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theredofoctober · 2 months

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MANNA- CHAPTER TWELVE: FRUIT

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, implied child abuse

This is chronologically the twelve chapter

READ AFTER THE CUT...

You ascend to your room alone, glancing back over your shoulder in the paranoia that one or the other man pursues you like night after the sun.

Neither have taken you by way of carnality since Will rutted you against the wall. It seems an unnatural strike of fortune, and one unlikely to last.

There is too much lust between these beings, hunger of such echoing depths that the sensual urge is but one chained within. Their eyes all evening have picked you to the bone like carrion set at by desert birds. Your cunt parts, empty, about the memory of Will’s fingertips; there is a sense of art unfinished, a crescendo in the crashing of keys only the hands of men can bring into violent birth.

In dread of missing the sound of their approach across the landing you lie quiet in your bed, no music nor comforting hum of the television as your night-time companions. Yet footsteps only halve the house when your captors go to bed, each in their own room, an anti-climax.

You think of Hannibal, tossed amidst the curse of unsung ardour, then of Will, crushed under the density of an unsated sleep. Such lonely men, in their way, divided by what lies unchartered between them, and with you.

Though by now settled, the skin which Will has touched—struck—still seems to burn with him. Five fingers, the rounded oblong of a palm, a hand that feeds dogs, has fired a gun, has rocked you, fucked you. A hand that Hannibal Lecter reaches for across dead miles of darkness to know as you have, and to love what you have loathed.

Unsettled, you roll on your stomach, but the pulse you hear when overwrought seems to peal through your very bones in its jeering song.

Filth, sin, soil: you taste your shame in its salt, as you have each night since long ago. Yet before your taking for the purpose of this ritual science there had never been pleasure in it, only the experience of staring always at the edges of things. The corners of ceilings, the light at the top of a door, a wall torn to grain by the night, liminality your legacy of innocence.

With Will, with Hannibal, you cannot look away, are made to witness and to partake in every aggression and gentleness with the same focus of attention. For that is what they want, your immersion in the devil’s playhouse. For you to be a doll, a daughter, embraced after the most inclement incident into a state almost soothed.

You cry yourself to sleep, wanting such a practice of love from someone who’s never once hurt you.

Hunger wakes you in the night, a restless drumroll that compels you upright in its rallying beat. As you stretch, thinking morosely of the marvel it is to have gorged and still not be full, you hear someone stumble in the nearby hallway, thudding against the adjoining wall.

A fight? Some drunken struggle? An intimacy overheard? No—

There is but a sole pair of scuffing footfalls on the floorboards beyond, too unbalanced to be Dr Lecter’s.

In consternation you go to your door and try the handle. It gives way easily under your hand, allowing you to peer out into the black mystery beyond.

Will lists against the right-hand wall, his eyes glazed and rolling under twitching lids. As you stare, abashed, his limbs fall under him, and he sprawls thrashing in unconscious spasms of animation.

There is blood on his face where he’s bitten his tongue, ebony in the negation of light. An oil spill on a seabird, drowning. A splash of mud on a bog's sunken dead.

You should let him suffer, step over his convulsing form and dart for nearest open window or outer door, but horror shakes you senseless of the thought before it takes full form.

Will’s fit continues, throwing the young man’s slim frame about like a machine caught in the throes of grim malfunction.

God help you: you pity him. He is human, and you are, as well.

“Will?” you say, stepping gingerly towards him. “Daddy? Can you hear me?”

It occurs to you that Will’s death is also yours, your lifelines enmeshed, a symbiosis in which only he would survive your parting. You kneel with your palms hovering over him, recalling very little that you know of First Aid, and entirely terrified of making him worse.

Hannibal’s voice comes from your left, uttering your name with a softness that somehow bears all the authority of a bellowed command.

He steps up quickly behind you, his hair disrupted from its usual tidy arrangement.

“Will’s having a seizure,” you say, in despair. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I’ll help him,” says Hannibal. “Go back to your room.”

You stare at him, dumbfounded by his apparent calm.

“But—”

Again Dr Lecter says your name, without raising his voice, or with any particular emotion. Yet you scuttle back the way you came, jarred by the suggestion of temper in that subtle repetition.

You hear Hannibal calling to Will, the sound of him lifting the other man and carrying his dead weight back to the spare room. The door closing, the subtle murmur behind it of Will rousing, his friend's soft, reassuring reply.

Silence, as of an exhibition ended.

Half an hour edges by, and not once do you stop shaking despite the heat of the autumn night.

Presently a knock comes at your door, and the doctor enters, his eyes lowered in remorse.

“I apologise if I spoke harshly to you. I know that you weren’t being deliberately disobedient. It wasn’t my intention to imbue your evening with additional distress.”

“It’s not your fault,” you say, quite disarmed by the apology. “It’s nobody’s fault. I mean, I shouldn’t have left my room, but I couldn’t just not go out there and see what was going on.”

Hannibal’s expression is opaque, a mask of ivory.

“I detect a concern for Will that isn’t entirely manufactured for my benefit,” he says. “Could it be that such a little cynic loves something other than her hunger?”

“What choice do I have but to care about Will?” you ask, shrilly. “What’s wrong with him?”

Adrenaline runs so high within you that you see the room on a tilt like some demented circus mirror reflection.

“What’s wrong with him?” you ask, again.

This time Dr Lecter answers, his tone low and even so as not to incite further upset.

“I suspect that Will is suffering from a combination of stress and fatigue, although I can’t deny the possibility of a neurological disorder.”

“Jack said he was sick,” you mumble. “And the other night, when I— you know. He looked awful.”

Will's face is punched into your retina like a flash of light, all blinding awfulness.

“And he’s been getting so angry with me,” you say, in a panicked rush. “Even though sometimes he’s almost nice. Is that why? Because he’s not well?”

“Will’s health has certainly contributed to his recent outbursts,” says Hannibal, smoothing your rumpled coverlet with fastidious hands. “The absence of control he feels amidst his fever leads to acts of impulse, particularly when in an environment he’s uncertain of, or feels threatened in.”

“I’m not threatening him,” you insist, hotly. “How could I?”

“I don’t mean in the literal sense. Will has very few close confidants, and those he possesses he guards dearly— that, or it is he himself that Will defends against his competition.”

You look up sharply, and Hannibal smiles, all benign conspiracy.

“Yes, little one. Having considered your thoughts on Will's dislike of you, I suspect that he also fears you may supersede him, or else share intimacies with me that he alone would otherwise possess. Yet Will’s envy is more complex than mere romantic ire, for unlike other rivals he has contended with, Will finds himself in the position of dizzying power over you.”

Dr Lecter pauses, his head at a rueful incline.

“For my part, I admit that it was rash to elect Will as the disciplinarian between us without taking all factors into account. It seems that I underestimated how antagonistic your relationship would become as his immersion in your treatment progressed.”

This you do believe, at least in that the doctor’s dissuasion of Will’s most outrageous verbal lashings is clearly genuine. Your bickering, in its familial likeness, he enjoys: an outright skirmish, repellent it its indecency, he does not.

“As you’ve indicated,” says Dr Lecter, going about your room to address its customary disorder, “Will’s becoming aware that his resentment is not entirely warranted as he finds himself increasingly sympathetic to your case. Such feelings are at odds with his desire to be alone in my company— an intricate conflict for any mind, let alone one so fiercely ablaze.”

“Ablaze?” you repeat. “What do you mean?”

“If my suspicions are correct, then Will’s condition may have been agitated by the ingredients in various dishes served in my home these past few weeks. The symptoms are closely matched to Will’s behaviour— disorientation, loss of consciousness, personality changes, mood swings. It’s unfortunate that I didn’t notice this much sooner.”

There is something performative in Hannibal’s guilt, his unshed tears like the glass eyes of a taxidermy animal. He’s known of Will’s ailment far longer than he suggests, and as he turns his back to close your chest of drawers you feel relieved, no longer forced to entertain this show of lies.

“You mustn’t mention any of this to Will until he’s received a formal diagnosis,” says Dr Lecter. “It may be that he’s simply mentally unwell, which would be a far more complicated outcome to navigate. But what you’ve seen of him lately is merely a conjunction of symptoms and heightened territorial emotions. Will’s true self you’ve yet to meet.”

The assurance is of little comfort to you, being that the nearest you’ve come to perceiving Will at his most natural and honest is in his private conversations with Dr Lecter. Through these you’ve glimpsed a complex creature, one that approaches evil with a newborn’s chary exploration.

You want to believe, for your own sake, that the sensitivity you’ve received from him sporadically evidences the continued persistence of his soul. Yet you cannot decide if he began a good man, changed through Dr Lecter’s influence, or if he’s always been a hunter, each kindness a flash of marsh fire luring you to drown.

The image of Will—twitching, defenceless—ultimately overrides this dilemma of thought.

“So what do we do now?” you ask. “We have to help him.”

Pleased by your concern, Hannibal leans across the bed to kiss the downturned corner of your mouth.

“I’ll reschedule tomorrow’s appointments so that I can tend to him. Will needs rest, first and foremost. As for his role here, it would be safest for him to delegate the majority of his more strenuous duties until he's recovered. I’ll continue them, in his stead.”

