Work Text:
He finds the pretty little thing at a gay bar.
The boy’s eyes are wide and blue and hungry, the fake ID in his scuffed wallet still carrying the lingering scent of fresh ink. The bartender had carded the boy, but Hannibal knows he’d gone through the motions solely for appearances’ sake; the man behind the counter doesn’t care, not as long as they’re as beautiful as this one.
Mathias has always preferred them young.
The boy introduces himself as William - I mean, Will, everybody calls me Will - and he blushes the most fetching shade of pink when Hannibal places a casual, proprietary hand on one lean thigh. The boy’s jeans are faded from too many washes, the fabric worn thin and frayed at the knees, revealing glimpses of pale skin.
Mathias frowns, giving Hannibal a side-eye from behind the counter, but he doesn’t try to challenge Hannibal’s blatant claim on the boy. Hannibal gives him a polite smile back as he caresses his fingers along the inner seam of the boy’s jeans, making no effort to be subtle about what his hand is doing beneath the counter.
Mathias huffs out an irritated breath through his nose and turns his back to the two of them, walking to the other end of the counter where a group of women wearing cheap plastic tiaras and an alarming amount of pink are being obnoxiously loud as they talk about how someone named Mandy is way too sober and needs more Tequila shots.
Let him seethe, Hannibal thinks as he watches Mathias putting on a charming smile for the group as he prepares to take their order. There are plenty of other young and pretty things in the bar - he can very well pick someone else to be his entertainment tonight.
(”It’s always the good-looking ones who are gay,” one of the women says with an overtly theatrical air, shaking her head as she rakes her eyes up and down Mathias’ broad shouldered form, not even bothering to try and keep her voice down.
A muscle in the corner of Mathias’ right eye ticks, his smile growing strained at the edges. If Hannibal were more prone to empathy, he might almost feel sorry for him.)
Hannibal puts Mathias and the women out of his mind, turning his own charming smile to Will. The boy avoids meeting his eyes, but he leans closer towards Hannibal on his bar stool and spreads his thighs ever so slightly wider apart under the weight of Hannibal’s broad palm. What a sweet and eager thing, Hannibal thinks, faintly amused, and catches the attention of another bartender to get them a new round.
An hour and three drinks later finds them walking back to Hannibal’s place (three deceptively strong drinks for Will, one and a half sodas for Hannibal). It’s nearly a half an hour walk, the late-night air around them chilly, but Will doesn’t look like he minds; he walks pressed close against Hannibal’s side, fingers of one hand slid beneath the waistband of Hannibal’s dress trousers. The tips of them feel icy cold against Hannibal’s lower back, five pinprick points of chilly contact slowly growing warm from borrowed body heat.
When Will starts to shiver in his thin-worn jeans and a jacket he’d obviously chosen to wear more for its looks than for its warmth, Hannibal graciously drapes his own overcoat over his shoulders. Will smiles up at him, big and bright and sweetly drunk, and never once asks Hannibal why they didn’t just get a taxi.
Will’s face goes a little pale when he sees the interior of Hannibal’s house where every inch of space, every strip of wallpaper and carefully chosen piece of decoration and furniture tells the story of money, obscene amounts of money. Hannibal guesses it might seem intimidating, through the eyes of a young thing not accustomed to such luxuries.
Standing in the middle of Hannibal’s sitting room in his worn clothes and gangly limbs that he hasn’t quite yet grown into, Will fidgets nervously and eyes at the 18th century rococo couch on his right like he’s terrified of damaging it simply by breathing too near it. Sweet boy.
Hannibal smiles warmly at Will and walks to the mahogany bar cabinet, tucked away in the far corner of the room.
“Would you care for a drink, Will?”
“You have any whiskey?” the boy asks with the bravado of someone young and brazen who’s expecting to be challenged on his choice. Hannibal’s quite confident that whiskey isn’t exactly what Will would prefer, but he humours his young guest, letting the boy have his façade of mature taste.
“Whiskey it is.”
Hannibal pours himself a glass of cabernet sauvignon and fills another one with two fingers of sixteen year old Lagavulin (which the boy will not know how to appreciate, Hannibal’s sure). With his back towards Will, it’s only a moment's work to remove the clear plastic bag from his breast pocket and tip its contents into Will’s glass. The fine, white powder dissolves easily enough into the amber liquid with some slight stirring while Hannibal feigns to be concentrating on the label of the wine bottle to cover for his stalling.
“Here you go,” Hannibal says with a pleasant smile dancing on his lips when he walks back up to Will, handing him his glass. They sit down on the couch that Will had so dreaded, the boy slowly sipping his whiskey and making a valid effort to keep his grimace at the taste at bay.
Hannibal touches one bare knee through the tear in his jeans and talks to him softly until the rigidness begins to fall from Will’s posture. Will grows more relaxed next to him, telling Hannibal with a slight slur about some Drag King show he had been to recently, answering Hannibal’s questions about his night with ease. When Hannibal leans closer to place sweet kisses just below his jawline, the boy bends his neck obediently to the side to give him more room, sighing softly at the attention.
