Fair Warning: this story just keeps getting more screwy. If you don't want to read any hints of gore, skip the middle section. It's flashback of Will's childhood, and the first time he realized he can empathize with serial killers. I don't know why it happened in the midst of porn. I've stopped asking myself these questions. Also, the lemonade has arrived. Sex toys, and hand jobs. And I don't know... simulated drowning? Is that a kink? Or did I make it up? Pretty much, Hannibal almost drowns Will, and if that would bother you, don't venture forth. This story should be re-titled, "the number of times Hannibal can flirt with killing Will Graham before something really bad happens." Enjoy!
Even when the world tilted on a strange axis, and Will felt foggy, feverish, he could find comfort in open spaces. Large empty fields. Forests. As long as he had the dogs with him, he felt safe. Everything else was a jumbled confusion. But this—he knew this. Walking felt simple, rudimentary. Just one foot in front of the other, over and over again, until he got somewhere.
The dogs ran in circles. Snorted, barked, rolled around in the dirt. Chased after scents. Enjoyed the pale morning sunlight.
Will just kept walking into the vague distance.
Sometimes he thought about going into the wilderness and not coming back. More so during the summers, but the thought didn't entirely push away, no matter what the season.
He thought about packing up a tent and a sleeping bag. He could fish. Catch his own meals. Just keep walking, cooking on open fires, staring up at clear skies. He got his feeling that maybe if he walked long enough, he could leave behind all the dark things in his head. If he walked long enough, maybe he could forget about Garrett Jacob Hobbs. Forget that he'd taken a life. Forget about the nightmares that chased him, stalked him, watched and waited for him to crack.
But of course, when he let his mind wander, it also ended up in other interesting places. He thought a lot about Hannibal. He probably dwelled a little too much. Hannibal was an anchor. In a lot of aspects, he tied Will to reality just a little bit more. But he also had the potential to drag Will down beneath the waves and drown him.
Will wasn't sure whether he wanted to drown or not.
Part of him had always been interested in crawling downwards. Exploring the deepest, darkest holes of humanity, just to see where they went.
After all, he studied madness. Occupied sadism. Tried to understand exactly what made monsters tick. In understanding them, he stopped them. Caught them. Saved the lives of innocents.
But the curiosity belonged to him and him alone. If he didn't have that initial spark—that fearful attraction to the twisted, filthy depths of the human condition—he would have never ended up working for the FBI in the first place.
Sometimes, Will felt like he'd spent his entire life trying to hold himself together. Trying to maintain some shred of normality and decency. Trying to fit into a world that would never understand him,
Sometimes Will wondered what would happen if he stopped trying to stay collected, and just let himself fall apart. Crash and burn. Go completely over the edge. Become a train wreck in slow motion.
These were the sorts of things he should probably tell somebody. If not Hannibal, then maybe Alana. But he'd always found an interesting poetry in the act of self-destruction. And as long as he was just wondering about falling apart, rather than actually doing it, he figured everything would be all right.
As all walks ended up being circular, eventually Will found himself back on his own porch. He wasn't necessarily surprised to see Hannibal's car in the driveway. Just like he wasn't surprised to smell something delicious cooking when he stepped through the door, holding it open to let all the dogs in.
The dogs liked Hannibal. They liked him because he fed them. But also, perhaps they sensed that he was the alpha of the pack. He seemed to have a calming effect on them. They'd all curl up in the living room and wait until he whistled before running in the kitchen to scarf down whatever leftovers he poured into their bowls.
Hannibal had his back towards the doorway, wearing a simple, white shirt, and black slacks. Leaning over a frying pan—he exuded control. Comfort. Will felt an odd pull towards him. He had to resist the urge to press up against him and soak in the perverse feeling of safety. The feeling of slipping under the surface and being utterly content to take a lungful of water if it meant inhabiting such a relaxed ease for the rest of his short life.
A box sat on the table that hadn't been there when Will left. The younger man cleared his throat. Hannibal did not turn around.
"You've been so well behaved lately," he commented in that casual way of his, "I figured you deserved a present. Happy masters bring their pets toys, do they not?"
