsuspecting left a bitter weight in his chest.

He was moving toward the open gates, hoping the forest might grant him some rest, when a man came running into the market shouting, “I can’t find the Leeds! Their house is empty—”

Uneasy murmurs rippled through the crowd. Glances flickered between neighbours, suspicion sparking even among themselves. A woman turned, her eyes catching on Will where he stood frozen, watching the rising panic.

Her gaze tightened in suspicion, and Will nearly bolted on instinct.

Would it make him look less guilty? Certainly not.

He forced down the instinct to run and set his steps toward the forest, wrapping himself in as much calm and steady composure as he could muster.

Walking briskly through the woods, Will grimaced. This was what came of giving away gifts. Hannibal had promised him peace—it had been part of their bargain—but judging by the Jacobi family’s disappearance, the god had no intention of keeping it. 

Then, suddenly, without warning, he found himself in the clearing. Not where he had meant to go, but there all the same. 

Its suddenness only sharpened his suspicion. 

He stepped into the centre and looked around. Empty, as always. 

“You promised,” Will whispered, then louder: “You promised me that all would return as it was.”

The wind flickered through his hair—soft, warm. Above him the sky lay blue, the sun caressing his skin. What once felt welcoming and enchanted now pressed down, close and suffocating. 

“You promised me,” he repeated to the air. 

A pause. A lull of silence. 

“I did,” Hannibal replied. 

Will twisted, searching, until he glimpsed the god at the edge of the clearing, half-hidden beneath the trees, black shape nearly swallowed by shadow. 

Stalking toward him, Will glared, and Hannibal only tilted his head, puzzled. 

“Then what is this?” Will demanded. 

“This?”

“Yes,” Will snapped. “The disappearances in the village. All because of a damn fish—”

Hannibal gave no answer. Only studied him. 

At last he whispered, “I do not understand what you are angry about.” 

Will swallowed hard, stepping back. 

Of course he didn’t. 

A god had no concept of morality. 

“No, I suppose not,” Will said quietly, looking away. 

Perhaps sensing the shift, Hannibal stepped closer, hand lifting to Will’s cheek. His towering form leaned over him, gaze unblinking. 

“I have disappointed you,” he murmured. 

Will gave a short, bitter laugh and pushed the hand aside. “Yeah, no shit.” Then, softer: “I can’t believe I believed in you.”

The words made Hannibal flinch—

as if they were the cruellest curse Will could have uttered. 

“I won’t return,” Will said. 

“You broke your promise, and I see no reason to keep mine.”

“Will.” The name left Hannibal’s mouth like a prayer. 

But Will shook his head, eyes hard. 

“No.” 

Confusion and grief pulled across the god’s face, strangely human. 

He did not move. Simply stood, antlers looming, while Will turned and stormed toward the far side of the clearing, vowing never to return. 

He trudged past the stone slab and hesitated. 

The vague replies churned in his mind. His brow furrowed—uncertainty rising—and he remembered the creature in the stream. 

In daylight. 

Will halted, exhaled sharply, and turned back, determined to force the god to speak plainly. 

But the spot Hannibal had inhabited earlier was empty. 

The birds sang in the background. And the breeze was pleasant. However, no forest god in sight. 

Will pressed a hand over his face. 

“Fuck.” He might’ve just taken his anger out on a freaking god. 

Then, suddenly the birds stopped singing. 

Lifting his head, Will was greeted with sudden, unmistakable darkness.

Or more accurately, night. 

The sight left him breathless for a mere moment. Not only because it pushed a deep-rooted fear up his throat. Partly, certainly, but no. Mostly because of the beauty of it. 

Will had never, for obvious reasons, been outside of the village at night.

The panicked run at sundown not counting for anything. 

The stars above his head glittered, sharp and cold. The forest towered close around the clearing, its dark silhouettes framing the vast sky.

He could not help but stay rooted where he was. Mesmerised. 

Until he remembered where he was. 

A curse under his lips, annoyed at melodramatic forest gods, Will turned towards the direction he always arrived and ran towards where the village would be. 

