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Hannibal stopped in the doorway of the hospital room.
Will was already there, standing at the foot of the bed, looking at Margot’s sleeping form.
Hannibal studied him silently, took in the straight line of his back, and the slow, steady rise and fall of his shoulders. He stood perfectly still, radiating calm. Hannibal inhaled quietly. The corner of his mouth tugged up as he breathed in the exquisite scent of Will’s anger, boiling deep inside him, held tightly to his core. Hannibal knew it would not last. Will’s control would snap. He would lash out, and Hannibal could only hope that he would be allowed to witness it.
After one last intake of breath, one last indulgence, Hannibal crossed the threshold, and came to stand beside him. He barely spared a glance at Margot, to take in her state. What happened had to happen. Nothing could be done about it.
He tried to catch Will’s gaze. Will did not acknowledge his presence. His expression did not betray the storm of anger raging in his mind. His eyes did. Now that he stood close, Hannibal could see the muted flame flickering inside them, laying a dark sheen over bright blues. Although fixed on Margot, his eyes were looking past her, already shimmering with thoughts of retaliation.
A beat. Two. Will slowly turned on his heel, avoiding Hannibal’s gaze, and left the room.
Hannibal tapped his palms on his apron to wipe off the excess water. He chanced a glance out the window. Tonight was an inky, moonless night. Cold and silent. A fresh layer of snow had covered the tire tracks his car had left earlier in the day. He looked at his watch. It was getting late. Too late for Will to come. The anticipation that had been singing in his belly all evening was dying with every minute that ticked by. Disappointment crept into his mind, souring the sweet aftertaste of dinner. He turned to the kitchen island, and grabbed the last glasses to put them away as well.
He stilled when the sound of familiar footsteps broke the silence of the room. He lifted his chin and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. His lips stretched into a smile. The faint smell of blood and the reek of an atrocious aftershave, both drowned under the scent of Will blew away the disappointment, sent blood and anticipation rushing through his veins. He allowed himself to bask in it, then forced the pleased smile into a polite one. The cupboard clicked shut and he turned on his heels.
“Good evening, Will,” he said, leaning forward to rest his hands on the kitchen island, “I was wondering whether you’d come at all tonight.”
Will stood in the doorway, staring at him through thick eyelashes. He wore different clothes from this morning, in the hospital, although still maintained the elegant image he had chosen as one of his weapons since he resumed his therapy. It stirred something in Hannibal to know that Will was dressing up—preening—for him. But in this moment, he could see nothing but the gleam in his eyes. They held none of the charming arrogance he has been sporting for the past couple weeks.
He looked delightfully livid.
After a few seconds—or was it hours—of silence, Will turned on his heels to leave the kitchen, throwing over his shoulder, “Upstairs. Now.”
Hannibal sucked in laboured breaths, struggling to fill his burning lungs. He was starting to feel the strain of the position Will put him in; face down on the mattress, knees under him, keeping his hips up and presenting his backside. His legs were trembling—his whole body was—and threatened to give under his weight. Each time he would tense up to keep his balance, the pain would flare anew.
He swallowed around a lump in his throat, breathed in deeply, willing his body to relax. His limbs were beginning to numb, so he moved his ankles, found the cuffs of the spreader bar just as tight as Will had fastened them. They did not loosen up despite all his tugging. For tonight, Will had selected cuffs without felt interior, and though Hannibal had at first appreciated the feel of cold leather, it was now painfully digging into his skin, no doubt leaving bruises and abrasions. He wriggled his hands, shoved between his legs and tied to the middle of the bar, and gave an experimental tug on the cuffs. He clenched and unclenched his fingers, trying to get blood to circulate through them.
The position kept his entrance exposed and stretched the skin tight over his rear—enhancing every sensation, magnifying the pain. Heavy beads of sweat slid down his body, pooling between his shoulder blades and the back of his knees. He breathed in slowly to force his heart rate into a steadier rhythm, and rubbed his cheek against the fresh sheets, seeking comfort one last time before Will would take it from him again.
There was not much he could do to distract himself from the searing pain radiating under the skin of his buttocks and thighs, and each second ticking by left him panting in sweet agony as the pain sank deeper into him. He tried to concentrate on the pulsing heat, on the pleasure crawling up his spine, but each time he contracted his muscles, the pain flared back to the front of his mind. He could already picture the dark, raised welts blooming on his skin. They would stay for days. Every waking second he would feel them itch and throb. Will made sure of it. He was ferocious tonight.