Choosing not to linger on the implications of this, you ask, “What about me? What can I do?”

“Healing Will is not your responsibility, little one.”

“But I’m making things worse,” you say, fretfully. “I know it. How can I make him like me?”

Not without humour, Hannibal says, “You can begin by tempering that sharp tongue a bit. Like Will, you rarely attempt to sweeten your words. I’ll never encourage you not to bite, but it is important that you roll on your back when we bid it. You must be our good girl, above all else, or if not good then charming, at the very least.”

You roll onto your side, crushing your face into a valley of pillows.

“I guess I really haven’t been playing along enough,” you mutter.

Hannibal chuckles.

“Not nearly enough, for all your promises. But it’s early days yet, sweet girl. We’ll see how you are once we're used to one another.”

Morning comes rudely, stalling the excitement like an opera’s intermission.

You take breakfast with Hannibal, only distracted from the usual struggle of eating by the presence of Will’s vacant seat. Having thought of him without respite for hours you’re in state of nervous delirium, your flinching knee a seismic force under the table.

“I want to see Will,” you blurt out, at last. “I want to see if he’s alright.”

“I’ll be taking a tray up to him in a few minutes,” says Dr Lecter, scarcely bothering to hide his delight in this new interest. “Don’t ask him too many questions. No doubt he’s feeling somewhat delicate this morning.”

You watch as Hannibal prepares a separate meal for the other man, cutting fruit and stewing tea leaves with loving ceremony. When he puts a strawberry to your lips you take it, your tongue rasping the juice gamely from his fingertips.

The shock of the previous night has amputated your mulish declination to humour him; even the disgust that meets your every concession is hushed, made redundant by a renewed vow to leave this house on soft feet rather than screams.

Other women have befriended their keepers and lived, as will you, if you can bear to pander to Dr Lecter as long as they.

Accompanying Hannibal to Will’s room you find that you’re oddly excited, even gleeful in anticipation of the visit. You’re taken with the notion that his seizure will incur some unknowable change, though whether in Will himself or the dynamics of the households you cannot predict.

Never have you seen him so utterly fragile, the dilapidation of a man. You think of a child, foisted on a detached father by a mother Will had never seen fit to name.

Will he be ashamed that you’ve seen that self so clearly? Will he be angry, indifferent, or else fear the power his weakness allows you as though your thumbs press deep in the fluttering dell of his very throat?

There is another possibility, however, the one your morning-fresh hopes hang onto by their nails: that he’ll remember how you’d crouched at his side and called to him as he shook in the darkness.

“Wait here for a moment,” says Hannibal, as you crowd up behind him at Will’s bedroom door. “I’d like to speak to him alone first.”

You hang back as Dr Lecter goes in, pressing your ear to the door the moment it shuts at his back.

“You’re awake,” says Hannibal, simply. “How are you this morning?”

There is a pause as he sets down the beautifully arranged tray somewhere in the room.

“I feel like I could sleep for another forty-eight hours,” says Will, his voice thick and slightly nasal, a sickbed tenor. “I should probably get up and head home. I need to check on the dogs.”

“I called Alana and asked her to look in on them,” Dr Lecter replies. “It’s inadvisable to drive in this condition. Try to eat. You’ll revive much quicker if you line your stomach with something.”

“Yeah, well. I can’t make any guarantees of keeping it down.”

You hear the metallic scraping of a fork about Will’s plate and writhe in envy. Even unwell he eats without thought of the fat that disallows your enjoyment of any meal. You live vicariously through him, in that moment, imagining the liquor of fruit across his tongue, the forbidden pearls of white sugar.

What you’d give not to be a slave to thinness, the goal whose end will never form.

Hannibal says, "Present issues aside, I can't help observing that you've been conflicted, as of late, Will. One might even say confused."

"Have been since the start of all this,” says Will. “The clouds still haven’t cleared. A bilious forecast.”

"Yet you've no wish to abandon this project for brighter climes."

Will gives a little snort of derision.

"I'm too enmeshed in this household to extract myself now. The night I first touched her was my signature at the end of the page. Indelible ink. No taking it back."

You flatten your face to the door so as to better interpret Hannibal’s silence.

"You feel a genuine duty to our little one, for all your misgivings,” he says, at last. “I was beginning to question if I’d made a mistake."

"She's abrasive,” says Will. “Not exactly malleable. I believe you know what you’re doing, but on paper it seems like an ill-fitting adoption."

"Children are reflections of their parents, and so far she’s shown herself to be a mirror of you. Towards me she is cool, distant, and distrustful. With you, there is an attraction of sorts. Not sensual, nor even familial, but it’s enough that, in spite of your every rebuttal and harsh word, she’s beginning to develop something of a rapport with you."

Laughing tersely, Will says, "Not sure I see it."

"You don't allow yourself to,” says Hannibal. “But you’re aware of that truth, all the same. Each time you relent into even momentary tenderness you turn against her in savagery that is vastly unearned.”

“You asked me to punish her,” Will says, sharply. “Encouraged me to— relish it.”

The admission does not move you; these men have knifed ecstasies of you like oyster flesh enough times to have indicated their tastes.

It is the why you listen for, the object they skirt about with the same flirting avoidance of a tryst that cannot be.

“I’m not referring to punishment,” says Dr Lecter. “This I have openly supported. It’s how you address our charge that’s beginning to make her feel displaced.”

“Are you criticising me, Dr Lecter?” asks Will, with a smile in his voice.

“Certainly not. I’m merely observing a pattern of behaviour, and its impact upon my patient.”

To this Will says nothing, but the tension between the two men is as visible as the door that stands between you.

"If you yearn for the hours that you and I once spent alone, I'm able to accommodate by replenishing that time together,” Hannibal says, at last. “But the blame for that neglect is solely mine. I've foisted our little one upon you without consideration of what response such an abrupt change would elicit."

"You don't have to apologise,” says Will, as surly as ever. “It’s an adjustment. I’m getting used to it.”

Your ears catch the delicate action of him lifting the tea cup on his tray, then of setting it down again.

“I spoke to her alone last night,” he says, abruptly. “Told her of my intentions to stay part of this. For a moment it felt like we connected. Like that was the promise she was looking for. But when I refused her something she wanted, she accused me of being ‘like him’. I figured you'd know who she was referring to.”

“Yes,” says Hannibal. “I can make what I imagine is an accurate guess.”

“Whatever parts we try out here, I don’t want to become the unnamed shadow that stands at her shoulder. It made her the way she is. There’s a tastelessness to that kind of evil.”

"I know. It’s more than apparent that you repel her less through genuine hatred, and more through the necessity to protect yourself from what it would mean to know her, and for her to know you in return.”

As Will replies you hear the huskiness of genuine emotion forced out between gritted teeth.

“All this would be a wasted effort if she were ever taken from me.”

“That won’t happen again,” says Hannibal, at once. “The pillar of salt left when you looked back at Abigail will never form with our new charge. When our second daughter turns to me with the same thirst for intimacy she’s developed for you she’ll be, at last, our Chloris, the nymph turned mistress of flowers."

He speaks with such tender compassion that it starts an ache somewhere in the underwing of your ribcage. What necromancy he conducts here to wake your dead and mangled innards into a living heart you cannot guess, only fear the compassion you’re capable of towards such creatures as would destroy you.

"Our little one would like to speak to you, it seems,” says Dr Lecter, closing the previous subject with a seamless finality. “Should I let her in?”

Will shifts uneasily on the bed, creaking its springs.

“She asked to see me?” he asks.

“She did.”

You imagine the younger man scraping a tangle of hair back from his temples as he gathers his thoughts.

“Where is she?”

Thus your cue to enter announces itself: you open the door, peeping at its edge, oddly shy.

"Hey,” you say, in a semi-whisper.

Will is as grey and moist with feverish sweat as deep-sea stone. His vast eyes nest in violet shadow, the whites a thread work of capillaries.

You pity him, this shambling experiment of Dr Lecter's creation, one of many, no doubt.

"Hello,” says Will, dully. “Sorry about last night."

Edging into the room, you allow Hannibal to slip discreetly away behind you with a light pat on your shoulder.

"Are you okay?" you ask. “How are you feeling?”

"Tired, mostly,” says Will. “I'll get over it. Need to. I’ve got a case to work on."

He scrutinises the half-empty tray before him from under lowered lashes.

"I'm surprised you helped me. You could have run off. Hit me over the head with one of Dr Lecter's vases."

"I wouldn't do that,” you retort. “You even said so. That I— can't."

"No, but you could have gotten away. So why didn’t you?"

There is no surprise in his voice, nor even suspicion, which you’d expected. He merely sounds ill, and trying to be interested, in spite of it.

“I don't know,” you admit. “I felt bad for you, seeing you like that. I didn’t want to leave you."

A weary cynicism twists Will’s features into momentary ugliness.

"You were afraid of being alone with someone you could never hope to understand without me."

"Not just that,” you insist, alarmed by the truth of the insight. “I was scared for you. Really. You should go to a hospital. You need tests. Meds. Scans and stuff, maybe.”