Will didn't respond. It was a rhetorical question, and Hannibal wasn't pedantic about such things. He didn't scream and threaten violence if Will didn't answer promptly when spoken to. In fact—Hannibal had never handed down a punishment for anything. Will had never given him cause for it. There were no formal rules, and Will followed even the lightest of implicit suggestions.
The balance of power was fragile, mysterious, and beautiful. Will didn't understand it. He didn't know what would happen if he questioned it. He just knew that he didn't feel the slightest impulse to rebel. Hannibal never pushed him anywhere he didn't want to go.
Other Doms had used pain as a means of control. Hannibal used his lack of brutality as a steering mechanism. His power rested in not giving Will the things he craved. His control over Will stemmed from a control over himself, from his own restraint.
Part of Will died in agony every second he went not touching Hannibal. Not reaching out and taking what he wanted. But most of him felt he could go on like this forever and be deliriously happy with the arrangement.
"Wash your hands and sit down at the table. You may open the box after breakfast," Hannibal's voice drifted low and smooth.
These days, Will often obeyed without registering it. He ran his hands under warm water, with a tiny dab of dish soap, then dried off on a paper towel, and sat down at the table. He took the collar out of his pocket—these days he always kept it in his pocket—and fastened it around his neck. It wasn't long before Hannibal set a plate in front of him. French toast and sausage links, with a sliced orange. He also placed a mug of steaming coffee, sugar, no cream, by Will's hand.
Will didn't even have to think. Everything already there for him—he ate slowly, savoring each bite. Hannibal sat across from him, nibbling at his own breakfast. Peaceful silence stretched between them. This sort of thing had become routine. Will liked routines and the sense of familiarity they bred. With a routine, you didn't have to wonder what was happening. It became instinctive. Any time he could spend not thinking about the future was wonderful.
"You look rather pale today. Did you sleep?" Hannibal asked as he raised his mug of coffee.
"Not well," Will responded mechanically.
"Was it nightmares, or a fear of having them that kept you awake?"
Will cut his remaining food into equal sized pieces and ate half the orange before he responded. "I dreamed about the Hobbs cabin. I threw myself onto a pair of antlers. Bled out all over the floor while he laughed at me from the corner."
"I see," Hannibal nodded.
"The weird part was the sensation of being impaled… it almost felt…" Will trailed off.
"It wasn't painful?"
Will shook his head. Ate three bites of sausage. Drank a sip of coffee. "It felt kind of good. Like… release."
The corners of Hannibal's mouth quirked upwards into a smile. "I think perhaps your sexual frustration is twisting the metaphors of your dreams. Being impaled and being penetrated aren't so very different in the end."
Will flushed. He hadn't even realized the implications of what he'd said. But it made sense. God. Kind of a dire state of affairs wasn't it?
"You know you're allowed to touch yourself, Will," Hannibal offered matter-of-factly. "I understand the current arrangement is difficult for you."
"It doesn't really help," Will mumbled into his mug.
"Did you find it satisfying to masturbate while I watched?"
Will's face burned at the question. He stared pointedly down at his plate and squirmed. Because yes. That had been wonderful. But it had also been so very frightening.
"It's ok, Will," Hannibal said softly. "I've spent quite a bit of time thinking about our little problem. And I think I've come up with a solution that will work for the both of us."
The younger man nodded. He couldn't bring himself to make eye contact. But he did want to trust. To believe Hannibal would take care of everything. So far, it had been true.
He finished eating what he could. He always felt bad, leaving food on the plate, but Hannibal never commented. Will's appetite had decreased. His stomach capacity had shrunk. The rest went to the dogs, no questions asked.
Will sat and waited while Hannibal did the dishes. He drank his coffee. Looked towards the window. Let himself slide into passivity until he felt a strong hand on his shoulder.
"Go on, then," Hannibal squeezed gently, "open the box."
Will reached forward for the long white box. Made of cardboard, but sturdy—tied shut with a length of black ribbon. Will tugged at the ribbon carefully, watching it unfurl, before grasping the lid of the container and lifting it. He stared for a few moments before registering what he was looking at.
A dildo. A big one. Not one of those garish, pink, plastic affairs. No, it was made of silicone. Flesh colored. Oddly realistic. A small remote lay next to it. The gears spun. Ah. So not just a dildo—but a vibrator.