He plunged into the forest, trees streaming past in an endless blur, one after another, as though the woods themselves had no end. 

Ten minutes passed, then twenty, and still no sign of the village. No sound, no light—only the stars burning above him.

“Fuck, Hannibal—” Will shouted into the dark.  

Silence answered him. Of course. 

Goddamn it. 

“Are you this petty?” The words tore out sharper than he intended. Maybe he was being harsh, but really—the god had answered in a way far too easy to twist.

And who knew. Maybe Will had been right in his accusations.

Perhaps Hannibal’s silence had been an admission.

Branches gave way as he broke through the trees and stumbled onto the riverbank. Relief surged through him in a ragged breath. From here, at least, he knew the way.

He turned and followed the river, lungs burning, breath rasping in quick, shallow bursts.

At last the village walls rose into view.

The gates were shut tight when he arrived.

He banged his fists against the wood, calling for anyone—pleading for someone to open. 

Shuffling stirred on the other side, then a faint, uncertain voice: “I think I heard someone.” A youthful voice. 

A cough followed, rough and dismissive. “Don’t mind it.” Another voice, older. 

“They do this sometimes. Imitate the living. Ignore it.”

Dread curled heavy in his stomach. Will struck the gate again, harder. “Open! Please!”

But the footsteps retreated. A faint call trailed after them: “You’ll get used to it.”

Then silence.

And Will knew the gates would not open before morning.

He stepped back, eyeing the wall. It loomed impossibly high, smooth and unyielding.

Fuck.

The stars stared silently down at him while the forest rustled behind him.

A sharp crack of a twig snapped his attention from the wall. Will swallowed, eyes fixed on the darkness where the sound had come. Something wet and heavy trudged over the ground, each step thick with damp.

A creature emerged from the trees.

It froze, staring at Will as intently as he stared back.

Long, tangled hair fell in a curtain. Leathery wings dragged uselessly along the ground, more weight than function. 

A familiar monster.

In its arms, a skull was clutched close, cradled as though precious.

“It seems we’re in luck, Reba. We don’t have to climb the wall today.” Its head tilted toward the skull, which of course gave no reply. “Let us try these for you, hm?”

Then it began to trudge forward, slow, unhurried, relentless.

Will swallowed hard and backed away several steps. The creature’s approach did not falter.

He really should apologise to Hannibal—if he lived through the night.

With that thought he turned and bolted into the forest. Not safer than the wall, perhaps, but at least the trees offered cover.

He rushed past trunk after trunk, breath tearing raggedly from his throat, each exhale sharp in the silence.

Return before dark.

The forest eats during the night.

He knew all too well, damn it.

Will jumped over a fallen log, feet pounding the mossy ground, heart hammering.

“Come back,” a voice behind him, brittle and cutting, like glass scraping against stone.

He didn’t dare look. Turning meant death. He forced his eyes forward, lungs burning.

Then something clamped around his ankle. His balance snapped away, and he went tumbling, forehead cracking against the moss with a grunt. Silence fell heavy.

Only his ragged breathing filled the night as he tried to rise. Pain shot through his ankle, white-hot, wrenching a scream from his throat. Half crouching, he clutched the wound. His hand came away slick with warm liquid—blood.

Will looked down. A gash along his lower leg, wet and glistening.

“You have something of mine,” a voice whispered out of the dark. Will swallowed, turning his head slowly, searching for the creature.

Nothing.

But the sound of something dragging across the forest floor echoed around him.

Then the shadow of the creature flickered between the trees, barely visible—its hunched figure cloaked in ragged black. Its useless wings dragging over the ground.

Will could not run any further. His leg throbbed with every heartbeat.

“I have nothing of yours,” he shot back, voice sharp.

The creature hesitated, staring at him—strangely surprised by the reply. “No?”

“Yes. Nothing,” Will pressed.

It crept closer.

“Odd,” it murmured at last.

It wasn’t really listening.

“I’m certain you have eyes.”

Will’s heart pounded furiously. He had no answer.