It takes Will fifteen minutes to empty his glass, ten more for his eyes to fall closed and his breathing to even out. Hannibal catches him when he threatens to slump to the floor, effortlessly hoisting his slight frame into his arms when he rises up to standing.
With Will unconscious and limp in his arms, Hannibal carries him down the concrete steps, into the basement.
Hannibal lays the boy down on his back on a stainless steel table and strips his lax body with practiced movements. In his stillness, in his nakedness, the boy is even more beautiful than before, transformed by drug induced unconsciousness into an unresisting canvas of pale skin just waiting to be elevated into something more by Hannibal’s hands.
There’s an assortment of meticulously arranged knives and scalpels on a steel trolley next to the table. The gleaming blades catch the light of the ceiling lamp, reflecting it brightly like the sun. Hannibal ponders over his options for a moment, eventually settling on a no. 22 blade.
He gets to work.
The boy’s skin parts below the scalpel, smooth as butter. Hannibal starts with shallow cuts, tracing beneath the boy’s collarbones and then downwards towards his navel in a play-act of vivisection. Blood rushes to the surface under the sharpness of the blade, beading on the cuts for a few precarious moments before overflowing in rivulets of red down the boy’s naked sides. The blood stains the operating table’s sterilized surface, gathering beneath the bend of the boy’s lower back in a puddle of glistening crimson.
Hannibal digs the blade into the boy’s flesh, shallower there, deeper here, his hand steady as he traces the scalpel like a paintbrush over previously unblemished skin. The ventilation’s good down here, but the smell of the boy’s blood is still unmistakable in the air, the iron of it strong against Hannibal’s sensitive nose.
Hannibal’s usually aroused during this part, and now’s no exception; inside his trousers, his cock throbs, half-hard with the potential of getting fully erect. It’s a sensation he usually doesn’t feel inclined to do anything about, especially not while he works, so it surprises him now when the thought comes to his mind that he should take the pretty little thing while there's still breath left in him, while the boy’s blood and body's still warm to the touch.
How curious. Hannibal lifts the blade from the boy’s skin and looks at his relaxed face, at the drops of fevered perspiration shining on his hairline. Such a small thing and such an eager thing, so trustingly following a strange, older man home like Hannibal couldn’t have simply snapped his neck with his bare hands the moment they stepped through the threshold.
The boy had been practically begging for this, for someone to take him apart and make him of use. Hannibal hadn’t planned for the boy to get penetrated by anything else but his knives, but now that the desire’s stirred in him, he sees no point in refusing himself.
The scalpel clatters sharply when he drops it into a steel bowl next to his collection of knives. He touches the boy’s chest, digging fingers inside a sluggishly bleeding wound just below his ribs, encouraging more blood to flow out until his fingers and palm are drenched with it.
Lifting one of the boy’s slender thighs up, Hannibal bends the boy’s knee back towards his marred chest, revealing the furled, little hole peeking between his cheeks. He doesn’t waste any time in pushing two of his blood coated fingers past the tight rim, forcing the boy’s unconscious body to let him in with firm jabs of his fingers. He’s quick with his preparations, opening the boy’s hole up just enough to make room for himself (Hannibal’s most likely tearing his channel during the process, but it’s hard to be sure with all the blood already there).
Hannibal opens his trousers and pulls himself out, giving a few strokes to his cock with his bloodied hand before fucking into the boy without further ceromony. And dear gods is the boy tight. It’s not the easiest thing to get his full length in after his hasty preparations, but with a handful of determined, sharp snaps of his pelvis, Hannibal manages to make the - now definitely tearing - hole accept him. He thrusts shallowly in and out for a while, rolling his hips, working the rim around him loose with the girth of his cock and encouraging the blood to flow more freely from the boy’s broken channel to ease with the worst of the friction.
Once the boy’s hole has slackened enough to allow Hannibal’s cock to fuck more easily into it, he sets to fucking the place he crafted for himself with slow, unhurried thrusts, rocking almost tenderly into the unconscious body beneath him, the boy’s lax frame jostling limply along the operating table’s blood slick surface with each push of Hannibal’s hips.
Hannibal’s hands leave bruises on the backs of the boy’s thighs when he forces both of his legs up and back, bending him nearly in half. He leans over the bleeding thing to kiss and bite at slack open lips until they’re shining with spit, growing ruby red and swollen with Hannibal’s attentions. He licks his way inside the boy’s mouth, tracing his tongue along the backs of dull teeth, against the smooth slick roof of his mouth, and absentmindedly wonders whether fucking down the boy’s throat would feel as good as fucking his vice-tight hole does.
Growing bored with playing with the boy’s mouth, Hannibal makes his way downwards, closing his teeth around a small, brown nipple that quickly grows hard under his touch. He gnaws and suckles at the sensitive little nub, bruising and breaking the skin around it, making new blood flow into his mouth which he eagerly swallows down, his eyes fluttering shut in contentment at the taste. For symmetry’s sake, Hannibal repeats the same ministrations on the other nipple too, the perfectionist in him finding it unacceptable to see such uneven damage on such a beautiful canvas.