Will searches your face with eyes like dull rain, and some of the guardedness falls away from them.

"If it gets any worse, I will,” he says. “Just not today.”

You see how much he detests his own weakness, the potential to be devoured like an animal fallen in a savannah. If you strike, he will struggle, and sick as he is, you will lose.

So you offer him the gift of submission instead, the cunning exertion of a child's mite power.

"Okay, Daddy.”

You feel rather than see Will straighten in response to the word.

"Don't think I'll ever get used to that,” he says. "It’s alright to use my name. There aren't any rules against it."

"No, but he wouldn’t want me to.”

“When have you ever cared what Dr Lecter thinks?”

Shrugging, you mumble, “I guess I’m just sick of fighting all the time.”

The sick man scrutinises at you for so long that you hop from foot to foot in discomfort, itching your sole against your calf.

“It’s going to be hard for me to trust you,” says Will. “You’re probably just going to pretend until you see an avenue to get out of here.”

“Everything’s pretend, here,” you say, smartly. “Nearly all the conversations in this house are about myths and dreams. Dr Lecter talks about them like they’re real, or something.”

Amusement lights the sunken dark of Will’s gaze.

“He finds their philosophies more valuable than the moral structures most people follow.”

“And me?” you ask. “Am I valuable to him?”

Being that you’re still convinced that your worth to Dr Lecter is entirely reliant on Will’s continued interest, you only ask to discern if he himself understands this, or if he believes Hannibal would love you of his own accord.

With a tired caution, Will says, “Right now, I think you entertain him. What else he feels about you I don’t know.”

“And what do you feel?” you persist. “Still don’t like me?”

At this the young man laughs and shakes his head.

“Ask me again once I’ve gotten to know you. If you can agree to a truce, that is.”

“Fine,” you say, and you put out your hand for him to shake. “Truce. Let’s try that.”

With a wry grin Will accepts, letting go almost at once with a sharp inward breath.

“You’re freezing!”

“Haven't you noticed?” you say, hastily stuffing the offending hand under one arm. “I always am.”

It’s an unfavourable symptom of your hunger, this blood and touch of ice. Under even the sweltering gasp of summer’s heat you’ll shiver, knock-kneed, and suffer at the slightest feather of a draught.

Still, that cold affirms you. Were you to be warm again you’d hate yourself, having regained enough of the weight your system craves to regulate its heat.

Glancing up, you notice Will examining his own hand as though he shares your temperature, his fist a twin to frost.

"Come along, little one," says Hannibal, materialising in the doorway again. "Will needs more rest. Perhaps you’ll see him later on.”

But by late afternoon Will has dragged himself home without saying goodbye, and as before his absence eats a crescent into the house.

Some days later you pass an evening with Hannibal like so many others, yet unlike for the new state induced in you through his medicinal enterprise.

You're accustomed to the concoction of drugs that regresses you to a needy youth, the sleepers, the stimulants, the tea that lowers you from the electric heights of righteous hysteria into something slowly numb.

Yet whatever element comprises the pill flushed down by water from today’s gently tipped glass elevates you to orbit a heaven above you, so removed from your imprisonment that you observe all below with an objective eye.

Dr Lecter has bestowed upon you the rare trust that you may eat without prompting or assistance, and you have done so, temporarily rescinding your disordered agitation to a mycelium half-dream.

Thus entranced, you watch yourself drape the tines of your fork back and forth across your half-eaten plate, enthralled by patterns on the porcelain that are not there.

Your eyes drift repeatedly to a painting on Hannibal’s wall, mounted coyly for any dinner guest to comment on.

Naturally, you’ve seen the piece many times before, and have been, in turns, startled and disturbed by its subject.

Now you find yourself dully intrigued, as you were by the Japanese prints. This attention does not go unnoticed by Dr Lecter.

“What is it, little one?” he asks, intently. “Do you have an interest in art?”

“I don’t know,” you say, confused by the banality of the question. “It’s just this picture. Isn’t it... rude?”

Hannibal smirks, eyeing the image with a fond appreciation.

Its focus is a supine young woman, draped, half-naked, on a rumpled bed towards which a curious swan approaches with its curved neck bowed.

Likely it is the original painting, procured at auction, its price unimaginable; all things in this house are ripe with expense, even you, its demanding charge.

“Artistic nudity is only considered rude by children,” says Hannibal, blithely, “or else by shallow and ignorant adults. Does the depiction of genitalia offend you, my darling?”

You gaze up at the cowrie of a cunt under its shadow cap of hair, pinkly presented on spread silk, and think how often your own has been arranged likewise for Will or Hannibal to admire.

“Why is it in this room, specifically?” you ask.

You struggle with the syllables of the words, spitting the sibilants in a manner unbecoming of so distinguished an event as dinner with Dr Lecter.

“Doesn’t it put people off their food?”

“I find it makes for an amusing conversation piece,” says Hannibal, pouring himself another generous glass of wine like the blood of some celestial giant.

You attempt to grimace, none of your muscles quite taking to the motion.

“I don’t think it’s funny at all. Just creepy. Sad.”

“Are familiar with the story of Leda and the Swan? Zeus, a virile and insatiable God, looked upon the queen of Sparta and desired her. So, in order to seduce her, he transformed himself into a swan so that she would be fooled by his beauty and appearance of vulnerability to take him to her bed.”

“He tricked her,” you say, quietly. “He didn’t seduce her, at all.”

Dr Lecter’s face scarcely moves, but there is something of laughter in the lines of his strange beauty.

“So it’s the deception that unnerves you,” he says. “The pretence that he was an innocent creature rather than the all-powerful and lustful deity he truly was.”

You nod, not wanting to admit that you see your own face mirrored in the brushstrokes of the damned queen.

Prophet-like, Hannibal interprets the gesture with flawless vision.

“You empathise with Leda. Recognise the parallels between her story and your own.”

“Is that why you put it there?” you retort, emboldened by the miles between you and the girl slumped in the dining chair. “Because you think you’re the swan?”

“The bird is a shield for the truth, remember,” says Hannibal. “So what would the swan be, in me?”

Dropping the fork with a discordant clatter, you consider.

“The polite, handsome doctor,” you say, at last. “You fool everyone: Jack, Alana Bloom. My parents. They would never have left me here if they knew what you really were.”

Hannibal turns his head at a slight angle, as though by doing so he might uncover some mystery in your face.

“And what am I, little one?”

“I... don’t know,” you admit; a killer, certainly, though there is more to him even than that. “There are a lot of things you’re hiding from me.”

“Tell me your perceptions, then. There’s no need to spare my feelings; after all, you so rarely do.”

Amidst your mushroom-made divinity, you are fearless in your answer.

“You’re a bad person. You’ve done things that would get you into a lot of trouble. Hurt people. Not just me. Not just Tobias. And you don’t feel bad about it. You think that everything you do is right, somehow. Like you should be allowed to do it. Like you’re the gods in all these stories.”

Hannibal absorbs this with the silence of having been sated by your answer.

“And what about Will?” he prompts, some moments later. “Is he, too, a starving monster under the cunning guise of a tender animal?”

“No,” you say, with less certainty. “He’s... sick. You're using him, making him think that this is what he wants.”

Your captor laughs over the rim of his wine glass.

“That’s where you’re wrong, little one. The Will you think you see is only one wing of a swan. Soon, you will glimpse beyond that fragile veil, and feel the mythic need of all immortals to plunder from the weak, merely for the pleasure of knowing that they can.”

A sudden sadness tugs you back to earth like a choke chain, iron-like the lump in your throat.

“So you don’t want to help me, after all,” you mumble. “It really was all a lie.”

Taking your hand across the table, Hannibal presses a thumb to the pulse at your wrist, a soothing motion.

“Not at all,” he says, firmly. “I’m quite fond of you. I wish you to be strong. Each time you find yourself resenting Will and I you must remember that Leda did not die after Zeus bedded her: she became a mother. In you, I seek another outcome. More than one, and not all of them so horrible as you imagine. There will be beauty in this conversion, as well.”

You gaze at him with disbelieving eyes, close to rejecting the hope he grooms in you.

“What other outcomes are you looking for, Dr Lecter? How can I become all the things you want if I don’t understand them? What’s really going on?”

Hannibal kisses your knuckles and places your fork back into your hand.

“Nothing you need to think about at the moment,” he says. “Now, finish what’s on your plate. I’d like you to move on to dessert.”

Just like that, you are his little girl again, the moon having passed across the sun.