"Do you understand?" Hannibal asked softly.
"Yes, Sir. I think so. Thank you," Will said breathlessly.
"Go to your bedroom and prepare yourself." Hannibal reached down into the box and grabbed a hold of the remote. "I'll be there shortly.
Will wrapped his fingers around the dildo and stood carefully. He took measured steps out of the kitchen. After all, he didn't want to look too eager. But once he was out of direct sight, maybe he rushed a bit. Down the hall towards his bedroom.
His blood raced around nervously. He stepped through the doorway and began to undress, throwing his shirt, jeans, and underwear in a clumsy pile by the closet. Naked except for the collar. If they were at Hannibal's house, he might have folded his clothes. Arranged them in a neat little stack. But Hannibal had never complained about the mess in Will's bedroom before and he didn't want to waste any time.
He tossed the vibrator onto the bed and fell back on the mattress beside it. He reached out for the drawer on his nightstand. He pulled out a tube of off-brand lube and flipped the cap open. Squeezed it out into his hand, slicking it across his fingers.
It was difficult to be patient, do it right. But he did his best. He shuddered at the feeling of one finger sliding into his hole, and he added the second one too quickly. The stretch burned a little bit. But soon his muscles relaxed.
His cock throbbed. His cheeks felt overly warm. He must have been a sight, sprawled across his tangled sheets, naked, with two fingers up his ass. But he was past the point where he really felt much shame about these sorts of things. Any residual embarrassment only threw gasoline onto the blazing wild fire in his chest.
He stayed at that threshold for a while. Scissoring his fingers. Trying to focus on relaxation. Acceptance. The he added one more finger. It felt like a lot. Maybe a little too much. Yet strangely, not enough. Nowhere near enough when he grazed against his prostate and the strange pang of pleasure shot through him.
He reached for the dildo and slicked it up liberally. Maybe some of the adrenaline pounding through him could be attributed to anxiety. Panic. Because it had been a long time since he'd had anything like a dick inside him. He was out of practice. He'd be tight. It would probably hurt a little bit.
A long inhale, a long exhale, Will tried to relax. Tried to think about soothing, calming, blankness. He held the dildo by the base and nudged the tip against his hole. Not really applying much pressure, just getting used to the feeling. The insistent stretch.
Somebody was panting raggedly. Probably him. A quick glance towards the doorway told him Hannibal was still the kitchen. Good. Maybe it was better he didn't see this part. If he were there, Will would rush. Eager to prove how badly he wanted it.
Instead, he let himself take it at a more reasonable pace.
Pressed the fake cock in with just a bit more intention. Yes. Pain. Burning. Breathe through it.
Of course the caged animal sort of feeling started to happen. Just wanting to get away. To get the intrusion out. But Will didn't let the fear consume him. The dildo slid forward unexpectedly. Past the first tight ring of muscle. Will grunted. His muscles ached with the stretch. But he sighed. The most difficult part was over.
He gave himself a moment, so that the throb subsided a little bit. Then he pressed the cock in a bit further. Still uncomfortable. Still odd. His internal muscles grabbed at it, tensed around it.
But after a little bit, they started to relax. The clear sensation of pain started to get muddy with hints of something else. The tip of the dildo nudged against the right spot. That little bundle of nerve endings, and Will moaned quietly.
"Very good, William," Hannibal's voice came smooth and syrupy across the quiet of the room.
Will didn't remember closing his eyes, but he opened them. The older man leaned against the doorway with folded arms. Eyes large and dark. Maybe like wells into some deep, wet ground. Something that Will could fall into and never be able to escape.
A whole new wave of heat crashed through him. He pressed the dildo all the way in, panting. Awaiting further instructions.
"Put your hands above your head. Wrists together." Hannibal strode into the room calmly, loosening his tie.
Will obeyed immediately, letting himself sink into soft compliance. Hannibal removed his tie and looped it around Will's wrists. He doubled it over. Tied a few knots. The restraint was quite secure. Different than rope—the silk pressed nicely against his skin. He felt a vague urge to struggle, just to feel how trapped he was, but he refrained.
