Chapter Text
"Anything you want to rebuild internally, you must first break."
It's taken from there, in all honesty.
He is taken on a dark and quiet road. Oh, the irony.
It's so quiet. Dead silent, to be fair, the only thing challenging it in intensity the ink black darkness. No sound, no light. An antiseptic odor can be detected in the chill of the air, but after his rough estimation of the forty-five minutes he's spent surveying via any sense save visual, it is the silence that's piqued Hannibal's curiosity; reptilian tilts to his head allowing his earshot the unconventional boundaries it covered. Knowing the smell is coming off of him, that he's been bathed while unconscious is an equally curious detail, though not one he wastes time on considering the purpose behind, decision bolstered by a firm belief that he'd be finding out soon enough. His auditory efforts narrow down the options, this class of quiet suggesting he's either farther underground than just your garden variety basement or being holed up in a sizable soundproof box. He's betting on the latter, staring at the steady red dot directly above the space he occupies. High ceiling; out of his reach without assistance. Despite the pitch black state the room he occupies is in, he's being watched. An ankle bracelet attached to a thick chain bolted deep (very deep, he'd spent time confirming) into the cement keeps him from exploring the expanse of the newest cage yet more pigs had seen fit to confine him to. There's roughly eight feet to the chain; enough length to find nothing but more cement—the wall to his right he's taken to leaning his weight on. The air seems to be getting colder, he only notices when he actually hears the rattling of the chain, realizes he's shivering, no surprise from the way he's been left: half naked, a thin pair of soft flannel pants all that offers him resistance against the subtly dropping temperature. Hannibal has always hated being exposed to the cold, knows what he's done to get out of it, recalls what it had cost him once. Never would he ever pay such a price again. From his position against the wall, Hannibal slides down into a sitting crouch until he is comfortable. He will wait and suss this out as only he can. Which move to make would come to him in his patient nature; it always had.
Not ten minutes go by before he hears what turns out to be a locking mechanism. Hearing the door open, no light streaming in, he cannot see who or how many enter, just knows that there are certainly more than a couple, sounds of multiple pairs of fast moving treads rushing in, signifying approaching bodies. Four or five? The lack of light doesn't seem to hinder their advances in the least, he himself apparently the sole one affected by the lack of light where his captors and their tech are clearly not. Hannibal rises immediately. If any one of them is fool enough to put their hands on him—
The powerful flow of electricity that pulses through his body forces out of him a yelp he automatically cuts off. Down and out, the taser he's been hit with has done its job in shocking him into the darkness of his mind instead. If only one of them had put their hands on him...
Equally shocking is the freezing water which rushes consciousness back into him, and he gasps, coughs and sputters, upper limbs automatically flying up to cover his head. It is the doctor in him that always has him protecting his magnificent brain. Saying it would be a shame if something were to happen to it was such an understatement it bordered on untrue. Hannibal Lecter would not be Hannibal Lecter without it, would not desire to exist under such circumstances. A hand grabs at his forearm, proving a cogent propellant when he lunges again just before feeling the effects of the taser...again.
When the cold water rouses him this time, he's already upright, shifting to and fro from numbed arms. Starting with a small gasp, he gains footing and listens, blinking into the blackness, smoothly flexing feeling back into his arms, furtive in testing the restraints that hold him by the wrists from above. They prove troublesome in their adequacy. He's shivering non-stop now, the water weakening him with its chill further where the air alone could not. His chains and breaths tremble in tandem, disturb the relative peace of the room as his tormentors merely seem to wait; he can hear their full breaths just ahead, smell their perturbing mix of adrenaline, cheap cotton and arousal. Hannibal has gotten nowhere so far, has learned nothing except how he still bends to the cold, and how that last scent unnerves him to some degree. Annoyed by the alien feeling, he excuses it away with how his life has been so turned on its head for no clear reason. The setting is hardly a preferable one, he considers, because Hannibal Lecter is no victim, is not one who waits or hopes to be saved. In turn, he is also no savior, not in the least. He knows reasons for wanting to do him harm are endlessly there for the choosing, knows he's Lucifer come to amuse himself with and feast upon his father's pets, but not many amongst the living share in this knowledge. Curious as he is just who's bested him (for now), he gets as far as an indignant purse of the lips and a "Who—" before his face is strongly backhanded, the blow forcing his head to the side sharply.
Incredibly rude.