#tw eating disorders #tw noncon #tw rape #tw fatphobia #tw anorexia #hannibal fic #yandere will graham #yandere hannibal lecter #hannibal lecter x reader x will graham #hannibal lecter x reader #hannibal lecter x will graham #will graham x reader #manna fic

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kinnenvy · 8 months

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Hi! I’m just coming by to say I recently came across your qaf fics and I read them all while I was on a 30 minute work break. And holy shit I kind of hated myself for how quickly I read them because each one of them was amazing and I wish I would’ve saved them to slowly read through them and enjoy them. My heart absolutely melted and broke at Forward. Gosh that was probably my favorite one, it was so amazingly written and it was just everything! From angst to happy to smiling like an idiot to wanting to grab them both and shake them. And then Fifty took me for a spin of emotions! I mean Brian turning 50 alone makes me want to sob. But then it was cute and angsty even and then they talked! Fucking finally! And then the plot twist! obsessed!!!!! And Framing Ben….i mean, need I say more except DAMN. Needles to say, my lunch break was time well spent :)

😳😳😳😳!!!!!!!!!

this is so crazy anon thank you so much!!!!! thank you for reading them, i'm glad to know that you enjoyed them! and thank you for taking the time to send me this message!!!!! i will treasure it forever🥰🧡

#fic #ask #qaf #thank you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#i was thinking about 50's ending a few days ago and almost decided to rewrite it/delete it so this came like manna from heaven ashdg

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felinecryptid · 10 months

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A Local Delicacy

or the fic where hobie stares at pav and misses all the vital information

(please pay attention to the tags ✨✨ no cw's for this one)

"Wha's this thing called again?" Hobie frowned at the small, inflated crisp looking thing.

'It's called a Pani Puri, stop being so difficult," Pav reached up to hit him on the head, failing not so miserably. Hobie wanted to laugh at his disgruntled face. It had been a hot minute since they had hung out. Plus, Miles could probably use a break after the entire 'destabilising the multiverse' debacle. Pav had immediately dragged them to a nearby stall stacked to the top of the colourful umbrella with these Pani Puris, while blabbering non stop about foot traffic.

Hobie supposed some things transcend universes. Like crowds. Stray animals in narrow alleyways. Rude people. Rude cops. His crush on Pav. Capitalism. You get it. Hobie was broken out of his thoughts by the stall keeper handing him a tiny leaf cup. It was 5 centimetres at most.

"What are these for?" Gwen asked.

Pav smiled. Hobie's heart skipped a beat. "For eating. You'll see." He answered cryptically.

"Thoda time lagega beta, abhi kate pyaaz khatam hogaye," The stall keeper started chopping onions at the speed of light, his knife clacking against the ratty wooden board.

"Koi nahi kaka, aap aaram se karo," Pav bounced on the balls of his feet, replying to whatever the stall keeper said, in his sweet voice. Hobie loved when Pav spoke Hindi, there was something so flowy about it.

"What did he say?" Miles asked. Hobie was curious too. He only caught the heavily accented 'time'.

"He said it's gonna take a few mins, he just ran out of onions."

"That cutting board does not look hygienic," Gwen said, as Pav manoeuvered everyone to stand in a loose circle around the vendor.

"Arey bahut saaf hai beta! Very hygienic!" The stall keeper nodded at her, now chopping coriander. Gwen went red. Miles burst out laughing.

Pav looked embarrassed as well, and Hobie wanted to just. Hold him. He'd settle for standing close to him as he tried to sputter out something.

"Bura mat manna kaka, aapko pata hai yeh videshi log kaise hote hain." Pav scratched his neck, flashing a winning smile at the vendor and Hobie felt something stab in his heart.

"Chalega chalega, badi hi gori dikh rahi hai, pata chal gaya yahan se nahi hai." The stall keeper said while arranging the dishes around. "Uske liye kam tikha dun?"

"Gwen, do you like spicy food? Miles?" Pav asked.

"Nope." said Gwen as Miles nodded.

"What about you, Hobie?" Pav turned to him, his deep brown eyes glinting something pretty in the late afternoon light.

"Sure, why no'." Hobie shrugged, a grin inexplicably tugging at his lips. Pav turned back to the man, saying stuff in lilting tones Hobie didn't understand.

The stall keeper nodded, and cracked open one of the crisps, scooping peas and potatoes inside it and adding the green liquid and onions inside it. He swiftly placed it in Hobie's cup.

"Tha's it?" Hobie was unimpressed. This little thing?

"No, bro, you gotta eat it to get more. Put it in your mouth all at once. Don't nibble at it, or it'll get soggy and get all over your clothes." Pav said, entirely shoving his own Pani Puri into his mouth like a visual example of what to do. Hobie looked at the Pani Puri in his cup for half a second more before deciding to fuck it and copied Pav, mouth closing over the stuffed crisp.

Flavours exploded on his tongue. The sweet tanginess, the crunchy onions and the spicy peas; it was nothing Hobie had expected it to taste like and nothing like anything he had eaten in his life. He chewed, feeling the bits of the crisp puri poking all around his mouth, but that was the experience. It felt otherworldly yet somehow fulfilling. Hobie automatically extended his hand for another one.

Gwen got hers, stuffing it in her mouth, with no small amount of trepidation visible on her face. It was valid, considering she started coughing the moment she chewed it, going 'hoff, hoff, hoff!' which Hobie took to mean 'hot, hot, hot!'.

"Goddamnit Gwen, how are you gonna eat dinner with us?" Miles said easily eating the puri without breaking a sweat, his Puerto Rican taste buds used to the level of spice.

Gwen glared at him, face red and sweat dripping. "Can't you cook unspicy food for me?"

"Mami will never let you in again if you eat like a white person,"

"I am white."

"Yeah, and?"

"Hooo- kaay! Calm down children! Gwen, we can go get a kulfi for you later. Miles, stop antagonising Gwen," Pav made a 'chop' gesture at them, shaking his head frantically.

The vendor had plopped another one in his cup and was holding another one in his hand waiting for them to finish bickering. Hobie ate it, only a few drops of the green liquid spilling on his fingers. And the next one as well. And the next one. This street vendor was so fast, the fuck? With only Pav and him at the stall, because Miles was busy with Gwen, the vendor seemed to make three for each one Hobie ate. Pav didn't look bothered at all, scarfing down every one as it came.

"'oly shit, Pavi, ask 'im to slow down, 'M strugglin' 'ere, mate," Hobie managed to speak in between the positive barrage of puris.

"No way, it's part of the vibe, dude, keep up," Pav was way more graceful, easily talking between the Puris, time seeming to favour him and him only.

"Seriously?" Hobie muttered on the tailend of a particularly large Pani Puri. Pav grinned again, his right canine getting caught on his own lip. Hobie was well aware that he had a staring problem, and if he didn't get himself together, Pav will be too.

"Okay, okay," Sometimes Pav looked at Hobie in a way that had him swearing his feelings were requited, and this was one of those looks that made Hobie wonder how he's still standing up straight and not a puddle on the floor like he felt on the inside. "Kaka, thoda ahistha dena, Hobie bhi yahan naya hai."

"Theek, theek, beta," The vendor laughed. "Apke aashiq ko impress toh karna padega."

Pavi choked on his Pani Puri. Hobie turned to him concerned, as he said something in 3 octaves higher than his normal voice.

"Kaka- aashiq nahi hai woh- hum bas dost hain," Pav said, wiping tears from his eyes with his sleeve.

"Meri beti bhi apne bf ko dost bolti hai. Woh dono bhi ek dusre ko aise hi dekhten hain. Usko lagta hai mujhe nahi pata lekin ham bhi toh aapke umar ke the," The vendor winked, and Hobie was sure this conversation was not about anything he could imagine. Why on earth would this random man be winking at Pav? "Aur hum yeh bajrang dal jaise vishwas nahi rakhte, pyaar toh pyaar hota hai na?"

"Ji kaka." Hobie could see Pav's blush that seemed to radiate because why else Hobie would feel flustered too? "Ahem," Pav looked at his wrist like he was looking at the time, except he did not have a wrist watch on. "Kaka abhi hame jana padega- chemistry coaching hai- kitna hua?"

"Itni jaldi? Theek hai, sukhi puri lelo," He said, handing over two flatter crisps. Without the liquid. Hobie felt it was easier to fit this in his mouth after all the other Pani Puris. "Sath rupay hue,"

"Kya kaka, angrez dekhte bhau badha dete ho? Main akele khata toh chalis ka hota," Pav said, his voice taking a complaining tone and Hobie was surprised to find him even more endearing.

"Beta, jab aap dhanda karoge tab samajh mein ayega, abhi apko coaching nahi jana?"

"Han, kaka, din dahade loot lo," Pav said, and Hobie got a sense of defeat from his slouch, as he forked over what Hobie assumed was the price of the Pani Puris. "Let's go, before uncle embarrasses me in front of someone."

"You paid money to your uncle?" Hobie thought it'd be easier to get around in Earth-50101 as time went on, but here he was, getting more questions and no answers as he hung around.

"He's not actually my uncle, I'm calling him that out of respect. It's a cultural thing, don't worry about it," Pav answered, grabbing Hobie's hand as he wove between the forming crowd. Hobie sighed, letting Pav drag him around, his hand warm in Pav's soft palms.

___

i have nothing to say.

translation (not literal translation bc then id have to explain a shit-ton of grammar, slang and indian pop culture to yall):

Thoda time lagega beta, abhi kate pyaaz khatam hogaye - it's gonna take some time, [I] just ran out of the chopped onions

Koi nahi kaka, aap aaram se karo - no problem uncle, take your time

Arey bahut saaf hai beta! - oh its very clean, kid

Bura mat manna kaka, aapko pata hai yeh videshi log kaise hote hain. - please don't be offended uncle, you know how foreigners can be like.

