Chapter Text
"Wake up Mr. Graham," Mason pushes his gloved hand through sweat-soaked curls, slides his palm down over his cheek and pries one eyelid open, "there you are, hello — how are you feeling? Good I hope? The sedative was very mild. Are you thirsty? Here,” he holds a bottle of water up to Will’s lips, “drink it all, Mr. Graham, it’ll make you feel better,” for a while, anyway.
"Wha—? Where am I? What the hell — what is this?"
Mason watches him struggling feebly, still hardly able to keep his eyes open — that won’t do at all, he wants Will to be aware of every second of this, he has it all planned out so perfectly. He hefts the cattle prod in his other hand, testing the familiar weight of it for a moment before pressing the nodes against the meat of Will’s thigh.
That gets his attention, Will Graham bares his teeth in a snarl, lets out a choked yelp of shock and pain. He struggles for real now, muscles and tendons whip-tight, the steel frame rattles as he thrashes against the restraints. Mason covers his mouth with the back of his hand to smother a laugh.
“So now that you’re awake—”
"Mason, whatever you’re doing you’re not going to get away with it; if you kill me Hannibal Lecter is going to know that it was you — maybe you can outsmart the FBI, but you’re never gonna—"
“Kill you?” Mason shakes his head and tuts, “oh no, Will, no, no. We’re going to play a little game — you like games, don’t you? Well maybe you prefer playing them with Margot — don’t worry! She’s not missing out at all,” he points to a camera suspended from a ceiling beam, the black eye of it’s lens trained directly on Will Graham’s naked body where it hangs in the metal frame, “live feed — she’s watching avidly, I’m sure,” he turns back to give the camera a jaunty wave.
"Fuck," Will tries to yank a hand free, but the restraints don’t give so much as an inch.
"Yes you did,” Mason says quietly, “did you enjoy playing stud for my sister?” he lifts the cattle prod again, taps the shaft against his palm as he speaks, the plastic-on-leather makes a distinct sound.
"If you’re doing this to hurt her then forget it — she doesn’t care about me; she used me, that’s all,” flecks of spittle fly from Will’s lips, he twists, tries to pull his head back through the bars on either side of his neck — he can almost squeeze through …
"Mhmm," Mason steps forward and reaches out, Will flinches away but Mason doesn’t try to touch him this time, just moves a pin at one end of one of the bars and tightens the crush around Will’s throat, "and yet you jump to defend her,” he tuts, “if you struggle you’ll only hurt yourself. This has all been built especially for you, I’m afraid you won’t be slipping away until I let you out.”
"So what is the game,” Will grits out.
"Simple," Mason smiles broadly, and steps back to a work bench — from the angle that Will is held at he can’t see much beyond a few glimmers of silver resting on the surface. Mason picks up an item and holds his hand behind his back, "since you liked playing stud so much I thought you might like to look the part."
Mason holds up a heavy steel ring between two fingers, it shines under the bright lights, “Sterile, I promise you,” Mason grins.
"What the—" Will breaks off as Mason walks toward him, and despite himself, despite knowing it will only fuel Mason’s sick glee, he can’t help but struggle to get away.
"Shh-sh, now Will," Mason reaches out to grasp him by the hair again, "the more you struggle the worse it will be, calm down now," it’s obvious from his voice that he’s trying hard not to giggle.
Somehow that’s even worse than if he’d laughed out loud and Will forces himself to stay still.
“Good,” Mason says, “are you going to keep your eyes open? Do you think you can?” He holds the ring up right in front of Will’s face, “Ready now, on the count of three — one—” he snaps the ring closed and twists the screw.
“Fuck!" a bead of blood wells and then runs down Will’s top lip. The ring is too big for him by rights, made for a bull’s nose, not a man’s, and the metal hangs against his lip, pain throbs through his face, his eyes stream.
"Not so bad now, was it?” Mason’s face is six inches from Will’s and he watches the tears run down his cheeks — not the real deal, just an automatic reaction to that kind of injury. But still, tears are tears. He takes the case of sterile swatches out of his pocket and soaks up a few drops, “I’ll make Margot a drink later,” he turns back toward the camera, holding the swatch up, “what do you think, Little Sister? Thirsty?” he stows it carefully away again.
Before Will can recover, before he can grit out something in Margot’s defence or spit profanities at Mason, Mason reaches down and wraps his hand around Will’s soft cock.
Will grits his teeth, he can feel sweat running down his sides, his back, crawling across his scalp, “So what, n-now you wan’t me to stud for you too? Is that what this is? Jealousy?” he tries to sound disdainful, but he’s shaking, his voice catches in his throat and quavers just a little too much to be convincing.
Mason laughs, “Oh boy, I didn’t finish explaining the game, now did I? I just got ahead of myself,” he grins, his face is close enough to Will’s that he can feel his breath, can see the tiny capillaries in the whites of his eyes, Mason strokes Will’s cock with slow, gentle movements.
Will twitches, he can feel himself getting hard, the friction of the leather glove, the surge of adrenaline and endorphins in his system make it impossible to resist that, and it feels like a betrayal. In his mind he takes a step back, he can hear the rush of the stream. His eyes glaze and he blinks slowly.
Mason slaps him hard across the face while his other hand twists over the head of Will’s cock — the slap catches on the bullring and a fresh wave of pain floods through him, even as his hips jerk up to meet Mason’s hand.
“Explain,” Will wheezes.
"You don’t get to play stud again," with one final pull Mason lets go of Will’s cock and takes a step back, "this time you’re playing steer,” he grins.
"What’s the ..?" Will watches Mason return to the work bench, watches him pick something up, hears the clack of metal on metal as he fiddles with it, "hey, what’s that supposed to mean? Steer?”
“Tsk come on now, Will, don’t you know your animals?” Mason has his hand behind his back again, “this is what makes a steer a steer,” he holds up a tiny ring of rubber for Will to see.
"I don’t, I … wait, no — no!" Will thrashes against the restraints.
Mason drops the ring and picks up the cattle prod again, “Come on Will, be a grown-up about this, won’t you?” he aims carefully and lands the nodes of the prod on the soft, sweat-slick flesh of Will’s belly, just above the jut of his erection.
Will doesn’t make a sound, his body taught, trembling and straining.
Mason bares his teeth and tosses the cattle prod aside, then takes his other hand out from behind his back, “I’m not sure you would have seen one of these before, but I’m sure you know what it’s for,” the little device gleams brightly, the green rubber ring stretched over the mechanism, “now you’ll want to hold very still again, or things could be nasty for you.”
Will would laugh, if he had the energy for it, “As though they aren’t nasty as it is?”
"Nastier," Mason amends as he leans down to fit the device over Will’s scrotum, "now you may feel a pinch,” he flicks the catch and Will screams.
It takes a long while for Will to settle, for his screams to subside into wracking sobs and then pathetic whimpering. Mason circles the steel frame, observing him from every angle, shooting knowing glances back toward the camera every so often.
He stops behind Will, strokes over his hair again and ignores the angry hiss, uses his teeth to pull off his other glove and unzips his trousers, spits into his palm and strokes himself a few times before he reaches for Will’s hip.
"Now," Mason says, barely loud enough for the camera’s microphone to pick up, his lips almost touching the shell of Will’s ear, "now it’s my turn to play stud.”