The moss beneath him felt too soft, horribly inviting, as though it wished to hold him down.

The creature crouched, gently—almost reverently—laying the skull upon the ground. Its whisper rasped: “I’ll be but a moment, my dear. Soon you’ll join my—” A caress traced the pale bone. “—our becoming.”

Then it rose again, tilted, unsteady, dragging itself closer. Will wondered how it had even caught him. It seemed broken, disfigured, clumsy—yet unstoppable.

It didn’t matter.

A tremble ran through his body—perpetual now. 

The creature gripped his unharmed ankle, then sharp claws pushed Will down into the moss. The stars glittered through the trees. The heavy weight of the creature pressed down on him. His breath felt heavy. 

Cold hands pushed his right eyelid apart and the creature leaned over him to study his eye. Will stared into nothing but teeth, a jagged scar and darkness.

His breath puffed out in short, uneven bursts.

He didn’t want to die.

It rasped above him, a low, broken hum, as Will strained to move, to throw the creature off, but its weight was merciless. A hand clamped around his throat, holding him still. Slowly, deliberately, the other hand lifted—long black nails glinting as it crooked a finger toward his right eye.

Will knew.

It would drive that nail beneath his eyelid, curve deep into the socket, and scoop the eye whole from its place, tearing it free with a wet, deliberate rip.

I’ll do anything.

The thought struck unbidden, but true.

“Hannibal,” he whispered.

A plea.

For his life—and for the forest god.

Will squeezed his eyes shut, certain he would regret it, yet knowing there was no other path.

“I’ll do anything.”

The creature froze above him, then slowly turned its gaze away.

A ripple passed through the forest, as though the woods themselves groaned.

Silence.

“I accept.” 

The words slithered through the clearing—less a sound than the forest itself drawing breath and speaking.

Chapter Text

The name of the man was unimportant.

What had been of importance was his gift—to the forest and to Hannibal, its god.

He had been a travelling merchant, who far too late realised his mistake in venturing inside Hannibal’s forest. While the forest gave—and gave in abundance during the day, the night was not of a giving, or forgiving, nature.

The man was travelling alongside his wife and newborn son. Youthful and strong, he did not realise his mistake before the darkness fell over their camp. The fire they had built to keep themselves warm was a beacon in the darkness. The wife stood no chance.

Lost to Hannibal’s puny, but oh-so-hungry, creatures.

Her screams echoing through the forest.

This, of course, was nothing new. Many got either lost or thought it safe to travel through his forest. 

Hannibal had paid it little to no mind—only enjoying the concord of musical cries fluttering along his leaves and roots.

The merchant, with his strong legs, had run through the forest, child pressed tightly against his chest. Past tree after tree. Eyes wild and tears streaming down his cheeks. Hannibal’s hungry children at his heels.

All of this, Hannibal had seen through his trees—indeed, through the very leaves.

He expected sharp teeth ripping into flesh. The human feeding the never-ending hunger of his very being.

What he did not expect was for the merchant to come tumbling into the clearing.

A place only Hannibal and the invited entered.

His children, of course, did not pursue the merchant farther. They knew better than to enter his grounds, knowing his wrath was unforgiving and cruel.

The man seemed confused at first. Perhaps at suddenly finding himself alone, without sharp teeth nipping at his skin.

Curious for reasons he could not explain, Hannibal had entered the clearing. Allowing the stars to illuminate his frame as he stepped up to stand before the stone slab—his shrine.

His antlers were large and wondrous.

His godly shape a blessing upon human eyes.

The merchant had noticed him quickly, as all lesser beings did, and trembled in fear. Clutching the bundle of cloth closer to his chest.

Then, much to Hannibal’s surprise, he had stumbled on quivering legs towards his shrine. Falling to his knees in front of Hannibal and then—awfully, selfishly delightful—pushing the small bundle over the stone slab.

Head bowed down in submission, hands gripping the grass. “Please,” he begged. “I’ll give him to you. An offering for my safe passage. Please,” a pitiful gasp. “Let me pass.”

