This was written for the Dreamwidth Hannibal kink meme in 2013.
Prompt: "i really just want a fanfic where Hannibal ties Will to a bed and starts to have sex with. I'd like him to start cutting will with a knife and playing with his blood while doing it so, until he rips Will open."
He's still clueless regarding Hannibal's identity, but he's getting too close. He has the potential to ruin things. He's too clever or Hannibal's too careless; either way, Will has to die tonight. Curiosity kills the cat, as they say.
He was invited over and given a lovely last meal. Didn't suspect a thing. Even with all his wits about him, the fight he put up when being dragged to the bedroom was laughable, mostly frantic attempts to squirm out of Hannibal's grip rather than retaliate in any way. Like a child, really. Of course it would be easiest - and perhaps kindest - to simply pop a bullet between his eyes or knock him unconscious before proceeding with this. But no.
There is no tarp across the bed. There is no raincoat. There aren't even any gloves. This is personal, this is ceremonial. This is different.
The leather restraints are already prepared, secured around each bedpost. His shouts of protest have not devolved into begging yet; the fight left in him makes Will seem more angry than afraid, which only arouses Hannibal more. He slams Will down onto the bed and straddles him, his weight holding him down as the cuffs are fastened around his wrists, every flailing attempt at clawing Hannibal's eyes out having been easily parried. With that taken care of, its easy to move down, hold his kicking legs and secure those restraints as well.
A black leather bit gag is slid between his teeth and secured too tight behind his head. Pity to miss out on the interference-free version of the cries and screams, but Hannibal doesn't have the patience for all the words, all the questioning and subsequent bargaining he knows would come out. What a shame he will never get to hear Will moan his name in his ear when he comes. Hannibal threads his fingers through Will's hair, pushing it back out of his brilliant blue eyes.
Will's plaid shirt is ripped open, revealing his chest, rising and falling quickly with panicked breaths. His pants and underwear are tugged down past his hips while he watches with wide eyes. The presence of the restraints means the garments can't be done away entirely, but Hannibal pulls and tears enough to make sure mobility is not an issue and they are not distracting.
The scene is set. Hannibal unbuttons his vest methodically, drops it over the side of the bed, rolls up his sleeves. His hair's fallen out of place from their tussle and a few strands are in his eyes as he looms over Will, whose pointy canine teeth are sunk into the gag and whose breaths come hard and fast like the dawn of one of his panic attacks. Hannibal shushes him soothingly, splays fingers across his chest and runs his thumbs along his hipbones. His knees are between Will's. He unfastens his belt and leans over the bed to fish something out of the nightstand. When he sees the bottle of lubricant, Will puts up a renewed fight, thrashing so hard the bed creaks beneath their weight. It's no use. In under a minute, Hannibal's inside, splitting him apart.
His screams are delightful even through the gag.
It's hard to say whether it's patience or cruelty that makes Hannibal take his time. He's pushed in to the base but he gives Will time to adjust, leaning over and dragging his teeth up his chest and along his neck, breath hot in his ear, lips grazing the tears falling from closed eyes. There's something warm mingling with the lubricant below and Will's face has turned bright red with pain, eyes still screwed shut and tears and snot mingling on his upper lip. Hannibal rocks into him slowly, hands holding on to the other man's hips, until finally he has to bite back moans. Easy now; this is far from over. He pauses and leans back, kneeling above Will, still inside him.
Hannibal retrieves something else from the nightstand drawer.
"I believe this is the part where I tell you we can do this the easy way or the hard way." It's a knife. A hunting knife, specifically, with a gut hook on the end of its sharpened five-inch blade. "But I will spare such theatrics, as there really is no easy way."
Will's heart pounds so hard he can hear it pulsing in his ears and drowning out his breathing, drowning out everything. Hannibal's toying with his prey. The edge of the cold steel trails along Will's biceps and then along his jaw - a move which makes him freeze entirely, breathing hard through his nose like a bull in a ring. Hannibal's head tilts to the side, studying Will and his reactions with interest.