Chalega chalega, badi hi gori dikh rahi hai, pata chal gaya yahan se nahi hai. - It's okay, she looks very light skinned, [I] assumed she wasn't from around here.

Uske liye kam tikha dun? - should [I] make it less spicy for her?

Kaka, thoda ahistha dena, Hobie bhi yahan naya hai. - Uncle, please slow down [the pace], Hobie is new to this too.

Theek, theek, beta - Alright, kid

Apke aashiq ko impress toh karna padega. - [I know] you have to impress your boyfriend.

Kaka- aashiq nahi hai woh- hum bas dost hain, - Uncle- he's not [my] boyfriend- we're just friends,

Meri beti bhi apne bf ko dost bolti hai. Woh dono bhi ek dusre ko aise hi dekhten hain. Usko lagta hai mujhe nahi pata lekin ham bhi toh aapke umar ke the. - My daughter also claims her boyfriend is just a friend. They look at each other the same [way you do]. She thinks I don't know [about them], but we [adults] used to be your age.

Aur hum yeh Bajrang Dal jaise vishwas nahi rakhte, pyaar toh pyaar hota hai na? - I don't believe stuff like Bajrang Dal. Love is love, isn't it?

Ji kaka. - Yes, uncle. (in this case)

Kaka abhi hame jana padega- chemistry coaching hai- kitna hua? - Uncle, we need to go- It's time for my chemistry tutorial classes- how much [were the Pani Puris]?

Itni jaldi? Theek hai, sukhi puri lelo, - So fast? Okay here's your [aftersnack snack (that's that least complicated way to explain what a sukhi puri is)]

Sath rupay hue, - it's 60 rupees.

Kya kaka, angrez dekhte bhau badha dete ho? Main akele khata toh chalis ka hota - C'mon, uncle, y'all see a foreigner and increase the price? If I was here alone, this would have cost 40 rupees.

Beta, jab aap dhanda karoge tab samajh mein ayega, abhi apko coaching nahi jana? - Kid, when you grow up and have a job, you'll understand, now, don't you have classes to attend?

Han, kaka, din dahade loot lo - yeah, okay, why don't you just rob me,

Some context (you dont need to read this)

kulfi is an ice cream equivalent, usually flavoured with almonds, pistachios and saffron

beta literally means 'son' but its used to refer to any kid who's very young relative to the speaker's age; and also for jokes b/w buddies but that's a different thing

kaka literally means 'father's younger brother ie uncle', but can used to referred to any man who isnt related to you and is about the age of the speaker's parents; there are also other terms depending on by who and how you were introduced to the person

Bajrang Dal - an anti-societal group against religious and sexual minorities(as defined in the indian constitution, do not come at me with politics). Famous in pop culture for being vehemently against valentine's days and premarital eye contact (you think im joking)

The Chemistry Coaching thing is a big deal. Kids have great pride about which institute they go to. The institutes teach accelerated courses for specific competitive examinations, usually in an unethical way. It's considered kinda shameful if you don't go to one. (very dystopian, ik)

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theseshipsshallsail · 4 months

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Summary:

Did he know then, that Elio was already offering him a way out? Permission, almost, to preserve their perfect summer romance in amber. To pack his memories up in a neat little box until such times as he could look back and smile?

Shameless reblog because I've just had a lovely comment on this little series, and despite often forgetting that it exists, these fics are actually some of my favourites...

ETHEREAL

When he dreams he can hear the roar of the ocean. Smell the salt-tang of the waves that swirl between his bare toes. Feel the coarse sand whip at his reddened skin as the wind ruffles his hair.

When he dreams, he can see him.

Elio.

His true self.

His sunlight in the shadows.

When he dreams, when he says I’ve been happy in B, he finishes his sentence the way he’d originally intended.

I’ve been happy with you.

Did Elio know himself it was an impossible task?

That like Sisyphus, his upward struggle would be incessant?

So many wasted days.

So many weeks, months, years spent grieving that which he’d deemed impossible.

You’ll be fine, he’d said in the moment, but when he dreams, it’s Elio who asks if he’ll be okay, and Oliver, knowing the truth deep down to his soul, who reaches out and cups his cheek, rests it there, unable to lie.

“I love you,” he says instead, thumb tracing light patterns over Elio’s evening stubble as trembling fingers rise up to capture his wrist.

His pulse races in his ears, Elio’s eyes a solemn promise when he parts his lips to speak. “I loved you, too," he says at length - always the past tense - and in doing so confirms the gentlest of nightmares are actually the cruellest.

“Elio,” he chokes out, threading his hand into those windswept curls to draw him closer, his other arm banding around his waist, hauling him into his lap. Three years may as well be yesterday in this maelstrom of emotion, and Oliver’s words fall woefully short of what he truly feels. What he’s always felt. Always will. “My Elio…”

Already, he can sense the illusion slipping away. Hear the sobs Elio doesn’t want him to see. Smell the train carriage as it waits to depart the station. Feel the lurch of turbulence as his heart breaks all over again.

But when he dreams, when his lips find Elio’s like a bee to nectar, the sweetness of his kiss freezes all other considerations on the landscape of his mind. A perfect Monet, he thinks, as Elio sighs the same plaintive sound he makes upon first stretching awake, opening his mouth to his. Soft and wet. His own personal manna in this self-imposed exodus.

It’s not enough though - not nearly enough - and Oliver hugs him tighter until he can hear the gulls circling overhead. Feel the sun-warmed rock beneath the soles of his feet. Smell the peaches on Elio’s breath. Kisses him like a man starved until reality crashes back, squeezing his eyes shut until the very last second before whispering his own name between them.

Elio doesn’t get the chance to respond - he never does - and the bitter sting of tears stays with him long after the six o’clock alarm call.

#call me by your name #cmbyn fanfic #angst #elio x oliver

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residenthesitant · 1 year

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hey what if i wrote a passover fic

Title: Manna from Heaven Warnings: None Rating: Gen Relationships: Married Tubbo/Ranboo, Tubbo & Everyone Characters: Tubbo, Ranboo, Techno, Michael B, Foolish, assorted others Tags: Post-Canon, Domestic Fluff, Jewish Holidays, Pesach | Passover, Tubbo-Centric, Found Family Summary: One of the perks of having a rich husband, in Tubbo’s opinion, is getting to send out the fanciest, most over-the-top invitations for what is, essentially, a small dinner for friends and family. The size of the dinner does not matter. The amount of invitations being set out does not matter. The fact that Tubbo can commission a calligrapher to make ten overly-decorated and horrendously fancy cards to invite people to his home is what matters.

You are cordially invited to the Underscore-Beloved’s home on Friday at sundown for Passover. Contact Tubbo or Ranboo to RSVP.

Oh, gods.

Tubbo’s never hosted a seder before.

i wrote the world's most self-indulgent passover fic in the world for @mcyt-passover-event! read it on ao3 <333333

#dsmp #dsmp fic #dream smp fic #dsmp tubbo #dsmp ranboo #tubbo centric #reshes fic #go read my wildly self indulgent passover fic you can tell its my favorite holiday

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antimony-medusa · 1 year

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Fic Recs April '23

What did I read this month? As ever, it's mostly going to be Dream SMP, but I wander outside the fandom ocassionally, and we've got some QSMP and 3rd Life this month! You can keep an eye on my Ao3 bookmarks if you ever don't want to wait the full month, but here's a shor tlist (I tried to keep it short) of especially fun/intersting/good things.

The Fics - Oneshots

Human condition by InsomniWillow Fandom: QSMP Rating: Teen Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationship: Alexis | Quackity/Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & Tallulah, Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson | Philza Tags: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fluff, Developing Friendships, Human/Monster Society Length: 1/1 chapters (this might be a multi-chapter though), 3,515 words

New to Qusadilla Island, Ordinary Guy Wilbur Soot brings his tiny daughter to the new school that's opened up. The school that is FULL of terrifying players and their kids. This is just super cute slice of life fluff and it's a fun setup to see Wilbur go "oh god, that's a demon, that's a shark god, is that Philza Minecraft?????" while he's trying to remain chill for his daughter.

where you hide your heart from me by 75hearts Fandom: DSMP Rating: Teen Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationship: Alexis | Quackity/Wilbur Soot Tags: Pogtopia, Suicidal Thoughts, Wingfic, Wilbur Soot Is Not Okay Length: 1/1 chapters, 2,223 words Just gonna grab the summary for this one cause it's perfect.

“I’ll fucking kill you if you pull a single feather,” Quackity says. “Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Wilbur says.

or: in Pogtopia, Wilbur preens Quackity's wings.