Never had he received a gift such as that, never willingly, and Hannibal felt honoured. He leaned down to carefully push the soft cloth away. A twitch of his inky hands and then he bowed down to gather the bundle in his arms. 

Two large, blue eyes stared up at him from the white blanket. Unafraid and curious. Reminding Hannibal of sparkling blue waters and twinkling rivers.

“Beautiful,” Hannibal murmured as the child reflexively gripped one of his sharp fingers. A child, so very much alive and only a few months old. A gift—for him.

A soft whimper rose from the man on the ground. Hannibal’s gaze slid to the man for mere moments, a twitch of annoyance at the disturbance, before his attention returned to his offering.

“I shall do no harm to you,” he whispered and turned from the man. Now unimportant.

The merchant blubbered wet thanks as he turned and ran out of the clearing. Leaving Hannibal with the child—now Hannibal’s—in his hands.

Hannibal wondered how far the merchant would make it. While he could do no harm, as promised, his forest creatures had promised no such thing.

It was not long until shrill screams rose from his forest.

A delighted shiver ran up along his back. He swept a hand over the child’s forehead, brushing against warm skin, and leaned closer to murmur. 

“Pay it no mind.”

The child had been offered—promised to him. And while Hannibal had every intention of keeping his gift, he was no fool. He was aware of its humanity and the frailty of it. As of yet.

The best course of action would be for his gift to grow into an adult body in safe environments.

Waiting a couple of decades or more posed no issue.

As such, it was only the next day that a gathering of hunters found themselves in an unknown clearing and stumbled upon one Will Graham.

And Hannibal had been patient.

So very indulgent of his gift’s sprouting.

Thus, a mere three and a half decades passed before Hannibal lulled his gift to sleep one sunny day by the lake. While he was not impatient, his promised’s soft hair and sun-kissed skin were too enticing to leave alone.

The ensuing adjustments were inevitable—and necessary. 

How he allowed that pitiful, disfigured creature to drag itself closer and closer to the village.

How an impertinent man and his family ate his fish and subsequently paid for their transgression.

None would have the audacity to judge him unreasonable.

Hannibal was benevolent and giving.

Indeed, he was purely claiming what was his from the very start.

The creature threw itself from Will, who grunted in pain as it jostled his wounded leg. It twirled frantically around, its heavy imitation of wings uprooting moss and tugging at its balance. A harsh cry pulled itself from its throat—desperate and sad.

It appeared afraid, much to Will’s relief.

“No!” it cried into the darkness.

“They’re mine!”

The forest was silent apart from the subtle rustling of leaves.

“How dare you oppose us! We shall rise—” the creature spat, liquid dripping from its teeth. Seemingly black in the night. “Puny god! Reveal yourself and be judged!” Its wings twitched on the ground, incapable of anything more.

Will could not help but pity it. Even as his heart hammered away in his chest and pain seared up his lower leg.

An indulgent chuckle ran through the chilly air.

From everywhere and nowhere all at once.

He looked between the trees but found nothing. Only darkness.

Then, suddenly, the creature’s yammering and cries ceased. Will, afraid it would set upon him again, snapped his head back towards it and tried to push himself up.

And there—looming over the creature as though pulling it into an embrace—stood Hannibal. The winged, pitiful being had gone completely still and was merely staring up at the antlered god. Hannibal was cradling the creature’s face in an oddly intimate manner—familiar to how Hannibal had cradled his face many times. Only, this was different. Colder.

“It has been some time since I’ve tasted a pathetic creature such as you,” Hannibal whispered, and swiftly ripped into its face. The sound of teeth grinding through flesh and bone alike with horrifying ease spilled across the forest.

The creature gurgled—a wet scream rippling out from its mouth.

Will flinched, but could run nowhere. Had nowhere to run.

Once, then twice, Hannibal dug into its face, hands cradling it close as his teeth mutilated its face, before he withdrew. He chewed thoughtfully and let go of the creature, who tumbled to the ground. Painful whimpers and cries shook its frame as it cradled its face.

Hannibal sent it a disinterested glance and then moved towards the skull.