Hannibal narrows his eyes with a miniscule snarl, and shivers. He half shrugs a shoulder in an utterly futile attempt at disguising his newly stoked fury. May as well give it another go: "Why—" and the opposite side of his face is met with the same violence, only now, the rest of the small group joins in. They hit him from all directions methodically, with purpose, avoiding his head except to yank and manipulate it out of their way as they pummel him. There is only so much the body can take, Hannibal knows, grunting and yelling out in pain, no real way to protect himself from their blows. Blindly kicking out earns him a knee to the groin, making him choke on a gasp, rendering him ineffective as his body tries to double over and he contends with the ensuing bout of coughing. Taking advantage of him in his vulnerable state, rough hands efficiently slide flannel pants down to ankles, remove them completely, Hannibal immediately and fruitlessly pulling away with the rapidity of shock. While the cannibal does not wholly feel it straightaway (currently far too consumed with indignant, confused anger and shock), he understands that he is vulnerable to the scum whose undeserving hands he has fallen into. As though in a display of what he comprehends, they start in on him again, hitting him freely in his privates now as well, some semblance of caution evident only in how their hits fail to break bones or cause serious internal damage.
Hannibal is thoroughly curious in his agony—who is taking such measures to keep him here, to physically wear him out in this way, and to what end? No one's even asked anything of him, let alone said a word; these disgusting creatures just kidnapping, restraining, electrocuting, beating and stripping him for no reasons they make obvious to him. Just because they can? There are a myriad of things he can do as well. Let them screw up in one way or another and they would see just what he could do. Sooner or later, they all made mistakes: police forces worldwide, the FBI, killer orderlies, bloodthirsty patients or acquaintances of theirs, bounty hunters, the wealthy and sadistic, and even a friend or two; all had tried and failed whether their goal be killing or containing him. He feels so cold and a bit worn now though that the pains easily take a backseat to his inner workings. If he's going to be beaten for some time, he doesn't really need to be present for it. Perhaps he could instigate error amidst his unchaining, he thought, already half-gone. When they messed up, he'd be ready.
It turns out that he will be made to be present for everything he receives in this place. After retreating into his mind, one of these vile pigs must have tased him again, because here he is, consciousness rudely brought back with another dousing of ice water to the face. Gasping and blinking wide, unseeing eyes, Hannibal attempts to cover his face, finds his wrists noisily meet resistance at the space near his lower back. An icy coil of some unfamiliar emotion or sensation quickly tries to knot itself in his gut, stills him, but Hannibal shoves it away with resolve. Chin meeting chest, he lessens his shivers and assesses his state. There's rough, unforgiving concrete against his bare back, bottom and legs—he's been seated, back pressed to the wall. It turns out that there's a thick, metal ring bolted in at the bottom of the wall, a few inches from the floor. A pair of handcuffs through it and about his wrists keep him seated, unable to stand. He hadn't discovered this ring when he'd endeavored to find anything. Knowing himself better than his captors, he assumes he's been moved, though both the ankle bracelet and length of chain remain. Bound to remain on the ground, cold and naked, effectively blind and muted where other fully clothed occupants who silently take him in are most certainly upright and intent on causing him harm serves its purpose in making him feel small, less capable of fighting back in any meaningful way should he choose to.
Shivering now both for warmth and in pain, Hannibal brings his knees up and hates the pigs keeping him here. What position he is in is inconsequential. He is tired and they quite violently do not allow him to speak. There is nothing to be done but weather their treatment, whatever that may grow to be. Indignant anger roils in the glare he aims in the direction he is positive that they occupy, and anger is good. He'll take anger. Blinking warily, cold and wet hair hangs over his pain-tinged orbs, a small crease in his brow, face tired and dripping cold sweat onto quivering thighs. There is no mistaking what he looks like to them now: prey.
