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It was an accident the first time it happened.
Will had been jerking off, as teenagers tend to do. That wasn't anything new. He did that almost every night these days, waiting until the rest of the house fell silent and he wouldn't be disturbed. Even so, he always made sure to lock his bedroom door — and usually put something up against it for good measure.
He wasn't thinking about anyone specific, not this time. Blurry images shaped vaguely like men flashed through his head. One hand was on his cock, and the other one was clasped tightly around his mouth. Will had always been a bit on the louder side, and the LAST thing he needed was for Jonathan to ask him tomorrow morning what those weird whimpering sounds were coming from Will's bedroom. He did not want to have that conversation again.
What happened next was an accident, he swears.
Slowly, the hand covering his mouth drifted down to his neck. He wasn't even sure when he started, but he was squeezing his windpipe. Hard. To the point that his whimpers turned to choked gasps and black stars bloomed across his vision.
That night, Will Byers came harder than he ever had in his life.
Sure, it was an accident the first time. But it wasn't the second time. Or the third. Or the fourth. Or any of the dozens of times after that.
He tried to rationalize it for a little bit. After all, who wouldn't? Plenty of people were into things way worse than a little bit of asphyxiation. Besides, he wasn't hurting anyone. At least, that's what he thought at first. Unfortunately for him, his mother made the decision one day during breakfast to notice the darkening bruises around Will's throat. Will hadn't even realized they were there. He came up with some bullshit explanation that he couldn't even remember if he tried, but it was enough to get Joyce to stop asking questions.
Will became quite fond of scarves and turtlenecks after that.
Okay, so maybe he was hurting people. But he was only hurting himself, and that was different. Right? No one would care if he got hurt.
Of course, that wasn't the end of it. Because god forbid that Will Byers ever have something easy in his fucking life.
It was late at night. He was jerking off, one hand on his dick and the other one wrapped tightly around his neck. He knew the bruises around his windpipe tomorrow would be ugly and dark. He didn't much care. As the hand on his dick sped up, a bit of precum leaked onto his fingers. Naturally, he lifted up his hand to lick it off.
What could he say? He enjoyed the taste. Well, either that or he just enjoyed the idea of eating his own precum. He never gave it much thought, and he wasn't about to start now.
He put his fingers in his mouth. Then, almost instinctually, he pushed them deeper. And deeper. He pushed them until his throat started to spasm, and tears filled his eyes.
And then, for a brief, horrible, beautiful moment, Will Byers wasn't in his bedroom anymore. He was 12 years old, bound with vines, cold and shivering, with a slimy tendril shoved down his throat. An ominous figure with a clawed hand, whose face Will couldn't quite make out, loomed over him. A spike of fear ran through Will's body. He couldn't breathe. He could barely see. He could barely think. He was going to fucking die.
Will wasn't sure when he came. As soon as he came down from his high, he ripped his fingers out of his mouth, coughing violently. The memory faded away, leaving him once again in his bedroom, dried semen coating his stomach.
Fuck. He choked himself. And not just by wrapping a hand around his neck. He literally put his fingers down his throat. And all because it reminded him of...
Will curled up into a fetal position on his bed, releasing a shaky breath. He wanted to cry, but no tears came. He wasn't sad, exactly. Angry? No, that didn't feel right either. He was... empty. He felt empty. He was a million little black holes pressed into the shape of a teenage boy.
He was a freak. He was a fucking freak. He was kidnapped and forced to take a tendril filled with demogorgon slugs down his throat when he was 12, and now he was fucking getting off to it. That's all this was. How had he not figured it out sooner?
"What's wrong with me?" he whispered into the dark.
The dark had no answer.