They're SOOO prickly and the situation is just two people full of broken edges hitting off each other, and you want it to be better, and at the same time this is the only way it could be.

you think they'll make it? by honeyblock Fandom: DSMP Rating: Teen Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationship: Niki Nihachu & Wilbur Soot, Niki Nihachu & Jschlatt, Niki Nihachu & Wilbur Soot & Jschlatt Tags: Alternate Universe - hadestown Fusion, Niki Nihachu-Centric, niki as orpheus and wilbur as eurydice, implied/referenced suicide. Length: 1/1 chapters, 7,968 words

Niki breaks into Hadestown to try and get Wilbur back. And then she meets Jschlatt, and then she goes spare. Oh man this is a beautiful and lyrical setup, and then Schlatt is just so odious and hateable, ad then Niki getting furious enough to take on a god is So Satisfying. Delightful.

Manna from Heaven by ResidentHesitant Fandom: DSMP Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationship: Ranboo/Tubbo Tags: Married Ranboo and Tubbo, Domestic Fluff, Pesach | Passover, post-canon, slice of life, Found Family Length: 1/1 chapters, 3,152 words

Tubbo hosts his first seder. This is just a joyous slice of life with the whole community coming together to celebrate passover. A glimpse into other traditions for me, and full of love for the characters and for judaism. This fic is so happy. It's canon to ME. I love it.

take this life and hold it by the hand by Odaigahara Fandom: DSMP Rating: Teen Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationship: Technoblade & Philza, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & Philza Tags: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Crow Hybrid Philza, Piglin Hybrid Technoblade, Accidental Baby Acquisition, Happy Ending, Inspired by that video of Kestrel Dad. Length: 1/1 chapters, 2,292 words

Technoblade is just having a perfectly normal day with his family (who are polar bears) when his friend the crow shows up with— Phil, is that a BABY? What are we gonna do with it? And what does it eat? This is just so so funny. Techno and Phil are both so helpless with a tiny baby, they don't now how to feed this little one, at one point a dead mouse is put on the baby's face and everyone looks at him hopefully. It's so funny.

The Fics - Longfics

The Musketeers - SBI AU by Anarchy_and_Piglins Fandom: DSMP Rating: Teen Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationship: Wilbur Soot & Tommyinnit & Technoblade & Philza Tags: Alternate Universe - Historical, 3 Musketeers Fusion, BAMF Everybody, Tommyinnit Angst, Philza Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Humour, Emotional Hurt/Comfort Length: 2/4 chapters, 8,086 words

TommyInnit is on a mission of vengance to kill the man who murdered his father, with only his dying words that a man named Philip d'Athos is responsible. Philip, meanwhile, is trying to figure out who's impersonating musketeers. They are on a direct collision course in 17th century France. I'm sure this will go well.

missing or obstructed by skelew Fandom: Hermitcraft, 3rd Life Rating: Teen Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationship: Grian & Rendog, Grian & GoodTimesWithScar, Rendog & Martyn InTheLittleWood Tags: Post 3rd Life, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Watcher Lore, Amnesia Length: 4/? chapters, 13,890 words

Grian is back in Hermitcraft but he can't forget what happened in 3rd life. Unfortunately everyone else has forgotten what happened. Everyone except Rendog, who he remembers very strongly as his enemy. This one started as a character study and you can tell, it's very deliberate and mediative with the characters, and it's just slowly growing through the questions of what they do now, and what they do with these relationships they have to people they care so much about and also those people don't remember it.

See How They Run by Aard_Rinn Fandom: DSMP Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationship: Tubbo & Tommyinnit & Ranboo, Technoblade & Philza Tags: Alternate Universe - Borrowers Fusion, Rescue, Captivity, Dark SBI, Dehumanization, Non-consensual touching (nonsexual), Tubbo-Centric Length: 3/3 chapters, 10,590 words

Benchtrio are Borrowers, and Tubbo gets caught by Emduo! Man, this starts with Tubbo falling into oil and not being able to climb out (he's eventually rescued by Emduo), and it's honestly terrifying. I really felt like I was a tiny creature clinging to a spoon. It continues to play with the fact that Tubbo is just so TINY and defenceless.

wasteland by chrysalizzm Fandom: DSMP Rating: Mature Warnings: Major Character Death Relationship: Dream SMP Ensemble Tags: Alternate Universe - Heroes & Villains, Hurt/Comfort, Disillusionment, Morally Grey Characters, Political Corruption, Systemic Bigotry, Unreliable Narrator, Alternate Universe - Superheroes & Superpowers, Mind Control, Bittersweet/Open Ending, Multiple POV, (and more! It's a series) Length: 11/30 fics, 72,431 words

MASSIVE sprawling superhero epic digging into power issues, morality, villainy, cohersion, sexism and other 'isms, marching towards an inevitable end. It all ends in tragedy, but oh my god the journey there is so rich and beautifully drawn. Each fic in the series is a different spot on the timeline and you see characters from so many different POVs, as events come into greater focus and you realize what the fuck HAPPENED to break people like that. This is very much a fic to read while spamming the sobbing emoji in the chat with a friend, but oh man I have to see how it all comes together and if ANY of my guys make it out. I don't know if any of my guys make it out! :SOB:

sharp temporary walls (the long-term cliff edge of the world) by Odaigahara Fandom: 3rd Life SMP Rating: Teen Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence Relationship: Grian & GoodTimesWithScar Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ghosts, Memory Alteration, Corpse Desecration, Animal Death, Friendship, Horror, Angst with a Happy Ending Length: 1/3 chapters, 5,042 words

3rd life is down to two players, but they're both hurt. They decide to wait and heal before a final fight. The world waits around them. Just the tone of this one is so eerie and creepy. The world is just so silent and malevolent, while Desert Duo tries to heal, while also knowing that it all ends in death. I'm not gonna spoil it but what happens when Joel's dogs show up looking for their master is SO GOOD and SO BAD at the same time.

And They Were Ghosthunters | TNT Duo AU by commaclear Fandom: DSMP Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationship: Alexis | Quackity/Wilbur Soot Tags: Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Fish out of Water, Alternate Universe - Angels and Demons, Happy Ending Length: 21/21 chapters, 46,984 words

Wilbur Soot is a demon who's tired of being bored in Hell and decided to go to Earth, where he gets a job on a Ghost Hunting show run by a guy named Quackity. Surely he has lots of oppurtunity for sin here! Two problems though: Quackity is really cute and might actually be a genuinely good person and Wilbur is falling for him, and Love is toxic to demons. This one is legitimately so very funny and such a fast read. I sat down to read the first two chapters and then i looked up and I'd read 46k.

catbag by supinetothestars Fandom: DSMP Rating: Teen Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence Relationship: Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & Philza & Tommyinnit, Tommyinnit & Tubbo Tags: Alternate Universe - Superheroes & Superpowers, Villain SBI, Hero Tommyinnit, Child Abuse, Truth Serum, PTSD, Secret Identity, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort Length: 5/? chapters, 30,665 words

Okay so the summary for this one was:

Suspected of betraying the Hero Guild, Apprentice hero Tommy (A.K.A. Blindspot) is put under Security Protocol Catbag: a locked-on noise cancelling mask equipped with truth gas. His mentor, Dream, calls it a necessary teaching tool.

Meanwhile, SBI wants to know why their least favorite loudmouth little Hero has suddenly stopped talking.

And I read that and I was like "supinetothestars is going to get me back into reading tommy-centric superheros", and it's happened. It's so good, the characters are so thoughtful (and feel way more like canon characterizations vs fanon), and they run up against each other in really interesting ways. Wilbur is a paranoid bastard in a way that feels realistic and canon! The superpowers are interesting and interestingly played out (tommy's power is he can make himself unnoticeable!) and the relationships are adhering to tropes enough that they're like, oooooo, what happens next, I have a delightful suspicion, but they are pulled off well enough that they still feel fresh. It's really good.

Double Down by Onelituli Fandom: DSMP Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death Relationship: Dream & Tommyinnit & Tubbo, Ranboo & Tommyinnit & Tubbo, Dream & Sapnap & George, Tags: Alternate Universe - Imawa no Kuni no Alice | Alice in Borderland Setting, Rated for Language and Dark Themes, Mystery, Flashbacks, Slow Build, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, Grief/Mourning, No Villains just Antagonists, Bittersweet Ending Length: 11/13 chapters, 67,663 words

Oh man how even to explain this one. The Dream SMP ensemble is imprisoned in this post-apocolyptic setting where they have to compete in challenges to win cards. The higher the suit of the card, the harder the challenge. And people will die, they are dying, the challenges are killing them. They don't know why they're here or who is making them do this, but all they can do is try and make it together despite a structure that keeps trying to turn them against each other and destroy them. This is structured with lots of flashbacks and mysteries, and the mystery of what HAPPENED to these people is ever-present. And how on earth they possibly make it out of this challenge with even one person alive. This one is such a mystery, I don't know what's HAPPENING but I want to KNOW. And that's it for this month! I'll see you next time!

#fic recs #fic rec #Dream SMP #dsmp #mcyt

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love-bokumono-fics · 4 months

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Fresh Crops! December 18 - December 31, 2023

That last of 2023's newest fics and chapter updates for Harvest Moon and Story of Seasons on AO3!