There’s a part of Hannibal that mourns the fact that the boy's unconscious; were he aware enough to feel the way his virginally tight hole’s fucked, the way his body’s forced to bleed with red and flower with the most exquisite, purpling bruises, Hannibal's sure that the noises he'd be making would be more beautiful and satisfying to listen to than any opera he’s ever attended.
Maybe next time, the whisper of his thoughts says, Hannibal’s own mind surprising him once again. It’s an unexpected notion, keeping someone in his home, keeping someone outside of his freezer for a prolonged time, but now that the idea has entered Hannibal’s mind, he can’t help but find himself intrigued with it.
He could stitch up the too deep wounds, make it so the boy doesn’t bleed to death. He could keep him down here, in the basement, cleaned and fed and tucked away until Hannibal wishes to make use of his body again (and again, and again, and again...). The next time he felt that itch to have something beautiful in his hands to work over with his knives, he could simply come down here, into his own basement, to a body that’s already his, his to kill or to keep alive, his to cut and to hurt, to take, to fuck...
It’s surprisingly titillating, the thought of keeping the boy in his home to be his own personal, living and breathing fucktoy. Hannibal grunts and rocks faster into the bleeding warmth of the hole around him, the visions in his mind of future sessions like this carrying him towards his climax with speed that he’s unused to.
When his orgasm does hit him, it takes over Hannibal’s whole body in a burning rush, intense in a way it so rarely is, the pleasure of it so all-encompassingly good he nearly feels rattled with it.
Hannibal groans loudly and thrusts into the body beneath him, once, twice, the mockery of gentleness from before forgotten now as he ruts into the torn hole with a single-minded focus like an animal in heat, using the broken channel around him for the sole purpose of milking himself dry inside its flaming hot heat.
Hannibal keeps rocking his softening cock inside the boy until the clutch of the boy’s swollen insides around his sensitive length gets to be too much for comfort. Breathing heavily, he lets his now completely soft cock fall limply out of that warm place. He immediately misses being inside it, another foreign and new thought that takes him by surprise.
His shirt’s clinging to his armpits and back with sweat, to his chest with the boy’s blood. Looking down, Hannibal watches the way the mixture of blood and cum dribbles sluggishly out of the boy’s puffy, torn rim. He lets go of the boy’s thighs and slips two fingers into the pulsing hot heat of him, lazily fucking his fingers back and forth, teasing more of that pink mess out. He plays with the boy for a minute or two like that, occasionally scraping his nails against the boy’s swollen insides or pinching at the reddened edges of his hole, delighted to notice that if he digs his fingernails in deep enough and twists just so, he can make the muscles on the boy’s left thigh jerk and spasm just from the stimulus brought to that abused, tender place.
Hannibal eventually pulls his stained fingers away and brings them to his own lips, curious to know how they taste together.
Suckling absentmindedly on his fingers, Hannibal looks at his knives and scalpels longingly. Now that his desire’s sated, his hands itch to pick one back up again, to continue where they left off before this unplanned interlude disturbed his usual routine. He hasn't even cut anything out of the boy yet that he could use for dinner tomorrow…
Feeling suddenly overcome with annoyance, Hannibal brings his blood and cum covered hand down, digging his nails just under the boy's collarbone and dragging them violently down over a bruised nipple with its broken skin, over the cuts criss-crossing across a thin chest. On the edges of some of the wounds the blood has already coagulated, stopping the cuts from bleeding, but under the rough pass of Hannibal’s nails the boy’s body’s tender attempts at healing get rendered null, the drag of Hannibal’s fingernails forcing fresh blood to rise to the surface.
Hannibal takes in the reopened cuts with dark eyes, his muscles tensed, body still as a predator's, biding its time to bounce. Seconds tick by slowly, the air around him growing suffocating and thick with energy that begs to be released. Everything smells of blood and sex and Hannibal wants to cut and carve until what remains isn’t recognizable as a person anymore, wants to take a knife and make new holes for him to fuck into, wants to tear out the boy’s eyes and cut off his tongue and he wants to, he wants…
Hannibal blinks rapidly and flexes his fingers, breathing out slowly. Little by little, the tension releases from his muscles until the tendons in his fingers stop itching quite so badly with the burning desire to curl around a knife.
He keeps his eyes on the raped and bloodied mess of a body on the table and thinks about how pleasurable using it had felt, thinks about what a shame it is he doesn’t know what kind of noises the boy makes when he’s fucked and made to bleed while he’s conscious, while the boy's present enough to feel what's done to him…
Making up his mind, Hannibal turns away from the table and the bleeding thing on it and walks to the stairs leading out of the basement.
He will go and fetch his surgical kit. He will see to Will’s wounds, make sure he doesn't die from blood loss, from infection. For now, Hannibal will do what he can to keep the boy alive.
There’s still that faint itch in his fingers, the yearning to feel the weight of a knife in his hands as it pierces through layers of fat and flesh and bone in a way that won’t be salvageable with some light stitching and disinfectant, but Hannibal ignores it, for now.
After all, there’s nothing stopping him from finishing his work at a later time.
And when it comes to his dinner preparations? Well, Hannibal is an ex-surgeon; he knows how to take care of amputated limbs.
~fin~