The first to move grabs the chain tethered to his left ankle and pulls him away from the wall, as much as his restrained hands allow, until he's grunting painfully, fighting to keep their insistent pull from injuring his shoulders. Hands fist in his hair and hold him as another pair uncuff his right hand. There isn't much he can do in the way of struggling as they manipulate him into laying flat, formidable power and weight behind the hands that manipulate him. As he's yanked forward, more hands grip his other kicking leg, pulling it taut and holding it down, serving to leave him spread in an upside down Y when his right hand is restrained again. Hannibal tries to bring his lower limbs in, grunting with effort as he pulls with his hands. Whatever their intention, he knows he doesn't want any part of it, and he certainly doesn't want their hands on him. Knowing inaction will render him vulnerable to absolutely anything they have planned, he sees no point in pretending otherwise. It is not as though he can see who he attempts to strike out at, taking honest aim an impossible feat, and so it's with no amount of surprise that Hannibal ends up flat on his back, arms stretched taut above his head, knees bent with his feet flat on the floor. Panting furiously, Hannibal resists with incredible strength, hopeless resolve and an adamant refusal toward acceptance the only things driving him forward. There's no questioning what his immediate future holds when the the men now gang up on him, their number still an unknown. Four strong sets of arms pin his wildly struggling form down, and oh does he struggle. Various guttural sounds, clanging cuffs and the rough movement of clothed bodies the soundtrack as Hannibal tires himself in a violent, blind panic because the scent of arousal is strongest now and he does not want to be raped. The lowest form of torture, the lowest act the legions known as humankind can push upon another creature, one he has always despised and never resorted to. The most cowardly tool of all used to instill fear and wield undeserved dominance Hannibal does not want to experience, no desire whatsoever to find out if the violation will change him as it has been shown to have done to so many, but what is he to do once his brute strength dwindles away?
Deep-seated pangs of worry and dread make themselves known, most assuredly felt, when his legs are being manhandled, pushed back and spread wider, lower back coming off the ground, fully exposing his asshole to the room. They are further excited, movements faster, more eager, as Hannibal's teeth clench with rage, his struggles somehow peaking now. He is scared: a fact they know and he can't even recognize. Hellish is the fury with which he utterly devours the feeling, aiding him in mulishly attempting to deter them with his monstrously powerful nature in the face of this sheer violation of his person.
But a monster he is not. He is only a man.
Whether that man had been one broken, manipulated or simply bored in the life that he lead, his captors hardly gave it thought, didn't care one way or the other. He'd pay for whichever had ailed him, without any say in the matter. They plan to make him pay for the crimes he's committed, for the ones he still plans to, and bring him down from his shiny high perch. Any and all comforts his previous life afforded him would be all but forgotten from here on out. Here, he would provide. For them.
Greedy fingers pull his cheeks apart harshly while steady arms hold him well. The red burn of embarrassment finally makes its way to Hannibal's flustered countenance, voice finally finding its way into his grunts of protest, knowing full well what will happen when he can no longer keep up his end of the battle. His body's strength lessens as he refuses to give in, totally desperate to get out of their sickening hold. Suddenly and unmercifully, something dry breeches his entrance and he cuts into halves the shocked, gasping sound that pulls out of him, his eyes slightly bulging with pain. Tensing in discomfort and trembling against the hands and cuffs holding him in place, Hannibal grunts roughly and hisses, wincing as the finger inside him thrusts, twists, in, out, in, out, and it’s such a violation—forcing this on him.
Weak struggles renewing within the cannibal, the men barely need to react now as one roughly works the exposed anus open with two long fingers, scissoring and plunging deep inside in what feels like downright careless disinterest. It is not, in fact, being done without caution. While there holds a certain level of desire amongst the men in the idea of outright shoving their cocks into Hannibal straightaway, the knowledge of the hospitalization that would leave Hannibal in need of holds them back. That is hardly the plan. Going easy on him isn't on the agenda either and so the fingers opening him up to their satisfaction do so relentlessly, his body squirming and tensing up at every undesired sensation. The rough handling burns and Hannibal is trying with effort to endure their treatment as modestly as he can, isn't having the best time at tamping down on the odd feelings what they're doing to him are bringing forth. He wants his anger to remain, needs hate at the lead to continue to hold off the others, but that's proving difficult, his jittery focus already turned up to max on mitigating vocal and bodily reactions to the violations.
Sadly, Hannibal doesn’t know how to deal with being invaded in this way. The fingers within him aren’t gentle, scratching and bumping against his prostate in such a way that his hedonistic side takes interest, suggesting it's okay to shudder and moan in bliss; if there is pleasure to be had and nothing to be done about it, why bother fighting it? Since when did he fight the things that brought him gratification anyway? Entirely slamming the door on that logic with an anger not sincerely felt, he turns his head, employing a shoulder with hiding his face, muffling panting breaths and cutting off humiliating sounds, desperate to stave off the pleasure they continue to build within him in increments. Unable to find it within himself to allow, he cannot let himself relax into it. But Hannibal has never fought pleasure before; his body's born enhanced senses extended to touch as well, not really admitting the man himself much authority in certain areas. Highly disconcerting, that, because for all of the pains being inflicted on him, it's those sharp bursts of ecstasy affecting him most, stealing away his precious self control in instances coinciding with the blinding shocks of rapture. The barrage of sensations bothers him a great deal, shakes him to his core, but nothing and no one should be able to make him react this way. As he frantically racks his brain for a reason behind his uncharacteristic behavior, a sure hand gives his disturbingly interested cock a strong pump that would leave him toppling over if not for the steady hold on him. Unsettled as he is, the embarrassing, sharp keen he emits nearly leaves him in its entirety before he remembers to cut it short.
