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Hannibal knew that laying here meant. The vulnerability, the exposure, leaving himself defenseless at the hands of Will. His body is left bare while Will stays clothed. His wrists and ankles are bound to the corners of the bed, not too tight, just tight enough for you to get a couple fingers through. It feels like it’s rubbing his joints raw anyways. He’s blindfolded with a scarf. Will is on his left. A bucket of ice water sits on the floor beside him. There is a feather on the bed. The lights are dim, there is a blue hue around the room. It’s comforting, calming.
The feather is white. It’s soft yet stiff at the same time. A semiplume feather. Will dips it into the water. It grows heavy as it dips into the ice. Will brushes it against the edge of the bucket, attempting to get the excess water off. He gently guides Hannibals arm so that his veins face upward. The room is silent as they carry out this process. It’s taut. He can hear the blood rushing through his body. He can hear the way his heart pulses and his teeth chatter. His thighs tremble ever so slightly.
A water droplet drips from the feather onto Hannibals median antebrachial vein. Will drags the tip of the feather down Hannibals arm. There’s a shudder and a soft gasp. It’s a prickling, tickling feeling. The hairs of his arm stand up straight. Goosebumps littler his body.
Will traces the feather down every visible vein visible under Hannibals flesh. It’s unhurried, it’s tender. Will makes sure it’s mildly malicious, that he knows he lacks control.
Hannibal feels the feather slip away from him, hears it slip back into the bucket. Ice clanks within the water.
There’s a pause.
Something warm touches over Hannibals inner thigh. It’s wet, it’s smooth. He lets it happen. It takes a few seconds before he realizes it’s a tongue. Wills tongue. His breath is hot against his skin. It causes his body to jolt. The mix of cold and warm lace together and intertwine in a way that makes his pores close up and his toes curl. Wills tongue moves across scars, moves across stretch marks. It makes them feel sensitive and abraded.
The pain is enough to feel uncomfortable, but not enough to stop. Will moves his tongue up from his thighs to his hip bone. Then, from his hip bone to his stomach. He leaves small bite marks as he moves up. They aren’t hard enough to bleed, just enough to evoke a whine from Hannibals throat. Will does nothing but continue.
Up to his ribs, to his chest, to his collar bones and then neck. He continues until every part of Hannibal is marked by him. There’s a split moment, one where both of their hands intertwine. He grasps Wills hands, squeezing until there is a dull ache. His nails catch his skin, getting stuck between the nailbed and the nail.
Nothing else matters, the tense silence carries a weight so unbelievably important.
There is a point in which Will grabs an ice cube and puts it under his tongue. It’s a completely different sensation than before. It’s freezing, however it makes Hannibal sweat. He squeezes his eyes shut and breathes deeply. Will drops the ice into the center of his chest. Will watches it melt. The water slides down, down, down until it runs off the side onto the bed. Hannibal shivers. He uses his tongue to carve symbols into his neck.
This is a ritual, a silent language only they can understand, a reminder of their bond. Even after it dries and you can no longer see the imprints, it never disappears from their eyes. It’s almost as efficient as using a dagger. For this brief moment in time, Hannibal becomes unraveled. Here, on display to be toyed with. No idea what happens next. He’s left guessing every move Will makes, putting full trust in every action.
It’s beautiful.
There are moments where Will likes to tease, likes to pinch and prod and peel away the layers of dignity left. Sometimes he’ll be gentle, place a peck on his body, other times he’ll nip at him. He’ll dip his fingers into Hannibals mouth, resting them on his tongue. The weight comforts him, keeps him grounded in the moment. Will gives him an idea of what he’d taste like. There are moments where Hannibal gasps, whimpers, cries. Will thumbs away his tears in ecstasy. Sometimes going as far as licking them clean. Every second of this treatment is humiliating. Every second of this treatment is exhilarating. Seeing how easy Will can rip these sounds out of Hannibal brings him elation. There’s a certain form of bliss that they can only find in this very room, only with each other.
Will brings the feather back. He glides it up his throat to his chin. He lets it dangle in front of his face. Some of the water droplets catch into the creasing of his mouth and over his lips. He hears Will mumble about how cracked his lips are. It’s like he’s being sung a lullaby to sleep. The world around him turns into a muted fuzz. All he can focus on is Will gingerly caressing him, making sure not an atom in his body is left unloved.
When it’s all over, Will unties Hannibals wrists, he unties his ankles. The blindfold is removed. The bucket and the feather will be forgotten on the floor until morning. Will will unveil and crawl into bed with whom he finds dearest. Entangled together, they remember that they are equals, there is no lesser than. A kiss is placed on top of Hannibals head.
Will holds Hannibals head to his chest. Hannibal will wrap his arms around Will, his hands pulling at his scalp and tangling his fingers in his hair. They become one mound of flesh on a silk island. And Will will praise him, tell him how good he was, tell him how obedient he was. Will pulls Hannibals hand to the scar he left of his stomach. He rubs his thumb over the delicate skin. Will hums at the kindness in his touch. The two will fall asleep, soft snores will make themselves known every now and again. They never once lose touch with each other, staying interconnected until they wake the next morning.
Tomorrow, they’ll act like nothing happened. But they’ll continue this ritual all the same.