Her Voice Within - by syavwits; Complete, 7/7, 15k

Rating: Not Rated; Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings; Category: F/M Fandoms: Back To Nature Relationship: Claire the Farmer/Gray; Characters: Claire the Farmer, Pete the Farmer, Gray, Rick, Kai, Cliff, Doctor | Trent, Mary the Librarian | Marie, Karen, Popuri, Ann the Innkeeper | Ran, Elli | Elly, Manna, Duke, Doug | Dudley, Old Ellen, May | Mei, Stu | Yu, Zack, Won | Huang, Anna, Basil the Writer, Saibara, Harris, Gotz | Gotts, Kano, Louis the Entomologist | Chuu, Greg, Barley | Mugi, Aja | Adge Additional Tags: Friends to Lovers, Romantic Soulmates, Soul-Searching, Mystery, Mute Protagonist, Found Family Summary: It's not that Claire can't talk, she sometimes speaks yes, but only when she really put all her energies to do it. Then there's Gray, the stoic guy with the famous resting b*tch face, he doesn't want anything to do with anyone, everyone, even the new girl although she's… cute. While Pete tries to save his farm, he also confides in Claire and asks her help to search for his unknown childhood friend, his first love, who apparently is one of the girls in Mineral town?!? Will Claire manage to find Pete's long-lost Best friend? Will Claire find what she truly desires in her second chance at life?

Cooking Lessons Part II - by blushroomx; Complete, 1/1, 3.5k

Rating: Not Rated; Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply; Category: F/F Fandom: A Wonderful Life Relationship: Flora / Vesta; Characters: Flora, Vesta Additional Tags: Fluff and Angst Summary: The sequel to "Cooking Lessons", Flora's POV.

Restraint - by MidnightArrow; Complete, 1/1, 4k

Rating: General Audiences; Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply; Category: F/M Fandoms: A Wonderful Life, DS Cute Relationship: Celia| Cecilia / Marlin | Matthew / Pony; Characters: Marlin | Matthew, Celia | Cecilia Additional Tags: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Tragic Romance Summary: Cecilia studied the area where his fingers met her wrist. The farmer's face flashed through her mind. She thought of the long afternoons they spent analyzing Matthew's stray touches and unexpected smiles, the farmer gushing over his every move. She thought of Matthew beaming at the end of the aisle on his wedding day. She thought that she couldn't love Matthew if he went any further.

We're Friends - by dicelady20; Complete, 1/1, <1k

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences; Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply; Category: F/M Fandoms: Friends of Mineral Town, Kill la Kill Characters: Matoi Ryuuko, Gray Additional Tags: POV Third Person, Double Drabble, One Shot, Friendship, Gray, ryuuko Summary: This drabble is an aftermath of an incident, where Gray (Harvest Moon) saves Ryuko (Kill la Kill). Now she returns the favor and drags him to a closed mini-mart.

Rainbow Curry - by Anonymous; Complete, 1/1, 2k

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences; Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply; Category: Multi Fandoms: Grand Bazaar Characters: Hansel, Gretel, Daisy, Ivan, Freya Summary: Oliver sold Anita's peculiar grass collection, and now she's upset because she needed them for the rainbow curry she always prepares during the holidays. Oliver ventures into the city with Daisy and Ivan to find new ones for her.

Sex for Christmas - by Daryls_Favourite; Complete, 1/1, 1.5k

Rating: Mature; Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply; Category: F/M Fandoms: A Wonderful Life Relationship: Daryl /reader; Characters: Daryl, Reader Additional Tags: Sex, Fucking, Oral Sex, its just a mature one shot x reader, Unprotected Sex Summary: It’s Christmas time in the valley, and this more demanding reader-chan is gonna get what she wants

Out of Reach - by MidnightArrow; WIP, 5/11, 2.6k

Rating: General Audiences; Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Fandoms: Sunshine Islands, Island of Happiness Relationships: Chelsea/Vaughn | Waltz, Sabrina | Sefiina/Vaughn | Valts, Chelsea/Mark, Mark/Sabrina | Sefiina; Characters: Vaughn | Waltz, Chelsea, Mark, Sabrina Additional Tags: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Romance, Friends to Lovers Summary: "What's it like to be in love?" Chelsea and Vaughn share a bittersweet moment in the meadow that slowly unravels their friendship. Will something new take its place?

Live a little, love a lot - by IslandsOfAvalon; Complete, 1/1, 7.5k

Rating: General Audiences; Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply; Categories: F/M, Gen Fandoms: Trio of Towns Relationship: Female Farmer/Wayne; Characters: Wayne, Female Farmer, Original Female Character(s), Ludus, Ethan, Yuzuki, Lisette, Siluka, Stephanie Additional Tags: Stephanie doesn't speak but I mention her enough that she counts, and a good few others who're mentioned but don't speak!, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Rodeo, That's right folks this is a Rodeo AU, I call it "the Trio Rodeo", Fluff, Country & Western, Rodeo Competitions, Cowboys & Cowgirls, Alternate Universe - Western, Horses, Horse Racing, I spent so long doing research for this please let it pay off, I sneaked in a little bit of Lisette x Ludus because I'm soft, Dancing, Love at First Sight, because he is and I will repeat a dork, Not Beta Read, no beta we die like my crops the second the season changes, I spent way too many hours listening to country music while writing this Summary: There used to be magic in their world, once upon a time, and it’s widely accepted that magic is still very much present even if humans no longer have the ability to use it. Wayne blames magic on the way Hinata falls off his horse, boldly wrestles a steer to the ground as fast as he can manage while the animal struggles valiantly against his hold, and somehow makes it away completely unscathed.

Twice Shy - by JillOfAllTrades__x; WIP, 1/2, 6.7k

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences; Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply; Category: F/M Fandoms: A Wonderful Life Relationships: Molly/Matthew, Mark/Cecilia mentioned; Characters: Muffy | Molly, Marlin | Matthew Additional Tags: Unrequited Love, Hurt/Comfort, Heartbreak, Drunken Confessions, Christmas Party Summary: Last Winter Forgotten Valley bore witness to Mark and Cecilia’s nuptials, leaving two residents reeling from the ceremony. A year later, Rock’s impulsive Secret Santa holiday party gifts them the potential for closure.

Home For The Holidays - by TheBeckster; Complete, 1/1, 2k

Rating: General Audiences; Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply; Category: Gen Fandom: Grand Bazaar Character: Lloyd Additional Tags: Ranch Story Secret Santa 2023, cozy vibes, coming home, home is where people love you Summary: After a long time away from Zephyr Town, Lloyd returns just before Starry Night.

deja vu - by FountainOfDreams, pinkfrogsndaylilies; WIP, 2/?, 3.4k

Rating: General Audiences; Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings; Category: F/M Fandoms: Animal Parade, Tree of Tranquility Relationships: Angela the Farmer & Kevin the Farmer, Candace/Kevin the Farmer, Angela the Farmer/Chase, Everyone & Everyone; Characters: Angela the Farmer, Kevin the Farmer, Hamilton, Gill, Chase, Candace, Wizard Gale, Witch Vivi, Harvest Goddess Additional Tags: Slow Burn, Cross-Posted on Wattpad, Sibling Bonding, Past Lives, Alternate Universe, Crossover, kind of, Evil Plans, replaying the games and felt motivated to repost this, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tags Are Hard, Slow To Update, Older Sister Angela the Farmer, Brother-Sister Relationships, Chatty Cain, being revamped as we speak Summary: Siblings Angela and Kevin move to Castanet, a faraway island in the middle of nowhere, to start their new lives on a farm. Their days passed peacefully, everything the same as the last; wake up, water the plants, care for the animals, give Chase his marmalade, visit the town, repeat. It was all very...familiar. One day, a strange small fairy showed up in their kitchen in the middle of the night looking anxious, and scared? Something wasn't right about this town, and Angela and Kevin now feel obliged to get to the bottom of it.

The Princess and the Carpenter - by SymphonicFantasia; Complete, 50/50, 7.5k

Rating: General Audiences; Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply; Category: F/M Fandoms: Magical Melody, Save the Homeland, Hero of Leaf Valley Relationship: Dia/Kurt | Hayato; Characters: Dia, Kurt Summary: They weren't so different from one another although others may not think so. Just because she was a "princess" didn't mean that the carpenter didn't belong with her. It just took a bit of chiseling to see who they really were deep down. And even then, they would only show those halves to one another.

#fresh crop monday #harvest moon #story of seasons #friends of mineral town #back to nature #a wonderful life #trio of towns #hm ds cute #grand bazaar #island of happiness #sunshine islands #animal parade #tree of tranquility #magical melody #save the homeland #hero of leave valley

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mannatea · 8 months

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Manna's Winter 'Fic Requests 2023 ❄

It's been many years since I've done this, but I thought I'd get something up and going early enough to give me plenty of time to write and edit.

It works like this: you fill out the Google Form linked below and I will try to write you a 'fic before the end of the year based on the prompt you give me. The story I write may be any length unless specified otherwise (i.e., drabble length, flash fiction, 50 sentences, whatever).

✨Rules/Info:

You do not need to be a "mutual" to request fic; however, I would ask that you be at least somewhat familiar with my writing.

You can request anonymously if you prefer.