"Felt good, didn't it? You liked that, huh?"
Of course it felt good. The combined ecstasy of that hand on his cock with the deeper, newer deliciousness raised from inside him had felt divine. With the right person, he wouldn't just "like" it; he'd love it. It was crippling. Mindless. But it was those things right now. With the worst group of garbage he could ever have hoped to never meet. The offending palm still grasps him as though in ownership, concerning him rather enormously with its smoldering contact. Where he'd currently grown accustomed to hearing mental thunderings of "no," his breaths now grew rapid at the small "please" reiterating itself in his voice there now, and it's too much, all of this is too much to take in. Why are they doing this to him, he wants to ask, never voicing it, unsure of how exactly it would sound leaving him. And that was assuming the use of words remained within his repertoire at the present. Another pump and he cracks a little more now, wide and glazing eyes blinking, nose flaring just so and throat working in a combination that, to those tormenting him, looks an awful lot like the beginning of the end for their victim.
Without any hint of preamble, they let him go.
Hannibal scrambles away against the wall and long, bright fluorescent clusters on the ceiling make themselves known as they slam on one two three four, effectively blinding him. Right side to the wall, he huddles in on himself, hides his slow-adjusting orbs behind cold, trembling shoulder and bangs, and shakily eyes his captors. There are six imposing 6-foot plus men in black—shirts and camo pants—looking down at him, their faces hidden behind cloth, eyes behind sophisticated but compact goggles—night vision, he's confident. In front of them and nearest to Hannibal stands a less imposing, much smaller in stature, somewhat greying male; his serious blue eyes meet Hannibal’s intense dark ones comfortably. Whatever that maelstrom of some indisposition was hobbling Hannibal's mind before is long gone now as he straightens, seethes at the little shit-stain, tips of his canines visible. He no longer wonders why or who or how but when, because when he gets his vicious hands on these worthless pigs, they will not live long enough to question a single goddamn thing. Now is not the time for it, he recalls, but then the short, lean pig in blue jeans and a button-down shirt begins to speak.
“Hannibal Lecter,” the English-accented pig addresses him. “You are a criminal, my friend; a killer. Someone's taken notice.” Hannibal tilts his head inquisitively at the man’s small smile, no love lost in his predator's gaze. “Here, you will be hurt. I am afraid I intend to have you hurt more than you have ever been hurt before. You will be terrified, you will beg.” Hannibal scoffs but his hate falters at the memory of mere seconds ago, sending his gaze to the concrete floor. This ridiculous, cowed conduct is pissing him off now, teeming fury within him in his disbelief of the nerve of these swine. “Having control is an illusion of the past for you now. You hold not an ounce of it anymore; not even if it is to take your own worthless life, he says in that nothing if not informative, light tone Hannibal wants to shred with teeth. "You will not speak, nor will you be allowed retreat into your mental fortress, and lastly,” with a mild smirk, ”no sleeping. For now.” The sizable bottle of rage, fury, humiliation, pain and even fear Hannibal was keeping an unstable lid on simply falls from his mental grasp. In his mind's eye, he sees it shattering upward as though in celebration of its release. It is not a celebration of mirth.
From where he sits, bound and naked, Hannibal lunges for the English prick. Of course, it’s no more than a curt jerk, but this Hannibal Lecter of lost reservations does not stop there. He twists his body to face his hands, plants his feet and puts every last vestige of his strength into yanking the ring out and freeing himself. Pushing with lower limbs and pulling with everything else, blood trickles steadily down Hannibal's hands and fingers as he spits and shouts growls and livid curses they’ll never understand, in multiple languages, head thrown round to direct his venom. The Englishman knows what this is. Being as highly intelligent as Hannibal Lecter is, coupled with his field in psychiatry, it's hardly inconceivable that he’s already figured out most, if not all, of the details concerning what he was currently being put through. His voice booms with rage at its front because he is going to be tortured, plain and simple. There is no place for logic.
“YOU BETTER FUCKING KILL ME! YOU HEAR ME? PRAY THAT YOU FUCKING KILL ME BECAUSE I WON’T SPARE ONE, NOT A SINGLE FUCKING ONE OF YOU OR YOURS!”