Hannibal twisted his head to the other side of the bed, glancing at the rattan cane Will had abandoned beside him before he left the room a few minutes earlier. From Hannibal's collection of canes, all beautifully crafted—some by himself—Will had to pick an unfinished one. No varnish, no handle. He always did prefer intimacy.
The door creaked open, and Will’s familiar footsteps echoed in the room. Hannibal gingerly turned his head to look at him. He had come back with a glass and a bottle of his best whiskey. They locked eyes, and Will gently pushed the door with his hip, not hard enough to close it completely. He brought the glass to his mouth, taking a slow sip.
“Miss me?” he asked over the rim.
“Yes. Welcome back.” Hannibal's voice cracked on the last word, sore and wheezy.
Will came closer. He put the bottle and glass on the nightstand, and circled the bed to retrieve the cane. Hannibal followed him with his eyes until he could not. He disappeared from his line of sight to go back to the closet. Hannibal heard him open the bottom drawer again, and rummage inside. Will took his time, drew out the moment, let the anticipation and apprehension grow inside him.
“You knew what would happen.”
“I had… hopes,” Hannibal rasped out.
The drawer clicked shut and Will came back to him, the sharp sound of his heels clacking against the wooden floor sending shivers up Hannibal’s spine. Will stood on the other side of the bed this time, for backhanded strokes. Hannibal looked over his shoulder, saw the new cane Will chose—synthetic, long, thin—and could not suppress a shudder quite fast enough. Will rolled his sleeves higher up, past his elbows, and Hannibal laid his head back on the bed, closed his eyes, took in several deep breaths. He heard the sharp, characteristic hiss of the cane being swished in the air before Will snapped it once on his own thigh, making him flinch at the sound.
Hannibal pressed his lips together when he felt the hard line of the cane across his buttocks, rubbing back and forth in a cruel caress.
“Did you hope for this too?” Will let the cane slide down Hannibal’s rear and over the back of his thighs, reviving the pain. “You know, Hannibal, if you want me to hurt you, you only need ask nicely. You know I wouldn’t deny you.” He tapped the cane on the welts, and Hannibal clenches his teeth, keeping perfectly still. “There is no need for all these provocations.”
Hannibal’s chin snapped up when the cane hit him with a sharp crack. He bit his lip, holding back a cry. The small respite Will offered him while he went to fetch the whiskey only worsened the intensity of the pain now.
“Twenty-one,” he forced through gritted teeth. “Thank you.”
Will waited, taking his time. In a mix of empathy and practice, he had become quite familiar with the thin, blurry frontier between Hannibal’s pain and pleasure. He knew where Hannibal was the most sensitive, which places to hit to send him either reeling in agony or delirious with pleasure. The cane did not bounce, he let it dig into Hannibal’s skin and allowed the feeling to sink in. Will knew how to drag out every sensation he could from him. He let Hannibal's skin register the flash of cutting pain, the searing heat that followed in its wake, the vibrations spreading to his core. He let the sense of surrender and submission, and the waves of pleasure crawl up his spine, leaving Hannibal breathless. Just before blowing it all away with another stroke. He let Hannibal taste heaven only to rip it from him again.
Will lined the next stroke, rubbing the cane just below the first, where Hannibal knew another red welt had bloomed. “Have I been neglecting you?” A couple more seconds, long enough for the pain to subside, and Will lifted the cane again, snapped it on his bruised skin.
Hannibal bit back another cry, breath held into his lungs as he refrained from tugging on the cuffs around his wrists. Pain. Heat. He let out his breath in a quiet sigh. Surrender. His body relaxed again, although his chest was still heaving. Pleasure.
It took him a second to find his voice. “Twenty-two. Thank you.”
“Maybe once a week isn't enough after all,” Will mused aloud. He swished the cane in the air, making it hiss, and Hannibal forced his eyes open again. He saw Will twisting the cane in his hand with delicate turns of his wrist, before waving it some more.
“Please—” Hannibal’s voice cracked again. “Please, refrain from doing this,” he rasped out, as gently and politely as he could. “It’ll damage the—” He gasped when the next stroke landed across both cheeks just below his entrance—his most sensitive spot—darkening yet another burning line. Pain. Heat. He swallowed hard. Surrender. A bead of sweat rolled on his lashes and he pressed his face into the sheets again, panting heavily through his mouth. Pleasure. “Twenty-three,” he hissed, thighs quivering. “Thank you.”
“Maybe we should change for daily punishments? I suppose nothing short of this would curb your… strong proclivity for provocation.”
The hiss of the cane was all the warning Hannibal got before it bit into the crease of his thigh. Pain. Heat. He squeezes his eyes shut, the muscles in his buttocks tensing in reflex. He wondered if the skin would break. Maybe it already did. He drew in shuddering breathes through his nose. Surrender. Pleasure. “Twenty-four. Thank you.”