The skull that had been tucked so lovingly and safely on a bed of moss.

As he approached it, the creature whipped its head towards Hannibal. Blood sprayed across the ground at the movement. It reached out a trembling hand.

“Reba.”

The skull was crushed with quiet efficiency and cruelty beneath Hannibal’s bare foot.

The creature stilled, blood dripping from its ruined face. Then a soft whimper, hollow and soul-wrenching. It crawled across the ground, dragging itself and its massive malformations towards the broken pieces. It tried to gather the fragments close, curling around them by Hannibal’s feet.

Hannibal was simply staring down at it for an instant, before he turned away from it—seemingly satisfied. He approached Will, who could not help his instinctive recoil at the god’s approach.

“Why do you withdraw, beloved?” Hannibal asked, hesitating in his advance.

Will pushed himself up on one leg, murmuring an apologetic, “I’m sorry.” He hissed in pain at the movement. Trembling fingers hovering over his wound.

Hannibal continued his approach and sank down in front of Will. Then he gathered Will’s leg in a careful grasp, before leaning close with his face. The previous scene of Hannibal’s teeth digging into hard flesh and ripping with ease fluttered across Will’s mind, but he held still.

A long, warm tongue brushed firmly against his wound—painless.

Will could not help but stare. A single brush along the open skin, leaving a dark trail and suddenly, no pain.

Hannibal released his now unmarred leg and remained kneeling by Will’s legs, gazing upon him.

“There is nothing to fear from me.”

He rose with ease and towered over Will, who merely looked into his eyes.

A satisfied tug at Hannibal’s lips.

“You are mine now.”

Will inhaled slowly and closed his eyes.

I’ll do anything.

His own words were playing themselves over and over in his head.

An exhale slipped out as he allowed his body to relax. Knowing that his forest god might twist the truth, but not outright lie.

A huff and then he stared tiredly back at the god. Will tilted his head towards the crouching creature. It had yet to move and was continuously scouring the nearby ground for missing fragments of its lover.

“Are you alright with leaving it like that?”

Hannibal seemed interested in other matters and brushed a hand over Will’s cheek instead. Already forgetting the sad creature.

Will lifted an eyebrow at him in question.

A hand brushed over his lips and then back along his cheek.

“Really—” Will began.

“It left humanity in hope of a better fate for its lover. The destruction of her—” Will’s eyes slid to the white fragments in the creature’s hands. Hannibal continued. “It means its death. Painfully. Excruciatingly—and worse than any death I could give.” His lips twitched in something reminding Will of a smile.

At that, he cradled Will’s face and leaned down to press their lips together. It was much more tender than the first time. Lovingly and intimately, warm lips brushed at Will’s, who could not help but let his eyes slide shut.

Was there anything to resist?

He’d said anything.

Hannibal all but purred into his mouth and licked across Will’s lips and teeth—obscenely.

Will felt Hannibal push him backwards and he allowed the god to lead him a few steps back. Hannibal’s lips were firmly pressed against his.

He was expecting to be pushed against the back of a tree or down against the moss. However, suddenly, the back of his knees thumped against something, forcing him to sit down. Hannibal withdrew as Will sat.

The clearing greeted Will in all its serenity.

The creature and the moss-covered ground nowhere in sight. Under him the stone slab and above them the starry night.

Hannibal stood tall between his legs. Oddly quiet.

“Please,” he began. “Beloved.”

The endearment made Will’s eyebrows raise in surprise and he stuttered out a soft, “Yes?”

“Let me have you,” the forest god pleaded.

The request made Will’s mouth fall open in shock. “You’re giving me a choice?”

Hannibal shifted uncomfortably above him, before a soft nod tilted his head. “Always.”

Will couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled from his mouth. Hannibal appeared confused at his response and pursed his lips in an oddly human manner.

“I’m sorry,” Will said, shaking his head. “It’s just—you’re not above manipulating me into giving everything away to you—”

Hannibal huffed.