Hannibal smiled, dipping down to place one chaste, close mouthed kiss on Will's lips. Then he stepped back. Put several feet between them.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the remote. Another surge of dizzying anticipation swelled underneath Will's ribcage. The moment drew out long and torturous. Hannibal just standing there, eyes trailing over Will's naked body appraisingly.
"If I gave you a safeword, would you use it? Be honest," Hannibal raised his eyebrows.
"No," Will whispered.
"I thought as much," Hannibal nodded. "Then it is up to me to decide when you've had enough. That's quite a large responsibility."
"Don't be. Your submission is beautiful, Will. It is complete. I only hope I don't betray the supreme trust you've put in me."
And with that, Hannibal pressed a button on the remote.
The vibration started at a fairly low setting. But god. It was right against Will's prostate. Pressing into it, teasing horribly. Fuck. The spikes of sensation ricocheted through Will's body. He squirmed. He couldn't help it.
He made the mistake of opening his mouth and a high-pitched keening noise escaped him. Too much. He couldn't handle it—and they'd only just started.
"Relax, Will," Hannibal soothed, "just give in to the pleasure. Let it consume you. If you fight it, it might become painful."
Will tried to relax. He really did. Tried to focus on the building tension. The wonderful ache deep inside him.
Then the vibration started to get more intense. Faster. It nearly knocked the wind out of him.
"Oh god," he moaned.
"There is no god, Will. Only me. I am your master, your savior, and your executioner."
The words settled on his skin, caressing him softly. They shouldn't feel so wonderful. Shouldn't be so arousing. This was screwed up.
But the utter helplessness of it all… it pushed him closer and closer to the edge with each passing second. He wondered how long he could stay on the verge of orgasm. Possibly for an indefinite amount of time. He'd never come through prostate stimulation alone. He always needed that extra push. He always needed to touch his cock.
The dildo continued to press against his prostate—teasing him with incredible jolts of sensation. He writhed around. Not sure if he was trying to escape it or get more.
"Hannibal," it came out as a ragged little whimper.
The older man responded by turning up the vibrator. Will couldn't be sure whether he was moaning or crying. In the past, he'd wished an orgasm could last forever. Except… that seemed to be what was currently happening. He was trapped in the moments of intense pressure before the imminent release.
Except the release never happened.
"Please, Sir… I can't…"
"You can, William. You're going to orgasm like this, or not at all."
Just when he thought the vibrator was already on the highest setting, it got faster. His whole body shook with it. He writhed and made almost inhuman noises. He couldn't take it. The exquisite pleasure had become indiscernible from agony.
Every muscle in his body tensed. He was going to die. Just cease to exist. He stopped breathing. His mind went utterly blank.
All he could hear was the dull noise of the vibrator and his own heart, throbbing in his ears. He floated above himself. Caged inside his own skull.
He lingered for a few seconds in suspended reality. Time stopped. It felt a lot like freefall. Those dreadful moments where gravity loses its grip and nothing is real.
And then, release.
It felt like shattering. His internal muscles clenched in a series of delirious spasms. His cock jerked, smearing his stomach with stripes of milky ejaculate. The pleasure crashed through his nervous system—a massive dump of reward chemicals that left him spinning out. Each breath was shaky. He felt almost feverish.
The vibration stopped abruptly.
It took him a few minutes, just lying there, drowning in sensation, before he could come back to himself. Hannibal hadn't moved from his spot near the bed. He seemed to be lost too. Just staring at Will the way somebody might look at a painting. Examining. Trying to memorize and pick out the intricate details.
"Sir," Will said quietly. "Would you mind untying me?"
Hannibal seemed to snap out of it. He approached carefully and untied Will's wrists. Then he reached down between Will's legs and slowly pulled out the vibrator. It made an obscene, slick noise as it popped out.
Will contemplated sitting up. But his bones felt like they'd been boiled to the point of softness. He wasn't sure he'd be able to move for a while. Too shaky.
"Do you feel sated?" Hannibal asked, straightening up again.
"Yes, Sir. Thank you."
Hannibal smiled vaguely. He carded his fingers through Will's hair. "You're beautiful at the moment of utter destruction. I should be thanking you."