“I might need some help then, you know how tight my schedule is. Maybe we should ask Alana? What do you think? What would she think, seeing you like this. Would she accept to beat you, bend you? Break you?” Will lined up the next stroke. “Sweet, caring, blind. Perfect for your deceptions. But unsuited to provide you what you really need,” he added softly.
Hannibal could not help himself, “Is this jealousy I hear?”
A beat of silence.
Pain. Heat.
Will laid two, three, fourfivesix—
“Will!”
One last savage hit, wrenching a scream from Hannibal’s throat and Will stopped. The pain sank into him, sharp as a knife, hot as a brand. A long, guttural whine pushed past his lips. He struggled against his restraints, trying to move and relieve some the pain. They did not give. His skin burned. His whole body was trembling, muscles spasming and tensing up. Surrender. It was only pride that stopped him from begging.
“Watch your mouth, Hannibal. Or I might have to wash it with soap. Though you could benefit from it, considering what you put in it everyday.”
Hannibal did not answer, pressed his lips together. Even in the throes of pain he would not betray himself. The cane rubbed his skin right over the cuts it just drew and Hannibal let out a soft whimper, trying to escape the agonising caress. Pleasure. He tugged on the cuffs around his wrists, tried to draw his legs closer. The restraints held on tight.
“Lost your tongue?” Will tapped the cane over the cuts.
Hannibal clenched his teeth. His vision started to blur, eyes watering up, and he rubbed his closed eyelids on the sheets. He sucked in ragged breaths, and slowly, gradually forced his muscles to relax again. “Wouldn’t you need to wash your mouth as well then?” he said quietly. “Considering we’ve shared numerous meals. And that you even provided the meat.”
He let out a startled cry when Will laid another stroke across his cheeks, just below his entrance again, making his hole flutter. Pain. Heat. His body tensed up, back rounding in a futile attempt at shielding his rear. His wrists yanked on the cuffs, almost sending him off balance. His toes curled up, legs almost folding under him, only held in place by the metal bar. Surrender. He sucked in shallow, ragged breaths, let them out in raspy gasps. Pleasure. A desperate ‘Again’ hung on the tip of his tongue, and he manages to hold it back, biting into his lower lip, almost breaking the tender skin. He rubbed his face against the bed, forced his body to relax.
Will went to the nightstand, twisting the cane in his hand with elegant, expert movements of his wrist. He retrieved his glass. With a quick twist of his arm, he threw the content at Hannibal’s face. Hannibal only had time to squeeze his eyes shut before the whiskey hit him. Thankfully, there was not nearly enough to soak the bed. Rivulets dripped down his hair and cheeks.
“You should have thought twice before sacrificing Margot.”
“I was only—”
“Curious? Of course, you were. You play with human lives like a child tearing insects apart. Because that’s what you are. A petulant, disobedient, stubborn brat. How many times will I have to discipline you?”
Will opened the bottle. Hannibal closed his eyes in anticipation of being doused in alcohol. His eyes flew open when Will poured it, not over his face, but over his backside. Will only let out a thin trickle, but each drop felt like a knife piercing the welts on his buttocks and thighs, searing, scathing. His shoulders shook as he took in harsh, uneven, erratic breaths. He pressed his lips together, exhaling through his nose.
“How many more sacrifices do you need? How many more lives will you take?” Satisfied to see Hannibal squirm at the additional pain, Will placed the bottle back on the nightstand, and took back his place at his side, lining his next stroke. He drew back his arm and snapped the cane on his wet skin. Pain. Heat. Hannibal cried out, voice muffled into the sheets. “What is it that you want, Hannibal. What will quench your hunger?”
Another cut to the back of his thigh tore a scream from him. And another. And another. And another. And—
Pain. Pain. Pain—
Hannibal yanked on the cuffs, twisting his body to try and escape the hits.
“Go on. Keep playing. Wind me up, and watch me go.” Will did not relent, laid stroke after stroke, did not let the pain subside. Ripped the pleasure apart. “See how well it goes for you.”
Hannibal tasted iron as his teeth sank into his bottom lip, and still he could not hold his voice. Each loud crack was drowned under a scream.
“I will break you, Hannibal. I’ll tear you apart.” Will punctuated each threat with a vicious stroke. “I’ll bend you until your spine snaps. I’ll flay the skin off your flesh. I’ll crush your bones under my feet.”
Hannibal’s voice gave out, cracked around one last, desperate scream. He could only wheeze out shaky breaths under Will’s assault.