He is downright terrifying. Unfortunately for him, not to anyone in the room.
The short man understands. He allows Hannibal this explosive opportunity simply because he understands. Time is of the essence, so to speak, however, so he calmly approaches the enraged cannibal, the overly emotional man never stalling in his attempts at getting everyone in the room to give him what he wants: a one-way ticket to hell; escape. It is a good thing everyone in the room knows more than Hannibal Lecter here. There will be no such option available to him.
“I’LL KILL YOU ALL—DO YOU FUCKING HEAR ME?! YOUR FAMILIES, FRIENDS, THEIR FAMILIES, YOU FUCKS!” Hannibal pivots his maniacal, unfocused glare towards the surefooted Brit ambling over. His voice wholly venomous, face contorting into a nasty sneer on certain words, now directed at the British man, “You think you can hurt me, you fucking hobbit? Release me and see how you fare, you FUCKING COWARD!" He is hurting himself he's putting so much effort into yanking his hands free of their restraints, but no one is stopping him, the Englishman merely observing with a near piteous look in his gaze as Hannibal spits twisted, vile things at him, the man just watching.
"You're the heroic response to my villainy, yes? The very acts of heroes about to take place here, I can imagine, but may I ask: what part will your pack back there play now? The good to my evil? How will you distinguish your role from mine today?" Hannibal actually giggles with that mad look in his eyes, "Well-intentioned rape I've simply never heard of, nor can I wrap my mind around the concept, and I consider myself a rather open-minded man." He's disgusted again. "I'll not even be able to protect myself from your good intentions...," he sneers. Blinking in anger, he continues in a harsh, near whisper, "...to rape me. That's what you're here to do, right? Rape me?" Lips quivering with quieted rage, words coming faster, "A filthy, despicable violation utilized only by the lowest scum this planet has to offer, even you must admit, and yet I am the monster in your condemning eyes when YOU FUCKING HAVE NO RIGHT!" he's just raging again, overflowing with it, nothing to be done with it except for this, "YOU HAVE NO FUCKING RIGHT TO LABEL ME, TO JUDGE ME, YOU FUCK! RELEASE ME! RELEASE ME, I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU, I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU ALL!! LET ME GO!"
So enveloped by lividity and madness, threatening and taunting and demanding things, that any possibility of Hannibal noticing the taser in the Brit’s possession is beyond him. Giving himself no time to recover from the unforeseen shock, Hannibal merely attempts to continue his malicious tirade.
“S-S-Stop...f-FUCKING t-tasing m-m-me!!” he stutters, eying their blurry forms approaching him. “No! Don't touch m—!”
Frigid water brings him out of the taser-induced loss of consciousness his last exclamation had earned him and he starts, gasping and choking in air, struggling to hastily see who surrounds him now. In a half-sit, he breathes shakily, gets an eyeful of a couple of tasers pointed his way. The hobbit has a finger to his lips, no humor in the scum's demeanor. He understands, succumbing to a mild coughing fit. What else does he have if he isn't to speak? Nothing. Not even allowed retreat into his head—that hurts the most—, what will be left for him now outside of the torment these pigs seem intent to pressure on him? Madness. Desperation. Humiliation. Misery. All four emotions he knows will befall him where he exists only to receive and participate in nothing but the suffering these abominations will see fit to push on him. He will die, he knows. He will die in every way save bodily, losing his precious mind anyway, helpless to do anything about it. It borders on painful: the suffocating weight of disinclination he feels at the sickening idea of being gang-raped, coupled with the crushing knowledge that nothing and no one was going to stop it, neither allies nor any willing to bargain at his disposal here. It's enough to bring tears to his eyes, merely adding more salted moisture to his already cold sweat-streaked countenance. Never in all his years could he have ever imagined he'd be in such a desolate predicament, rendered so useless to his own self right when he's about to be degraded worse than he could ever think to be. Preventative measures had been taken, put into place to forever ensure him the upper hand in any situation. Hannibal is a far cry from frail, but in the face of these six overgrown fucking swine, his strength is, of course, unrecognizable. This, he just could never have foreseen.
“That's the last time you will speak, Hannibal Lecter. A nod or shake of your head is sufficient response for any questions I may have for you from here on out.”
