Work Text:
I walked slowly to the table
with my guarded, waiting gaze.
Across my mouth, mid sentence,
you struck with all the force you could muster.
I swear I saw you liked it.
From a near bottomless ennui
came that tender, loving violence,
and the wine spills into
pale Rorschach imagery.
Freely translated from Kent – Ensammast i Sverige
“Again!” Will hissed out the order, and Hannibal obeyed. An elbow to the ribs this time. Not hard enough to break anything, but hard enough to knock the wind out and leave another bruise.
“Tha… thank you.” Will struggled to get the words out.
Hannibal doesn’t answer; he catalogues and calculates. Hands bound above the head for approximately 45 minutes. Pulse and skin colour nominal. No fractures, no internal bleeding, bruising starting to form. Another 15 minutes would be within safety parameters.
“More?”
“Yes, please.”
“Ask nicer.”
Hannibal doesn’t exactly detest doing this for and to Will but it has started to make a small part of him somewhat uncomfortable. It’s a novel feeling.
“Please, Hannibal. Please, I need it.”
Hannibal wields his silence as a weapon. A weak protest perhaps, or just a part of the game. But still.
“Hannibal, may I ask… that you strike me again. Please.”
That’s enough for now, and Hannibal delivers a punch with a closed fist over Will’s liver. Only a quarter of his full strength, but it will hurt and hurt badly, for days.
Will screams and cries. Ugly crying, with snot and tears messing up his whole face.
Hannibal makes a colour palette of all the shades he sees in Will’s face; it’s beautiful and makes him want to take out his old oil painting kit. No. He needs to steer his emotions to the present situation. Will needs him present and in tune. He will give him whatever he needs, no matter how it makes him feel. He has slapped, caned, pinched, spanked, and punched Will for almost an hour now.
Through broken gasps and sobs, Will says it: “Thank you.”
Hannibal retrieves a soft washcloth from the bedside table, wipes Will’s face, and throws it in the hamper. “Have we arrived, Will?”
Will nods and spits at the floor. “Yeah, yeah, I think we’re there.”
A small wave of relaxation washes over Hannibal. It’s hard to predict how much Will needs on nights like this. Nights where Will simmers in self loathing and anger. Nights where he feels the burden of every gruesome and cruel act ever committed as a personal fault. Unworthy of love. Unworthy of life. Unworthy of warmth and forgiveness.
Hannibal has seen him pound his forehead bloody against the wall, drink himself violently ill. They have fought, murdered and burned down buildings together, but nothing has worked as well as this. Controlled violence, given and received. Hurting until Will can let go of the guilt and feel the love between them and then keep on hurting until it comes to its inevitable crescendo.
A limit has not been found yet. Each time they have tried this, Will has needed it to go further. Hannibal has vowed to be Will’s constant companion in this purging, to hold fast until the storms lessen in both frequency and intensity. But judging by what it has taken tonight, they are far from safe harbour yet.
Skilled and steady hands untie Will, and strong arms catch him when his knees fail to support the full weight of his body. Hannibal sets them down on the floor, holding Will like the Mother Mary holds the body of Jesus, a modern Pietà.
“I love you, Will. You are so loved. So wanted and adored. You are the sunset and the first breath of spring. Everything I am, whatever I am or ever will be, belongs solely to you.”
“I feel like I’m dying.”
“Internal conflict of the earliest parts of you. A civil war beneath your skull bones. Of course you feel like you are dying. The need for love versus the self hatred. One of them will win sooner or later. Although I guess whoever loses will leave a haunting ghost. I’m right beside you, Will. I won’t leave you alone in the muddy trenches of your soul.”
“Lazy…” Will chokes on his own spit and coughs, grinning at the pain. “…psychiatry.”
“That might be, but it doesn’t make it less true.”
“Touché. Kiss me. Please.”
Hannibal kisses him, tastes the copper from a few broken capillaries, the acid from the stomach, the tangerine undertone of adrenaline. He thinks about making a blood and lemon sorbet.
He cares and feels when he hurts Will like this. His sadistic side is a gluttonous beast at the harvest, curious about how much this feast has to offer. The much smaller and frailer empathic side of him is, if he’s honest with himself, uncomfortable.
In an ideal world, Will would be hand fed grapes. He would be dressed in the softest of silk, hair shiny with oil and skin warm and sun kissed.