“And you’re going to love it.” Crack. “You’re going to love.” Crack. “Every.” Crack. “Second.” Crack. “Of it.” Crack.
Pain. Pain. Painpainpainpain—
Hannibal’s pride died in his tears.
“Will, please,” he rasped out, barely more than a whisper. Will ignored his pleas, kept beating him until Hannibal could feel blood trickle down his thighs. He hissed at the added sting of the alcohol sipping into the wounds. He could not breathe, his lungs and face burned in agony and shame, his cheeks were stained with tear, sticky with sweat and saliva and alcohol. “Please, I—” the words stayed stuck inside his throat and he swallowed, forced them out, “I beg of you—”
Will did not stop. “Beg? Would you look at that; Hannibal Lecter, begging,” he sneered, snapping the cane on his thigh. “Maybe you should start praying as well. Find a god who will forgive you, offer you mercy and comfort. Because I sure as hell won't grant you any.” He delivered another harsh stroke, wrenching a sob out of Hannibal.
Something broke inside him. “Please stop.”
Will finally—finally—relented, and Hannibal’s body sagged in relief. He squeezed his eyes shut, panting heavily, shuddering breaths interspersed with quiet sobs. He almost lost his balance, and another soft caress of the cane made him tense up, holding his position. Will rubbed the cane over his calves and Hannibal flinched, turning his head to the other side. He wiped his tears on the bed, hiding his face in the soiled sheets. He could not bear Will’s gaze. Not like this. Pitiful, trembling, shoulders shaking with hiccups, face bloated and smeared with sweat, tears and alcohol. He pulled on the cuffs weakly, trying to roll his sore shoulders. His hands prickled where his nails had dug into his palms, piercing the skin.
The cane touched his abused skin again. Fear ripped through his stomach. “No—”
“How many?”
“Will, please I—” He jolted when Will tapped the cane on his skin.
“How many.”
“I didn’t—”
Another tap. “How. Many.”
He sucked in a breath, his heart thumping painfully inside his ribcage. How many? Where did he stop? How many more afterwards? Hannibal racked his brain through the thick fog of pain. He tried to retrace the last strokes, add those Will just administered. He could not—he did not—
The cane rubbed his skin. He shuddered.
“I don’t know,” he wheezed out. “I’m sorry. Please, Will, enough.” He held his breath, waiting for Will’s answer.
Will lowered the cane, placed it on the bed. Hannibal let a sigh of relief, stray tears falling off his lashes when he closed his eyes. For a long while, Will did not speak, did not move, did not leave. Hannibal stayed put, lest he changed his mind and picked up the cane again.
“Do you hate me?” Will asked eventually, low and quiet.
“No,” Hannibal said without hesitation.
Will considered his answer, running his nails over the welts, making him shiver. Hannibal pushed back against the touch, seeking more contact. The more Will denied him his skin, the harder Hannibal craved it. “Maybe you should.”
While tugged on the cuffs around Hannibal’s left wrist—only the left wrist—unfastening it. Once it was freed, Hannibal twisted his hand, stretching the skin, trying to relieve the soreness. He gasped when Will delivered a sharp slap on his abused rear, sending another wave of pain up his back.
“Have fun explaining those to Alana, Dr. Lecter.”
Hannibal did not answer, waited until Will left the room. He counted his breaths as the sound of Will’s footsteps softened, quieted down, until he could not hear them anymore. A couple more breaths, the front door creaked open and shut.
And then silence.
Hannibal reached for his right hand, unbuckled the cuff before moving to release his ankles. He struggled a bit, fingers trembling, strength momentarily gone. Once the restraints came off, he pushed the bar to the side, and slowly, gingerly lowered himself on the mattress, letting out a soft sigh. He brought his arms close to his chest and laid still, breathing deeply.
His skin was burning, throbbing, pulsing with pain. And yet his body was singing, an odd sense of satisfaction settling into him. He threw a glance over his shoulder, at the mirror on the wall, facing the bed. His rear and thighs were streaked with red and purple welts. Not an inch of skin was left untouched—how many cuts had he taken? Thirty, forty, fifty, he could not count them; all the lines blurred together—and rivulets of blood pearled where the skin had broken. Wonder overtook him, momentarily distracting him from the pain.
Will had left his mark on him, used him as his canvas. Made him into his design.
Hannibal inhaled deeply, savoured the sharp scent of Will’s anger that he knew would linger in the room long after he was gone, would lull him into sleep, haunt him in his dreams and, once there, torment him again.
He smiled to himself. Despite the pain, he could not bring himself to regret his actions.
Draped in cruelty, Will was sublime.