Will didn't know exactly what those words meant. He supposed it didn't matter. He let himself drift. Exhausted, and full of strange silence. All the howling monsters of his mind seemed momentarily banished.
And yet, he still got a strange sense of foreboding.
I'm your executioner.
He looked up into the chiseled lines of Hannibal's face. He saw nothing. An impenetrable wall of stone. No emotion to empathize with. All he saw was the strange heat in the older man's eyes. The desire. Lust. Flickering dangerously—a promise and a threat.
Perhaps something showed on Will's face. His apprehension. His confusion. Because Hannibal's expression quickly slid into something more calming. A sort of tenderness radiated from the older man's body language. Affection. Protectiveness.
But his eyes stayed the same.
Will found the clashing signals to be thrilling and horrific in the same breath.
Sometimes, when Will woke up in the middle of the night covered in sweat—he forgot where he was. The sticky heat gripped him and tugged him back in time. Back to strange, half-remembered Louisiana summers. Back to crowded churches with no air conditioning. Back to muggy mornings, and mosquito-filled water fronts. Learning to fish on the bayou. Spending the night in abandoned buildings with a bottle of stolen Jack Daniels and three our four other local urchins. Hearing vague murmurs about voodoo from the old women who kept garlic wreathes above their doors and lines of salt on their windowsills.
When Will was just a boy, he still believed in magic.
Not the ridiculous kind of magic that involved elves and fairies and dragons. No. In the backwoods of Louisiana, Will developed a reverent fear of darker things. Zombies. Witches. The lurking shadows that occasionally stepped out of nightmares and snatched life away from innocents.
He was only fourteen when he stumbled across his first crime scene.
He'd been out in the woods. Chasing after a stray mutt he'd been feeding over the past few days—trying to get him to be a bit less flighty. He'd stumbled into a clearing, and the smell was the first thing that hit him.
Rotten meat. Like the dumpster behind a butcher's shop. He'd stumbled. Coughed. Blinked. And then he'd seen it.
The body, lying on a tree stump—completely gutted. Eyes wide in horror, looking skyward forever more.
The words sacrificial lamb had floated across Will's mind inexplicably. But that's what the scene felt like. A sacrifice. A desperate prayer to some higher power. A last resort. A cry into the night before judgment day.
He'd looked at the body and felt his heart stop. It wasn't a child, but it wasn't an adult either. A boy… probably about his age. He'd blinked and he saw time in reverse. All the cuts on the body undone. Until the boy was still alive. Squirming, screaming. His hands and feet tied. His bonds looped around stakes nailed into the ground.
Then the figure above him. Deranged. He didn't want to do this. There was no choice. The evil was coming for him. God was wrathful, demanded a sacrifice to keep the demons at bay. And so… he must send this lamb to slaughter.
Will opened his eyes and he threw up. His stomach heaved so violently he had to drop down to all fours. He'd felt as if he'd been holding the knife. Ripping into flesh. He emptied his stomach and continued to heave.
When he could stand, he ran. He ran and ran and didn't look back.
A few weeks later, he'd seen the article in the paper. Teenaged boys going missing. No leads. And he knew. He knew he'd stumbled across one of the bodies. But who could he tell? He didn't know much.
Just that the police should be looking for a deeply religious and deeply disturbed individual. Perhaps someone with a terminal illness, or a history of mental imbalance. He felt like he'd worn a killer's skin and couldn't shake it off.
He fell into a sort of depression. Stopped leaving his house to do much other than go to church and pray to forget what he'd seen.
He didn't forget. But he did find something. Late in the afternoon, kneeling on a pew in an otherwise empty church… a man had come and sat down in the aisle across from him. Will had looked sideways and just known.
The nervous ticks. The man was thin, gaunt, kept repeatedly glancing over his shoulder. And then he looked over at Will and stared hungrily. It had sent chills down his spine when he met the man's eyes and known he was looking into the eyes of a killer.
The man began to pray. To murmur frantically. Will didn't move. Couldn't move. Even though he knew he was in danger. This man might try to kidnap him. Take him out to the woods and gut him like he'd gutted all the rest.
"What are you praying for?" He'd asked in a strange moment of resignation.
