It’s a stomach churning revelation to stare into the abyss of dark maroons and know that the man who had singularly ruined his life and built a new one revolving around him was the man whose touch he craved senselessly. He’d been broken, abused, taken advantage of, used. All by the same man who he welcomed, arched for, felt fondling away beneath a sweater bought by the devil himself.
Dressed like a doll so he could undress it. God why was the prospect intoxicating? Taken care of, cared for, pampered and doted on. And in the quiet of the shadows, in the secrets of their truly intimate nights, a bliss greater than any sex he’s had before. Will likely have to come.
Despite Hannibal’s careful attentions its easy to slip back into their third or fourth favorite game. Denial. What the good doctor wants more than anything, Will is enthralled at his staunch refusal. A game of tug of war and the sound of his voice is the prize. Hannibal hasn’t won (fairly) yet and Will intends to keep his streak going for years to come.
I’ll show you who you really are. No one likes a mirror pointed at them.
Gasping as he shifted, allowed the attention of his captor to wander while he caught his breath, his hands find the soft roots in graying hair. A piece of his heart beat for a moment. God…he is Hannibal’s mirror. This is narcissism at it’s peak. There was no ‘beyond this’. This was Narcissus and the pond and both of them were drowning because he was. Will shuddered hard once and he could (almost rightfully) blame that on the teeth grazing against his shirt and the hard nipple beneath.
No. He wasn’t just some poor victim to be coddled when it was all over. He smelled the smoke. He saw the fire. And knowingly he’d taken a step into that hungry fire and felt it lick his skin and make him feel alive. More alive than he had ever hoped to be, fixing boat motors. He wanted to laugh at the idea of that stupidly beautiful, peaceful life he thought he could have had. No one, nothing like him deserved happiness. Not with the seeds they sew in their footsteps.
That loving caress of a hand in Hannibal’s hair turns sour and those perfectly trimmed tresses become his weapon. Yielding the bastard’s cut-able throat and the small flecks of hairs under his chin determined to grow back out by morning. His teeth sank down but it was his lips that found the adam’s apple leaping up and down like some perverse cheerleader spurring on the imminent desire to bite down and hard. It’d be so easy. Hannibal would let him. To die the same way the Dragon did. Imagine the sick satisfaction flickering across that face as he collapses watching his greatest creation destroy him. Become More Than.
Moaning, Will jerks hard on those short hairs and he knees the cannibal in his gut, shoving him just as hard with his other hand until there’s room enough for him to leap to his feet and hook his ankle around the bastard’s. Watch him stumble to catch himself, twisting just enough that slamming his body into Hannibal’s lands them both in the crevice of the couch cushions his lover captor had vacated minutes before. This is their second favorite game. The one where they fight for who gets control in that moment. Will usually wins. Persistence pays off.
It certainly does when he grinds the palm of his hand down against the heaving chest, feels the warmth and the beating of a heart. He follows it up, up, into cold dead eyes he doesn’t want to admit aren’t cold and dead at all. They’re the most alive eyes he’s ever seen. Open. Honest. Beautiful. He hates the god damn bastard.
His hand wraps around Hannibal’s throat and he stifles a sound of bliss to feel the windpipe inches beneath his palm. Knowing he could crush it before there’s even a flicker of a reaction.
Ragged breaths precede unforseen turn of events a rapid fire chain reaction, train barreling down broken tracks and- He’s lost control again. In all these long and despairingly lonely years no being has wrenched his grip from the wheel more times than he could count and in as many, driven him to heightened ecstasy unfathomable in daily life. Modern thinking with all it’s quirks and candor and acceptance of the strange and erotically charged manifestations of damnable desires could not begin to comprehend the dance performed between them now. One misstep and it all turns to dust.
Glee and surprise are in no short supply here, the wild war drums beating their battle cry in the ivory cage which held them felt as likely to burst through their bastille as his quarry seemed adamant to dig in. Self preservation should take precedence yet no deathly hand raises to stave off imminent death, glittering pools of frigid waters fill him with delight and in their depths he drowns willingly for Will Graham has given him The Thing Which He Craves And The Thing Which He Is Always Denied if in such short supply as to fall extinct thereafter.
It is enough for him and he feasts on it heartily, filling his belly and his lungs and the tips of his fingers as they dig into taut thighs quivering their distress over his prone form lost in the subjugation. They can not be whole and they can not be half and what wickedness there remains breathes a poison in his lungs which gives life as it takes. Unerringly he is frozen in a moment of constant decay and regeneration at an exceedingly perfect pace as to match. Deliriously maddening and terribly frustrating it serves no purpose other than to give discontent.
Writhing beneath the palm of that hand a voice bellows its presence in the quiet dim beating of their hearts and startles him in its gutteral rasp.
“Will.” Delightful hell that this is, it brings to bear the ache inside of him yearning for something more, something not yet willingly given. Now is not the time for following one’s deepest darkest desires into the rabbit hole. It is already far too long past time for medication, even the smallest indulgence is a greater inconvenience than he should have allowed.
“It’s time for your medicine.” To let him slip through his fingers so willingly, find his footing in what should be a tumultuous dune and thick haze of the passage of time, it was as great a mistake as he could have made.
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