“I’m not a complete fool—” Will said. “And while I’m not the quickest at realising things. It’s just awfully convenient that that creature created such a disturbance in the village—the disappearing families and such… And that I, in my anger at the village people, broke our agreement.” He laughed quietly at himself—at the situation. “Resulting in my near death and honestly, quite predictable plea to you.”

Hannibal had the decency to appear slightly apologetic.

Will snorted. “I should’ve known better than to think I could outplay an ancient forest god. Guess it’s good you’re not going to eat me.”

Hannibal blinked at that.

“Am I not?”

Will frowned, confused. As Hannibal leaned closer, pushing Will carefully down so he was lying across the stone, his mind caught up and Will flushed.

“Oh, well—”

Hannibal slid an inky hand over Will’s chest, down his stomach and further along the side of his leg. 

“Let me have you,” he repeated.

Swallowing, Will wondered what would happen if he said no.

And if he wanted to.

A soft caress on his cheek and then Hannibal leaned down, face hovering above Will’s. Their lips almost touching.

“Please.”

A hand resting over Will’s hips.

“Let me have you.”

A slow press of lips, before Hannibal withdrew to whisper.

“I have been patient.” A painful note. “I have waited decades for you.”

A soft oh slipped from Will’s mouth.

He’d demand answers later on.

Meanwhile, he swallowed and nodded slowly.

Hannibal tutted. “Say it. Only words and names have power.”

The clearing was silent.

Will hoped he wouldn’t regret it. He probably would, but it was too late for that now.

Closing his eyes and deciding that going with it willingly would—hopefully—bring him the least worry, he nodded.

His eyes slid open. “Take me.”

A delighted groan rumbled from Hannibal.

Then, a firm press of lips and a tongue, too long to belong to any human, pushing itself into his mouth. Across his teeth and into his mouth, curling around Will’s tongue. He groaned into the kiss. Spit running down his chin.

A clawed hand ran across his chest, easily catching at his shirt and ripping into it, but leaving his skin untouched. Down towards his pants, which were undone and pulled down with ease. His shoes fell off his feet—as though tugged off by unknown hands.

The sudden nakedness left Will with a sudden feeling of self-consciousness.

Hannibal pulled away from the kiss and gazed upon him.

“Beautiful,” a faint whisper.

And at that, with surprising ease and strength, Hannibal flipped Will onto his stomach.

The stone was cool under his palms.

He felt Hannibal press close against his back.

A hand slid across his body. Another through his hair. And another—too many hands to belong to one being. One sliding the pants completely off his legs and another closing around his half-hard cock.

Will gasped.

Fingers slid into his mouth, prying it open and closing around his tongue.

“Feel me,” Hannibal commanded behind him.

Will inhaled sharply and tried to glance behind himself. The fingers in his mouth stayed stubbornly, but he managed a quick look at—

At two large antlers, clearly visible against the night sky. Hannibal’s torso from which several arms sprouted—inky and overwhelming. All pulling at Will. Pleasing him and caressing him.

He made a muffled sound around the fingers massaging his tongue.

Hannibal leaned close, whispering. “Do not fear.” A thumb pushing against the tip of his erection. “I would never hurt you on purpose.”

Oh god.

What had he agreed to?

A hand tugged at his hair as the grasp tightened around his cock. He groaned.

Fingers and palms—too many—running down his back, down along his arse before dipping into his hole with shocking ease. Something soft and squishy, reminding Will of slick lotion, squelched as the finger—now two—pushed back and forth.

“Wha—” Will tried to say, muffled around the fingers in his mouth.

However, no reply was given.

Hannibal was merciless, ignoring Will’s confused mutters and digging two fingers, then three inside him. Pulling, curling and twisting. Other fingers joining only to massage the soft tissue around his entrance as it was pulled and stretched.

The sound of drenched fingers twisting inside him and Will’s soft moan fluttered into the night.

A fourth finger pressed against him and he shivered. Delirious and somehow, not feeling anything other than pleasure.

Every hand and thus, touch withdrew. Pulling away from working him open and leaving his mouth entirely. It left Will feeling oddly empty.

A shiver ran through his body.

