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This is my design.
I cannot understand my own motives. I am used to control. This –this is not control. This is warfare within myself. I feel pulled by diametrically opposing desires –to destroy and to cherish, to desecrate and worship. I am angry with myself for this conflict and angry at the cause of them. Tonight promises a resolution.
It has been a long time in the making, such a beautifully savage dance. Every footfall must be carefully considered and the footfall beyond that and the one after that. The delay has been exciting and frustrating in equal parts, but even the frustration has an edge of pleasure to it. I deny myself nothing in my life and delayed gratification is unusual enough in my life that I can enjoy the anticipation of what will come.
But hunger has sharp teeth and anticipation has given way to impatience. I take that which I desire and I have desired this for long enough. I refuse to wait any longer. I have cut the fragile spider threads that he clung to from my place of stealth and secrets until nothing is left to support him. My prey almost hovers for a moment, hesitates, falls onto my bed with a gracelessness that is paradoxically elegant.
The sheets beneath him are red-brown in the moonlight, highlighting the rising colour in his cheeks, the flush suffusing his chest and neck. He starts to speak and I seize his mouth with my own, silencing him. I do not want to hear what he has to say. Protestations and declarations of devotion are equally infuriating to me. I fall on him as a dying man upon a feast, as a lover finally escaping from a chaperone’s watchful eye, as a madman upon his victim.
It is not a gentle coupling. His muscles move beneath my fingernails as I drag them down his back. He claws at my chest and I cannot tell whether he is moving towards or away from me. It does not matter, either way. He almost forces my mouth down upon his own, pulling at my bottom lip with his teeth until we both taste blood. The anger inside me surges forward and my hands tear at the last of his clothing, my fingers pushing inside him. I enjoy the way he stiffens, the pain that curls his spine and snatches the breath from his frame. It soothes me long enough for my other hand to quest beneath the bed for the lubricant I secreted there in preparation for this night. I do not know if the grunt he gives is disappointment or relief. Maybe it is both.
I thrust myself into him before he can become too comfortable. He cries out as if from a gunshot and his teeth bury themselves in the meat of my shoulder. He draws blood, I can feel it drip down my back and it fills me with a perverse delight. I push his leg up until he is completely exposed to my view and dig my fingers into the inside of his thigh until he screams.
I pull his nipple between my teeth, biting every inch of skin that I can reach as I wrap a hand around his cock, lube and pre-cum slicking my palm. I will wring pain and pleasure from him in equal measure. I will exact my revenge on him in the form of bruises and blood. His eyes are glazed and I enjoy that he cannot see the mask slipping from my face.
Suddenly, he clenches around me, squeezing his ass together until it is almost painful to continue fucking him. I growl and he smirks up at me with lips swollen with arousal and the bruises that will develop later. I feel lost, furious at his presumption and fascinated by his perception. What does he see in my unguarded face that makes him smile?
I let his muscles push me out, enjoying the surprise on his face that destroys his confidence. I almost throw him onto his stomach and when he tries to get up onto his hands and knees, I loom over him and force myself inside again.
He screams and the music of it is beautiful. His knuckles are white as he clutches at the sheets, canting his hips up to meet me as I fuck him. I think I hear him moaning, muttering nonsense words of either rapture or torment, but I don’t care enough to check. My own pleasure is building as I drive further into his hole, one hand pushing down on the small of his back as the other jerks him off in short, brutal strokes.
He is here, beneath me and crying out for me, because of me. I am not bespelled by him, he is entirely under my dominion. He does not control me, does not cause a fierce stab of pain at the thought of his loss. He is mine to keep or destroy as I please.
I tell him so in a low, vicious whisper. The hand that is not wrapped around his cock strokes his cheek in a parody of affection as I describe how beautiful he looks to me, how filthy and degraded. He is a freshly fucked angel and I will pull every one of his feathers from his back, replace them with the thorns of the damned. Maybe I will carve the spiralling stag horns of his nightmares into the muscles that tremble beneath my assault. I will leave my mark upon his body the way he has marked my mind.
I can feel him unravelling beneath me, his hips frantically pushing back into my cock, the trembling member in my hand stiffening under the barrage of movement and words. I wrap my hand around his throat, feeling his breath stutter in his chest as breath is denied to him. He shudders, his whole body growing rigid for a second of exquisite pressure as he collapses, eyes rolling back in his head. I watch with greedy eyes as he struggles for air, pushing weakly at my hand pressing his windpipe, still fucking the air uselessly as he leaves a sticky trail of come dripping onto the bed. He is beautiful and I only release his throat to catch my balance as I slam myself home. It is like the first moment of clarity I have had since we came to know each other and for a moment there is nothing. No fury, no desire. Just a moment of purity that almost seems to lift me out of my body.
When I return to myself, he has recovered enough to drag himself into the curve of my body. I feel a flicker of pleasure at his winces when he adjusts for the wounds I have left on him.
As he leans into my hand, sighs, whispers my name, I tighten my grip upon his throat, crush his windpipe in a surge of hatred and desire. I am my own master, I will not be ruled by any man. His death will bring me peace. Maybe regret, maybe victory but either way it will be an end.
Or
I let him draw himself tighter into my embrace, nuzzling into the curve of my body as he slips into sleep. My hand traces the lean muscles that relax beneath my questing fingers. I feel satiated, an addict taking minute doses of the thing that desires his death above all else. Maybe this lull is temporary or more permanent –but I am calmed by his quiet breathing, his small smile.
Even I do not know which ending I desire. I am conflicted and that state of conflict makes my actions difficult to predict. Until I reach that moment, I will not know which action I will choose. There is no design beyond that moment, no plan except to react.
“Will?”
Hannibal’s voice shatters the silence. Will blinks, shaking his head slightly as if clearing water from his ears as he avoids Hannibal’s eyes.
“Guess I had a little too much wine,” he says feeling his lips tug into a lopsidedly smile.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Hannibal asks evenly. Will wonders whose good Hannibal is considering when he asks, or if he even knows himself.
“Yes,” Will says, the same uncertainty he thinks he sees in Hannibal’s eyes curling around his muscles, making him shake with fear and desire and that dizzying urge to jump that comes to him whenever he stands atop a precipice.
Hannibal reaches out a hand, pushing on his chest. The pressure is gentle, but if he moves with it, the back of Will’s knees will hit the heavy wooden bed frame and he will tumble gracelessly onto sheets the colour of old blood.
Will closes his eyes, and lets himself fall.