Hannibal just lays there, his entire left side pressed against the wall, body shivering lightly against the chill, eyes blinking slowly up at the space between his face and the ceiling. Defeat is crippling. It’s not so much he’s forgotten as much as it is the fact that rich helpings of both time and grand memories had muffled the pain, even allowed him a lonely handful of rare moments where he’d met his reflection's gaze and not recalled first the price for what he saw reflected. This defeat might prove to cost him everything—indeed something they'll have to take from him, as it's no thing Hannibal is willing to give.
"Torture and rules?" He dully feigns amusement, doesn't bother rising up or facing the Brit. "How does that work?" When he receives no response, "You plan to torture me anyway, what good could following your rules do me?"
Clearly unimpressed with Hannibal's passion for words, the small man cuts in when Hannibal seems ready to continue, in a low, irritated tone, "Oh, it'll do you a world of good, if I'm right about you."
"Right about me how?" he sighs, uninterested.
The small man eyes the cannibal's aloof state closely now, "Something happen to you, Hannibal Lecter? Some horrible, traumatic event?"
Hannibal's spirit for conversation momentarily falters, less inclined to talk about certain events when not on his own terms, before, "Why do you ask?" He is, naturally, very curious now over what this hobbit thinks he knows.
"Did someone hurt you already? They the one or ones that warped you into this thing you became?"
Fishing for answers then. "Nothing happened to me."
"What did they do to you?"
He thinks of a smaller group of men from a lifetime ago, recalls what they'd done to the most precious little girl he'd ever known. There's no way he's talking to this trash about his sister. "Nobody did anything to me."
"Are you sure that's not a fib?"
"Yes."
"Alright. Then might you explain this to me, because it's been niggling me like you could not believe: just a short while ago, if you can remember, my men were providing you (forcibly, yeah, but bare with me) they were building within you what I can imagine must've been just an incredible amount of pleasure, but where it peaked, just before I came and you were probably about to, you looked on the cusp of tears or terrified, or both." The hobbit lowers his voice now, as though they conspired, "See, I was told to expect to meet a man I'd think raised within the sensuality of Sybaris itself, however..." when the space of time he gives Hannibal's unmoved form to reply is met with silence, he continues, "that is not what I see before me. So far no one's spilled more of your blood than you have," he says, pointlessly gesturing to Hannibal's bloody hands. "You're still difficult to get a good read on now, but I've been wondering whether you resisting to being pleased was as in your grasp as the receiving."
Hannibal doesn't have an answer for that. He isn't sure why he hadn't listened to himself, hedonist that he is, and taken and intensified his enjoyment with mocking their competence. Detesting the act was no reason to toss logic into the wind when no other options presented themselves, and why should he be displeased with the sole choice he'd had? Unwelcomed rapture was still rapture, still wholly pleasurable and surely more acceptable than allowing his own dissolving under early distress. There was an unquestionable surplus of discomfort waiting for him as it was, so he wasn't positive what sense he'd found in not delaying its arrival where he very well could have. For his own record, he hadn't chosen to react that way, not "entirely," as the hobbit put it. Dire need to get their hands off of him had more or less happened to him, taking full control of his judgment. Such an alarming discovery of an unexplored fragility could not have made itself known at a more inopportune moment. Not a man of ignorance, internally, Hannibal is severely distraught that a facet of himself has been hidden there until only now. His breath rattles a little with the realization that it's definitely going to cost him now, odd feelings of nausea coming over him when he now recalls how it already had, how it will likely prove a soft spot for those adorned in black to poke him in. What the hell was wrong with him?
"Listen," the Englishman's voice closer now to Hannibal's right, demanding, and Hannibal is positive he can't care less what the sadist has to say. "I allowed you that meltdown earlier because I understand that this is a lot to swallow. I know you realize that you're helpless to us, that you have no choice, and I know that scares you quite a bit." And now Hannibal wonders if it is fear that's been invading him where the pigs' hands couldn't reach, except their hands had reached there, had not left much of him unscathed. "That said, you will be punished in the future if you repeat anything resembling that performance you put on. Know that while you will dislike what happens to you on the regular, you will truly be displeased with what being punished entails." With that, the Brit backs off, continuing to speak, getting Hannibal's attention, "Now, as I was so rude to interrupt earlier, I will be on my way."
Hannibal quickly pushes himself into a seated state. "Wait—" he tries, knowing what to expect upon the hobbit's departure.
"I've been lenient enough in allowing you to speak," the Englishman raises a taser, gestures with it to the six remaining behemoths in visual aid. "You know they won't hesitate."