The man had tensed. Looked over. Like he wasn't even sure Will was real. He looked around. Twitchy. Scared.
"I'm praying for the voices to stop," the man said quietly. "They whisper incessantly. Day and night. They're coming for all of us, you know. To drag us down into the dark."
Will licked his lips, and idea catching in his head. A way he could survive this.
"Yes, I know. I hear them too. I'm one of them."
The man went completely still. Looked at Will, eyes wide in terror.
"I know what you've done," Will continued. "Killed all those boys. Trying to get your precious God to save you. But here I am, in his house. I've come for you and he isn't doing anything about it."
"Lord forgive me," the man breathed, crossing himself.
"It's too late for that. But I'll give you a choice." Will raised his eyebrows. "You can walk across the street to the Sherriff's station and admit to everything you've done. I'll spare your life for a little while. Let you live out your misery in a cell. Or I can take you now. I can drag you down into the darkness where the voices will scream forever."
The man stared for a moment, then he nodded. He stood quietly and left the church. Will ran all the way home. He locked his doors and sat in his closet, holding his father's gun, paranoid for days.
Until he saw in the paper that they'd caught the killer. The man had just walked in and confessed to all his crimes. Given details nobody else would have known. Young boys stopped disappearing.
Will had caught a serial killer and stopped him.
Perhaps that was the moment he stopped believing in zombies, but started seeing the horror of humanity. It disturbed and sickened him—that he could try on a killer's mind and understand why they'd done what they'd done. But though his gift was dark, it could also save lives. He wanted to save lives. Perhaps to save himself. To seek salvation from all the terrible things he began to see.
After months and years… he began to understand what that first killer had told him. The voices of the dead screamed in Will's mind at all hours of the lonely night. But he was different. Because he heard the voices and found ways to stop their screaming. He caught those responsible, and often that was enough.
Sometimes, however, he couldn't shake the feeling that he himself was a sacrificial lamb. That he hadn't actually escaped that day in the church and that his entire life was a flash of madness as he died stretched over a tree stump—eyes flung skyward—an offering to appease a twisted concept of the Lord.
Will became lucid in his bathroom. He ached. Hannibal leaned over the bathtub, turning on the faucet. Steam rose from the water. Will looked at himself in the mirror. Filthy. Covered in dirt. His t-shirt was torn, snagged with brambles. He was bleeding. His feet were sore. Cut.
Must have been sleepwalking.
"I… what happened to me?" He asked, groggy. Confused.
"I came over to make you dinner and your dogs were frantic. I let them out and they tracked you into the woods. I suspect you fell asleep on the couch and unconsciously went for a little walk, without shoes, or pants on."
Will digested that for a minute. It wouldn't be the first time he woke up far away from his house with no idea how he got there. But the fact that Hannibal found him… carried him back… used his own dogs to track him… he wasn't sure whether to find that comforting or disturbing.
"Strip," Hannibal said gently.
Will obeyed. Of course he did. He tugged off his shirt and winced slightly. Slid out of his grey briefs. Let them fall into the floor. Hannibal helped him into the bath. Into the warm, soothing water. It stung where his flesh was torn. But Will didn't really mind.
Hannibal sat on the edge of the bathtub, sleeves rolled up, slowly running a washcloth over Will's chest. Washing the dirt away. His motions were calm and clinical. Like a doctor. Like a surgeon. But that didn't change anything. Will still felt the prickling anticipation—because he was naked, and Hannibal was touching him.
He stayed perfectly still, afraid he'd ruin the moment as Hannibal washed him. Washed his face. His legs. His feet. The water turned darker as Will became clean. They'd have to put antiseptic on his cuts. But that could wait a little longer.
Because Hannibal trailed the washcloth up Will's inner thigh and brushed against his erection. The older man let out a low chuckle.
"Really? I hadn't noticed." Will bit his lip, choking slightly on his own sarcasm.
Everything was a surrealist painting, swimming around him. He'd fallen into the mind of Salvador Dali and he couldn't climb back out. Lights and colors. The heat radiating off Hannibal's body.