The first incision is short, diagonal, from the base of his neck down past his collarbone and to his chest. Not at all that deep, but the blood still comes and his body still tenses all over again from the pain, tugging at the restraints. Cold steel penetrating warm flesh. More searing pain. Hannibal practically coos at the sight, at the sensation of Will tightening around him.
Blood's oozing slowly down one side of Will's chest in dark, dark rivulets. Hannibal trails his fingertips through it, then cups Will's cheek with his left hand, running his thumb along his jaw, leaving behind smears of blood. Knife held between his teeth, his right hand dips between Will's legs, palming his limp cock, coating it in blood.
He does not wait long before making the second slice, just below his ribcage.
The blade easily parts through the soft tissue and the bloodflow is stronger this time, the cut deeper. Even the beautiful aftermath of the Hobbs scene - the slick solid coating of blood up to Will's elbows, flecks on his cheeks and glasses, catalogued forever in Hannibal's mind - pales in comparison to this. To the sight of his wriggling hips and heaving chest smeared and soaked with blood, every muscle taut, every breath choked with fear.
It's been minutes. The sheets are soaked. The mattress is probably unsalvageable. Will's near hypovolemic shock, eyes having trouble focusing, skin pale and glistening and cold as a corpse's, thoughts hazy. Hannibal unfastens the gag and lets it fall from Will's lips, confident he's well past vocalization. Indeed, he's a husk now, on the brim of consciousness, his world a blur of shapes and colours and muffled sound and pain. He's lost hope. No one will kick the door down before this is over. No one will know.
Pressing a palm down onto his bloodied abdomen to steady him, Hannibal rocks his hips into Will again, slowly, almost gingerly, letting his lips part in awe of the sight before him. He thrusts harder, moans finally slipping out. His hands slide up along Will's chest until they reach his throat, closing in, thumbs pressing down to choke him, not enough to allow him to lose consciousness but enough to make him gasp and gurgle and open his eyes wide for just a moment. Hannibal's fucking him at a near-jackhammer pace now, staring down, expressionless until finally his jaw drops and his back arches through his climax. Blood comes up with Will's coughs when he lets go of his neck and its just too tempting; Hannibal hungrily crashes their lips together, tasting his blood for the first time, kissing those lips for the first - and last - time.
It takes a while for the room to stop spinning, for him to come down from the delicious high and resume the task at hand. Will's breathing is laboured, shallow and erratic in contrast to his earlier frenzied state. He's limp, arms held up only by the cuffs and straps on the bedposts. Hannibal runs a bloody hand through his own hair, slicking it back into place. Without taking his eyes off Will's, he reaches back and picks up the knife again.
The tip of the blade is poised at the manubrium of Will's sternum. The handle is gripped in Hannibal's clenched fist. Even this far gone from blood loss, Will has the awareness to look up with pleading, glassy eyes. There's even a shake of his head from side to side.
Hannibal plunges the knife in as far as it will go and drags it down the length of Will's torso, a straight, clean cut.
He sets the knife down, hooks his fingers into the sides of the wound and pulls, peeling back the skin. Five inches deep is more than enough to break past the thin layer of fat, vibrant yellow in hue. There are so many purples and reds and yellows all slathered behind a curtain of blood. Will tips his head forward, getting a terrifying last look at the scene before his head falls backward and he goes completely limp and his eyes roll back in his head, lids fluttering. Tiny tremors momentarily jolt his body.
Having not brought the necessary tools to crack apart his ribs, Hannibal has to reach up inside, under them, behind and between the lungs still in motion, until his fingers finally curl around the still-beating heart. When he rips it out a new fountain of blood spews forth. The pericardium covers it like a bad Photoshop filter that reduces the contrast too much and it dies in his palm.
This is a meal he will not share with anyone.