"Why am I here?" he tries again, honest nervousness evident in his voice and quickened breaths, in the swift glances he's regarding his abusers with. "Why? Why are you doing this?" Watching the small man continue to walk, he's louder asking, "What do you want?" And that gets the little pig's attention, short frame turning around to tilt his head and smile in a confused way, as though the answer was a huge, visible thing in the room that he couldn't understand how Hannibal could have missed. Unable to conjure up any real anger at that, Hannibal just shrugs a shoulder and asks with an earnest heir of helplessness, "What?"
Gesturing at the stretch of the room, small laugh puffing out from him. "Why this, of course. This is," he keeps gesturing: to Hannibal, his men, "all of this. I have what I want, Hannibal. Now, I know that's not an answer you like hearing, but it is the only one you ever will. Might as well start getting you used to that now, I think."
Hannibal can't help that he lunges again, calming right down afterward, festering hate in his glare, the Brit's smile widening just so before he turns back to leave again. "You're a rather disgusting monster yourself," and he sounds nonplussed, but that would hardly last, "you know that?" he doesn't bother to refrain from asking, annoyed at his own obvious attempts at stalling the hobbit.
"Says the man who eats his fellow man," not missing a step. "And remember: no one is more responsible for your being here than you are, Hannibal. You'll do well to think on that. Ta-ta," before he's heading out the door.
Hannibal is far from well, unable to think of anything outside of how there's nothing he'd like less than a continuation of the scenario that had been playing out before that hobbit arrived. Now, able to see the sick fucks approaching him, he trembles with refreshed rage as he glares and growls at them. "Stay the fuck away from me," he warns quietly, nothing behind it. To his horror, the lights go out once the door shuts after the Englishman, and with that, no time is wasted in picking things up from where they'd been left off.
Somewhere at the start of re-positioning his wildly protesting form, a voice speaks true terror to Hannibal, lightly informing him of the electroshock therapy he will receive if his mind palace proves a problem—"...and who knows what'll get lost in the scramble?" He suffers so much more after that, curses them until they take to grasping his genitals painfully and squeezing when he won't stop spitting empty threats. He tries slamming his head into the concrete within minutes of the first violation, only managing a spell of dizziness and stars, leading to one of the rapists immediately gripping his hair at the back, kneeling astride him, taunting with soft shushes, petting and the gentle wiping of eventual tears as he's repeatedly and brutally fucked into nothing resembling Hannibal Lecter. The damage—current and any possible further—of his hands is dealt with shortly after. While most of that mess resides on the base of his hands, the cuffs never really allowed enough slack for the bracelets to be used against his wrists, they still assign a man who throws a leg over Hannibal's arms and kneels with the cannibal's arms secured between calves to clean and wrap the wounded hands between black-clad knees. Released from the cuffs, Hannibal's hands and wrists are rinsed, a salve applied, before being bandaged separately and then together. The sadist is sure to keep a tight squeeze on Hannibal's arms during the swift ministrations, changing position to be against the wall, just watching now with a lap full of Hannibal's hands in an unbreakable hold. The pig isn't gentle, but so hadn't Hannibal been in the damaging, and at least this asshole doesn't tease or molest him in his pitiful state; never does pass up a round of fucking him in it either though.
He feels he's been cocooned in a horrific nightmare when the room is near silent but for him. Not being able to see only magnifies the impression for his other already heightened senses, amplifying pained sounds, nauseating smell and damaging touch. Makes it all so very much worse when filthy hands pressure unwelcome sensations on him and his auditory range zeros in on the progression of his own strained and pitiful vocalizations as they grow into panicked crying, cementing them into his memory. They never even bother undressing, remaining fully clothed in contrast to his completely nude state, anything to remind the cannibal of where he stands with them. Fucking him the way they are, he isn't questioning where they believe his proper place to be, isn't in the right mind to question anything, really. In time, Hannibal can't so much as think to bite at, let alone pull away from the offending hand that touches his face. More time still and he no longer notices it.
After countless rounds, rotating the ones keeping him from possibly harming himself, pains just seem to be radiating from every inch of his body and he's so run-down, probably without the energy to even begin crying again. He feels like crying, this all he has to look forward to now. What had to have been at least an hour of unexpected, heartfelt though mildly hysterical entreaties for mercy proved pointless, that one rule barring Hannibal from speaking entirely forgotten. Shame doesn't even register in his fracturing mind, instant cessation all it craves, but they seem to not hear his desperate pleas, ostensibly hell-bent on fucking him mindless. There really is nothing else he can offer to appease his mental state. Fresh tears of miserable defeat continue welling and falling in quick succession; he has broken so much faster than even he'd thought possible, and they're not going anywhere yet. Hannibal doesn't want to see how much worse it can get if they don't desist. There isn't much left keeping him together, but he's apparently the only one realizing it. If only they'd ask something of him, he'd give it, but it's clear that anything he can give isn't anything they want. Crystal clear that their interests lie solely in ceaselessly taking from him rather than breaking him when he does break down again and they don't miss a beat. Broken or not, he's going to be fucked endlessly.
