Chapter Text
It’s a shoddy job. The lines look jagged and crooked, where flesh meets flesh, raised and angry. Where skin should be soft it’s rough with healing and decay. It’s an affront to his sensibilities, while he had been the one to send the order, this is a mess, it is not his design after all. Will isn’t quite feeling regret but it certainly is something he needs to fix, the emotion settles uneasily in his stomach, bile crawling up his throat. Watching Hannibal chop some fresh herbs and the wounds feel like they belong to someone else and doesn’t that just burn right through him. A truth unfolds in him—Hannibal is his, no matter how hard tries Will resists that fact.
As Hannibal cooks Will’s eyes lock in on each wrist in turn, a stare hard enough to sear through each crooked stitch. He tries to find the differences, a stitch more on one arm, the raised scarlett skin looking angrier on one than the other. He wonders if it’s a sign of infection, something that festers below the surface lying in wait to attack.
“I’m surprised you let them stitch you like that,” says Will, as he takes a deep drink from his wine glass, warming him as it slips down his throat as if it’s water.
Hannibal arches a pale eyebrow in question, “like what exactly Will?”
Will gestures with the wine glass, using it to point to Hannibal’s bare arms. “They look a mess, it’s unlike you.”
Hannibal puts down his knife and carefully inspects each wrist, rotating each one and looking intently as if it’s the only thing in the world. It infuriates Will, he knows Hannibal would have checked each piece of thread, each puncture in his own skin.
“I hadn’t noticed,” lies Hannibal picking up his knife to start chopping again. There is a tremor there, just a slight one, something to give away that the damage was more than just cosmetic. Something more than just a mar on his skin. By proxy Will has ruined his very nerves and the mechanisms for Hannibal’s destruction. It stings something in Will, a sick feeling that he’d done it all wrong.
“Let me see them,” demands Will as he places down his glass. He crowds Hannibal against the kitchen counter and tugs on Hannibal’s arms. He gives them up with no question, placing his arms in Will’s warm hands. Will lets one drop, concentrating on one at a time. They look even worse up close. The skin peaks and dips, puckering where the thread enters flesh. He runs a soft thumb against the raised wound and Hannibal lets out a hiss. The pained noise spurs Will on, he presses harder this time, his nail catches on a stitch. It pulls the skin, tugging until a bead of crimson bleeds from the angry spot, the blood pools around Will’s thumb, painting it crimson.
“I need to rewrite your flesh,” mutters Will, skin probing Hannibal’s skin, “it’s all so wrong.”
Hannibal swallows loudly, “they’re yours, do with them as you wish.”
The permission is a gateway and Will isn’t going to stop it now. Hannibal’s flesh under him is intoxicating and he needs to right his wrong.
“Follow me,” orders Will, turning and walking straight to Hannibal’s study. Footsteps follow him and he knows then that Hannibal meant every word, it’s dizzying—-the power he clearly holds over this monster brought to heel at his feet.
“On the floor,” he points to a spot in front of the fireplace and Hannibal places himself there with not a single word of protest. “On your back”
Will stands over him, Hannibal is layed out underneath him, a picture of serenity bar the rapid breathing that gives away his excitement. Will lifts up his right foot and gently places it over Hannibal’s right arm, it’s just a touch at first. He increases the pressure while focusing on Hannibal’s face. It takes more pressure than he thought for Hannibal to break, a gasp of pain and a reflexive movement from under WIll’s foot.
“Shhh, you gave yourself to me, you can take it.” demands Will, knowing he’ll take much more than this soon enough.
Hannibal swallows another moan and nods. Before he can cause any real damage Will lifts the foot and crouches down to check it. No blood—just an imprint from his boot and some dirt tarnishing the raised edges of the wound. Good.
Will climbs over Hannibal and straddles him, shocking Hannibal and himself. It’s closer than they’ve ever been but he needs this, they both do. Will places a hand over each wound, effectively pinning Hannibal down by them, a mockery of a crucifixion. Will presses each thumb at the base of the wounds and slowly pushes each under the first stitch. They hold fast, tugging harder on Hannibal’s skin, Will doesn’t know if the skin will give first or the thread. He doesn’t care, he just knows he needs to rewrite this mistake.
Blood starts pooling against each thumb, settling under the nails. Hannibal is barely breathing now. Whatever pain he is in isn’t registering on his face anymore. A second more of pushing into the supple flesh and Will is rewarded with a ping on thread breaking on one wrist. He grinds down onto Hannibal, shocked to find him just as hard as he apparently is. They both pant as the atmosphere changes, the charged tension leaks and turns to something warmer. A shared act of devotion as Will changes him in his own design.
With one stitch broken Will carries on, pressing harder and with less care as he rips through the next few on each arm. Hannibal can’t stop the noises now, near pornographic groans escape his throat and he pushes his hips up into Will’s. The wounds are half reopened now, the blood flows sluggishly in pulsating rivulettes down Hannibal’s arms and over Will’s hands. He strokes the raised edges, pushing slightly watching Hannibal as he does. Hannibal groans in earnest now, whatever pain or pleasure he is feeling he can’t hold it back anymore.
In an act of sheer sadism Will makes one last push, slow and steady ignoring any resistance as he rips open every last stitch. His thumbs press down and forward, the blood pulsing over him warm and wet until the wounds are free from their bindings. The blood-soaked threads hang lifelessly as the blood flows freely and drips onto the plush carpet underneath Hannibal.
Will grinds his hips down harder as he presses harshly into the wounds on last time. Wetness floods between them as Hannibal comes with rapid ruts of his hips against Will. It’s too much for Will, the blood, the pliant body underneath him writing in tormented pleasure and pain and he follows Hannibal down to his baser urges and comes right into his own boxers.
“Are they more to your liking now Will?” asks Hannibal with a stupid grin on his face.