Hannibal doesn’t want to hurt Will. Yes he does, but he also doesn’t. Cognitive dissonance. Not something Hannibal is used to experiencing. Caring about whether or not someone is hurt, or even having an emotional response other than a small thrill of excitement, is… novel, to say the least.
“Hey… stay with me. I need you with me, please.”
Hannibal is snapped back to reality by Will’s pleading.
“Yes, yes, of course. What do you need, my love? Do you need me inside you? My hands, maybe? My mouth on you? My fist? Tell me, and I’ll give you anything and everything you need.”
“I need… to feel loved… all the way to the marrow.”
“Hard and unprepared, then?”
“Don’t make me beg for it. Please.”
The warmth that radiates from Hannibal’s eyes could melt any permafrost as he lifts Will easily from the floor and throws him, belly down, on the bed. He pulls Will’s boxers off without any finesse and holds his cupped palm in front of Will’s mouth.
“Spit, please.”
Will spits once, twice, and then thuds his head back against the mattress. With a grunt, he tucks his knees under himself so he is in an easy position for Hannibal to take.
Hannibal opens his trousers with his left hand, takes himself out, and rubs the spit over his glans and shaft. He spreads Will open and crudely spits a few times over Will’s opening, and then he begins to push himself in. It’s almost impossibly tight, and Will’s muscles are not giving up without a fight. Hannibal is not a small man, and he is proportionate in every aspect, so he knows that this will hurt and hurt a lot. There are ointments and even a suture kit prepared if it should be necessary.
Will screams into the mattress as he is breached. Deep and primal. But he doesn’t fight it, and he doesn’t pull away, even if every fibre in his body is telling him to.
“I love you. You are my everything. Forgive me. I forgive you. I love you,” Hannibal says with a slight tremble in his voice as he works himself deeper in, stroking soothing circles over Will’s lower back.
“Keep… going… don’t stop… and keep talking,” Will gets out between groans and deep breaths.
So Hannibal does. He says the most loving words as he bruises Will from the inside. He speaks of devotion, belonging, everlasting love, and soulmates. Somewhere in the middle of it, Hannibal begins to cry, slow, quiet and controlled. He doesn’t stop fucking Will hard and relentless and he doesn’t examine the cause of his own tears just now. There will be time for contemplation of his own reactions later. Now, making Will feel loved is the only thing that matters in the entire universe.
He pulls Will upright making him sit in his lap as he keeps thrusting violently. He supports Will’s weight with a firm grip in his hair and the other hand in a vice grip around his hip.
“Close,” Will pants out, drenched in sweat, tears dripping down from his chin onto his chest.
“Do. You. Feel. Loved?” Hannibal asks, punctuating each word with a hard thrust. “I won’t let you go over if you don’t feel loved.”
That breaks Will. He wails, and his face contorts in pain. “YES… fuck you! Yes, yes, yes!”
“Say it. Tell me!” Hannibal’s tone is sharp and dangerously low.
“I… am… loved… I feel loved. You love me. I am loved. I am loved I am loved I am loved,” Will cries and slobbers out the words, but they ring true.
“Yes, you are. So loved. So very loved.” Hannibal releases the grip on Will’s hip and reaches around to stroke him. It only takes a few seconds before he feels the tightening, and then hot, warm fluid over his hand. Hannibal lets himself follow; his lips next to Will’s ear whisper out every word for love he can think of as he spills deep inside Will.
He holds on to Will like a man drowning as they fall to their side on the bed, big strong hands stroking feather light and reverent. Will crying without any filter. Hannibal doesn’t shush and doesn’t try to quiet him. He just strokes and caresses, keeping his breathing as calm and slow as possible so Will has something to copy when he feels ready to.
A while later, Hannibal is setting Will down in a warm bath, washing him in reverence, like the woman who washed Jesus’ feet with her hair.
“Can you forgive me?” Will asks.
“That cup will never be empty for you. An eternal ocean of forgiveness, always and forever, for you. Never doubt that, Will.”
“Thank you. I don’t deserve it.” Will looks up at the white bathroom ceiling and closes his eyes.
“Enough for now, Will. Please. The session is over and done with. Let me be the judge of what you do or don’t deserve the rest of the night. Can you allow me that?”
Will takes Hannibal’s hand and kisses his knuckles. “Yeah… alright, I can allow that.”
“Thank you, Will.” Hannibal knows that Will has gotten it out of his system for tonight. The hours before they sleep will be filled with pampering, hand feeding, and softness.