Was he really awake? Could he still be out in the woods somewhere? Cold, wandering unconsciously…
Hannibal let go of the washcloth. It floated. Then everything happened too quickly to think about it. Hannibal's fingers wrapped around Will's cock, stroking him. The younger man let out a small choked noise. He had to keep himself from flailing around in shock.
He didn't think he'd ever be allowed to have this. The pleasure shot through him like an electric pulse. Hannibal's grip was tight and sure, focusing pressure around the head of Will's prick. He breathed much too quickly. This was going to be over far too soon.
"You're still bleeding," Hannibal whispered softly, right next to Will's ear. "You have no idea what it does to me."
Without warning, Hannibal leaned in and bit Will hard on the neck—those wonderful sharp canines broke the skin. Will gasped. He was already a mess of pinpricked pain. Hannibal's tongue laving over the bite mark made him shudder.
So fucking close. Every movement of Hannibal's fist around his cock was crescendo of impossible sensation.
"Oh—oh fuck—" Will gasped, "I'm going to—"
"That's it. Come for me." Hannibal murmured against Will's neck.
Collecting tension. Almost painful. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. His entire consciousness narrowed down to the lurch right before release.
Will shuddered, let go. The pleasure sang through him. His body felt like a burning building. Crackling and caving as every pulse rang through him. Milky white pearls of ejaculate trailed through the water. The world blinked away.
Or maybe, Hannibal pushed him backwards.
The water closed around him, rushed in overhead. Hannibal's strong hand on Will's chest. Hannibal's fingers tangled in Will's hair. Holding him under. Will thrashed, and Hannibal's grip tightened in a warning.
Then the younger man went utterly still. Closed his eyes. The darkness buzzed. The water seemed to have a heart beat. A strange, dull silence throbbed in his ears. His lungs began to ache. No air. Panic. Fight. Survive.
But Will did not struggle. He just lay there. Going progressively more limp. Tired. He was so tired. Wrung out after the orgasm. Most parts of him hurt. Still bleeding. The bite mark on his neck stung especially deep.
Drowning. Hannibal was actually drowning him. The lurking fear in his subconscious had manifested into reality. And now that the moment had arrived, Will found he was almost prepared for it.
The pain buzzed in every nerve ending. Death hurt. The inescapable fact of existence. The exit would always be horrific. He couldn't breathe through it. Didn't open his mouth to let the water in. Because he wasn't quite resigned to it.
His thoughts began to slip away into dull murmurs. Everything swirled, vague and dreamlike.
Then a great upheaval. He broke the surface of the water once again. Hannibal had dragged him upwards. He gasped for air, spluttered. His heart raced like a marathon runner. His veins rushed full of adrenaline, mingling with the sexual reward chemicals.
What a fucking rush.
Dizzy, he couldn't focus. Hannibal's arms around him. Even though he was wet. Messy. A large, soothing hand stroking across his back.
Will realized he was trembling. Crying? Maybe. Yes. Definitely yes. Not because he was scared or sad. Just the sheer overwhelming intensity of the moment... he couldn't take it...
"It's all right, Will," Hannibal whispered, "I've got you... you're a good boy... such a good boy."
Eventually, hannibal pulled Will out of the water. Smeared antiseptic on his various cuts and scrapes. Bandaged him up. Deposited him in bed. Even after Hannibal had left, Will's world still spun. Felt oddly surreal.
The funny thing about a near death experience is how it makes you question your concepts of reality.
The funny thing about a near death experience when you're already pretty goddamned far from normal existence, is how it makes everything oddly clear.
I'm your executioner.
Hannibal was the most dangerous kind of sadist in existence. The kind that was normally soft-spoken and gentle. The kind you'd never suspect. It only leaked out around the edges when he got so into the moment, that he couldn't control himself.
His rare outbursts were like heroin to Will's martyr complex. He'd chase the rush for all he was worth until he quit, or until it killed him.
This seemed like the sort of realization that should bother him.
God. I didn't mean to. I just... well how is this ship ever not going to be screwy? Thanks so much for all the comments and kudos and whatnot. You guys are awesome! I think there's one more chapter of this. And don't worry. I love Will. He is my puppy. I'm not actually going to kill him.
I think the next update will be roughly two weeks from now. You can always pop by my tumblr. I post a story update schedule every Monday.
Until next time!