More time passes, only serving to prove more of the same: that still broken, helplessly begging and urinating on himself, they won't quit, will not even slow down and he just wants release, doesn't think he can bare any more of them at all. He desperately needs to rest, can start to feel awareness slipping away before the hand in his mussed hair tugs tired but panicky consciousness back into him, its counterpart wrapping around his length, tugging that roughly as well. The refreshing of that particular pain turns his panic up to one hundred, makes him jolt and cry out in a voice that's hardly one at all.
They make him enjoy it, and if that isn't the worst part for Hannibal, nothing is. The very act he'd feared at the start of their invasions he is made to experience over and over and over again until the slightest touch to his burning dick sees him releasing his bladder, terrorized by the sensation alone now—"and this isn't even your punishment for that suicide attempt...not to mention for trying to bite us"—and he'll never experience an orgasm the same way again, will never want to experience another ever again. So heavily do they pound away at his prostate, he just aches and aches and throbs down there. The poor, tormented cannibal wants to beg, hasn't been able to find his voice for a while, but he wants to nevertheless. They would just ignore him as they do, but that changes nothing; he's well past desperate for them to stop. If there was an ounce of him capable of mustering up the strength to do a thing, he'd offer it to them, beg them to allow his service if they would only stop, if he could rest for just a short period; it's been hours.
"Time for your punishment."
It barely registers, if it does at all. Hannibal Lecter has been sobbing and whimpering pathetically—frightened as he's never been, like a small child too-long neglected in his tortured suffering, hurting in ways he doesn't know how to even begin to get a handle on, without hope for salvation—for the last ten minutes. His voice is shot, breathing erratic, sobbing gasps and mute whimpers, his penis burns terribly and his balls and, really, the entire surrounding areas ache something fierce as though he's been pounded there repeatedly...because he has been. That world of pain blossoming from his insides owns every fiber of his being, keeps him enlightened to the fact that he's still being raped, will continue to make him feel it well after it's over, nothing to be done about any of it.
And they're about to make it worse. He honestly cannot bring himself to imagine how.
The enlightening continues when the man inside him pulls out abruptly, replacing himself with something cold, thick and slippery with lubrication. A hand grabs Hannibal's soft cock roughly and he nearly shrieks, squealing as he feels a (thankfully) much smaller cold, slippery tube being forced down his urethra. Not much water having entered his system recently, only a mere few drops of piss trickle out of him, and he never does stop sobbing after that last intrusion. All he wants is a break, just for them to leave him alone. He would've done anything, anything at all, but they just keep hurting him, will not let him be, won't speak reason, and he's regretting now that he bit at them, sorrier still when they say he'd tried to kill himself when he'd known better. He wants to apologize again, and he probably does, repeatedly and incoherently, because those tubes inside him are delivering excruciating shocks where he's so vulnerable. Luckily, he passes out.
Ice water sends Hannibal into a coughing fit, crying immediately resuming along with restored consciousness and breathing pattern. Feeling the thick cylinder inside him being pressed up against his overly abused prostate right away makes him lurch and cry harder because he can't. He can't come any more, he just cannot, why—? How could they think it possible for him? Beg. That's what he wants to do now—beg them for death, but they're shocking him there and inside his worn cock lightly, steadily, and he does but doesn't understand how he's getting hard because he's in so much pain, his dick certainly bruised and raw in places. Well-lubricated hands surround his cock, working it to full hardness as he pants in high pitches between wretched sobs, nothing left for his bladder to expel. When he comes it's dry, his testicles long since having ejaculated the last of their reserves. Somewhere in the middle of the act, he is left insensate. They pull one more dry orgasm out of his unfeeling body anyway, before removing the metal tubes from it.
He lays unmoving on the ground now, silent but for light, hitched breaths, incessant tears running from bloodshot, slow-blinking eyes. Some insanely self-maintaining part of him still too afraid to try for rest, he remains awake.
In the end, six men is all it takes. Six men to tear into him, make him scream, cry and eventually beg for it to stop. Six men to break him on their first try. Six men whose faces he's never even seen.