Then, Hannibal pulled at his right arm as one inky limb slid around Will's waist to pull him up and close against Hannibal.

Will stared up at the stars.

“You are mine,” Hannibal said, but a whisper in his ear, and pushed his cock inside Will—firm and certain. Like any forest god—who had all the time in the world.

His breath left him in a slow exhale.

When their hips were pressed completely against each other, Will felt a soft, satisfied breath leave Hannibal. A hand slid across his throat, then down—resting over his heart.

A moment of silence—of Will’s overwhelmed gasps and Hannibal’s quiet pleasure.

Hannibal’s heat—his erection—inside him felt like a brand. Will felt hot—warm and odd.

Will grasped Hannibal’s hand, which was resting over his heart, and gasped. “I don’t feel right.”

“You will.”

At that, Hannibal withdrew slowly and thrust back into Will.

He gasped and clenched his eyes shut, the movement brushing against something. It sent pleasurable ripples up along his lower back. Their bodies were pressed so close, the only sensation Hannibal’s cock thrusting into him. Grinding inside, then withdrawing to repeat the movement.

The slick, smooth liquid from earlier seemed to fill him with every thrust, slipping out at every thrust. He heard it splash against the stone underneath them in thick droplets.

“What’s that?” Will grunted between thrusts.

“A gift,” Hannibal whispered. Quiet and unaffected by his harsh movements.

Before the reply could cause any panic, pain bloomed across his head. Will’s breath stuttered and he whimpered in pain.

It felt like knives cutting into tissue and bone—pushing from inside his skull and out.

Will gasped. Partly from pain and partly from the sheer pleasure caused by Hannibal’s press inside.

“I—”

A hand gripped Will’s erection—not moving—but firm and present. It was enough. Will shuddered and came, impossibly.

Hannibal stilled behind him, but remaining inside. 

The agony continued to increase. Pulsing and pushing.

Growing.

Will, unable to stay conscious, felt his eyes roll back.

The stars above disappearing into darkness.

Hannibal withdrew with the utmost care from Will. The liquid of life sloshing out from Will’s entrance to paint the stone black, even in the dark.

He lowered Will with gentle reverence down to his—their—shrine.

Then, with careful touch, he brushed Will’s tousled hair away to caress the bone—the antlers—breaking through the skin.

They would grow larger in time.

Possibly, as large as his own.

With a faint sigh of satisfaction, he leaned down to gather the smaller man close to his chest. And then, Hannibal, the god of the forest, exited the clearing with his new—and promised—companion.

The river slithered lazily past Will, who was sitting crouched by the river edge. His bare feet only just dipping into the shallow part, drenching his pants.

He gathered water in the palm of his hand and stared. The tips of his fingers had begun to darken—as though he had dipped them into ink and forgotten to clean them afterwards.

Will sloshed the water over his face and sighed in pleasure.

“You don’t have to hover,” he muttered. Gazing peacefully at the moving water.

Hannibal was standing close by—as he always did nowadays—just under a large oak.

“It’s not like I can go anywhere…” Will huffed and pushed his hand down along the riverbed.

“Do you want to?”

Will pushed a hand over his head, feeling up along his right antler. While nowhere close to Hannibal’s antlers, they had grown to be visible through his hair now. He chuckled and stood, turning to trudge towards Hannibal.

As he stopped before Hannibal, the god immediately stepped closer to push his hands into Will’s hair. Brushing along his scalp and affectionately touching along his antlers. Will allowed the touch and studied Hannibal’s content face.

“No,” Will began. “I suppose I don’t.”

And much to his own surprise, it was true.

Now Hannibal had probably twisted and forged much more than Will had realised. However, Will had to accept that he had lost that game.

For now.

A quiet laugh slipped from his mouth and Hannibal stilled, hands slipping down to Will’s nape. Resting there—warm and pleasant. Will tilted his head in a speechless call.

The now familiar sound of delight rumbled from Hannibal. He leaned down to press his lips against Will’s.

Possessive and adoring—consuming. 

Will supposed he could live with that.

The End