If there is something you really do not want to see in your fic for any reason: tell me. I have no desire to write something that might hurt or upset you.

DO NOT ask for ships I don't like or would never normally write. If you're uncertain please feel free to send me an ask, but in most cases just don't break up my OTP lol.

Prompts can be almost anything. I like to think I'm pretty creative with even one-word prompts, but if you're short on ideas the good old "5 times" format is a classic.

You may request AUs! Just keep in mind that if you choose an AU that would typically be relegated to "longfic territory" (mail order bride AU, declining Tethe'alla, etc) that what I write for it will probably be more of a snapshot in that AU rather than something to cover the scope of the entire thing, so if there's a particular element of that AU you would like to see me explore, please state it!

You may request a rewrite of an old story if there is one you remember from pre-2014 and would like to see revived. (If you don't remember the title just remind me what it was about.)

YOU MAY MAKE MULTIPLE REQUESTS. In fact, I prefer that people do this because it ups the chances I'll find inspiration.

You may not request longfic, but you can specify other parameters that are related to length (e.g., flash fiction, a story that covers a month with one sentence per day, etc).

✨Fandoms:

Tales of Symphonia (ships)

Fire Emblem 7

When Calls the Heart (Seasons 1 - 5 preferred) (ships)

^Those are the three fandoms I'm most likely to be able to write for currently, as I have the broadest familiarity with them.

I might be able to manage other fandoms I've written for in the past, but I want to be up-front in admitting I'm not always very good at jumping back into old fandoms to write something fresh. That said, it never hurts to try, so if you're desperate for a cutesy fic about an eevee who wants a thunder stone for Christmas, by all means, send it.

If you are curious about what characters or pairings I would be most likely to write for a certain fandom, or if I'd be willing to write for that fandom at all, please feel free to send me an ask, message me here or on Discord, or comment directly on this post!

✨Final Instructions:

Please fill out the form to the best of your ability.

I included a rating preference so please use it. If you're submitting multiple prompts at once you can specify this with your individual prompts if you prefer.

I also included a squick/trigger section, so if anything bothers you that has even a small chance of showing up in my writing, I am BEGGING YOU TO SAY SO. (And don't worry about me, very little distresses me.)

I will not write gore, torture, genderbends, de-aging, or infidelity.

Reminder that you can request multiple things.

Read everything?

Well then, it's time!

SALLY FORTH TO THE GOOGLE FORM.

❄

#mannafics #AAAAHHHHHHHHH kinda nervous i haven't done this for years lol #looking very forward to seeing the prompts you guys send tho

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not-sewell · 1 year

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@ava-du-mortain, my beloved, tagged me to post 10 songs i've been into. so here goes:

songs i've been vibing to this month, in no particular order

1. All Things End by Hozier

the heavenly chorus. that's it. that's all.

2. Sunflower by Tamino, Angèle

this song, the music video everything makes me feel downright unwell.

3. Left Right by Abdullah Siddiqui, Ali Sethi, Maanu & Shae Gill

i'm just such a hoe for Ali Sethi and Shae Gill's pair and i'm eternally grateful to @zeesqueere, my dear friend, for sending me this.

4. Hum Aapki Aankhon Mein by S. D. Burman (performed by Geeta Dutt & Mohammad Rafi)

it's a very Mona x Nate song and i'm stuck with a Mona x Nate fic idk what else is left to say

5. Adiye by A. R. Rahman (performed by Sid Sriram)

well. i have one A. R. Rahman song zooming through my brain at any given time.

6. Khabar-e-Tahayyur-e-Ishq by Ali Sethi

Ali Sethi + Ghazal (specifically, ones with the themes of mysticism) has my body, mind and soul, friends.

7. Ay Hairathe by A. R. Rahman (performed by Hariharan, Alka Yagnik, Mohammed Aslam & A. R. Rahman)

OKAY SO I LIED. i always have multiple A. R. Rahman songs zooming through my brain at any given time.

8. Unnai Kaanadhu Naan (Live) by Berklee Indian Ensemble

this version of the Vishwaroopam song fucks severely. that's all.

9. What Colour Is Your Raindrop by Tajdar Junaid

this has exactly my kind of sentimentality to it, so... 🤷

10. Hoyto Tomari Janya by Sudhin Dasgupta (performed by Manna Dey)

again, this is has got a very Mona x Nate vibe, and i'm stuck with a Mona x Nate fic. :))

tagging (and pls ignore if you've done this already skfjks): @zeesqueere, @brightpinkpeppercorn, @bengalifairy, @serenpedac, @amlovelies, @ottobooty

#well. this was fun. 😌#tag meme #personal

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theredofoctober · 1 month

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MANNA- CHAPTER THIRTEEN: TEA

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, implied child abuse and more

Read after the cut...

For a near week your deceptive submission endures, the hours newly tightened by a schedule your host has contrived to divert you from your anti-appetite.

Days rise from the borderless veil of time like castles from a dawn mist. Made a school child again, you sit before documentaries and foreign art films, take up a journal whose pages bear but glances of your internal woe.

You find yourself wishing that you could write with any particular talent.

As a girl you’d yearned to be an author, never daring to materialise the urge with any substantial effort. Now you can’t imagine you’ll ever be allowed so loose-penned a profession, if any at all, kept covetously home and infantilised until you cannot think beyond a fraction of words.

Why, then, does Hannibal go to such arduous lengths to educate you? Surely it is only so that—before the eyes of peers—you'll be the cultured averment of triumph through therapy.

In the soirees of your doctor's hopes you cleave, willing, to his side, bewitching the throng with smirking witticisms before sucking his cock with that same clever mouth when the last guest steps, merry and ignorant, into the night.

Already Hannibal aspires to materialise that abstraction. You find proof enough of it in the wardrobe he’s amassed for you, which expands as the days progress.

Some of his choices are attractive to you, reluctant though you are to consider this— long velvet gowns in puce, umber, black, blouse and skirt co-ordinations plucked from the runway, some still in boxes emblazoned with designer names.

Others of the selection offend you, however, in their bald intent for closed-door wear. Girlish dresses in light chiffon, corseted silk in flowering lace. Short necks and hemlines, some of them scarcely reaching the knee. Then there are sheer nightclothes stored in perfumed sheets, no practicality but for the sort of sleeping in which no slumber is to be had.

You’re to dress like some obscure young celebrity, a whimsical echo of an era thirty years passed. Still, there is an attempt in this incredible closet to appease you as well as to change, adapting your preferences to a style acceptable to Hannibal’s eye.

It’s of particular note to you that the garments are each the same size, implying that you haven’t gained significant weight since your last awareness of its value. Conceivably the labels might have been replaced, but it’s so unlikely a trick that the theory is quickly thrown out.

Hannibal is inviting you to trust his process with a peace offering of equilibrium, the second-best prize to starvation.

You are not such a fool as to take it yet, though in action you may appear to have done so.

When in the presence of your keepers you remain in unwavering character, an amplified, changeling copy of the child you'd once been. In this way you're allowed your little misbehaviours—pulling a face at food you do not like, or the shrugging rejection of an idle caress.

So long as you sit at meals, and don’t speak in any manner that threatens the illusion of family you are unharmed, and laden with unending gifts. It would be a winning childhood, had you been born into it through a far less insidious violence than that which brought you here.

Still, the awareness that you must simper and lisp for another month before you venture an escape soon wears upon your tolerance.

One Saturday morning, alone in your room, the silence of that cushioned cell amplifies your every thought to a piqued tenor.

You miss when hunger bled like smoke through your skull, ridding its halls of all but its fey shape. With a scalding clarity you behold what you are now: a homunculus, the issue of diablerie, cut small by men’s black magic.

You cast yourself amidst a tide of cushions and mimic your own words upon them in a bitter snarl.

“‘Yes, Daddy’”, ‘no, Daddy’. ‘Little one’. Oh God! It’s all so stupid. Stupid!”

An involuntary laugh chatters through you like a coin thieved from a beggar’s cup, hateful and maniacal. Yet you perform this anger as you do the docile coquette, the bounds between that self and your own a gradient that softens by the day.

It’s become rather easier to be a monster’s daughter than a woman, this you cannot deny. The longer you are extracted from the world the less you’ll remember of how to live within it, if you ever knew, before.

The misery of this thought proves too much to bear.

You cry until your head is as hot about the brow as a horseshoe turned white from the forge. The sobs wrench the muscles of your stomach in two pained halves, and still you weep until you laugh again, thinking how deranged you’d sound to any eavesdropper in the rooms below.

Afterwards you sit very quietly, like an ailing bride in a Victorian novel; you are, after all, very ill, and it suits you well to behave so.

Having nothing better to do, you switch on the television and skim through the channels with neither aim nor interest.

Thin, beautiful women populate the screen, their waists like darner flies, their wrists as narrow as your thumb. Even the history programmes feature experts with trim figures in sensible interview dresses.

Perturbed, you flick on and on until you find something on eighteenth century Paris, hosted by a grandfatherly old professor marked safe from scrutiny in the absence of compare.

You watch until your lids fall, thinking of catacombs full of monk bones, the cloying scent of ancient death, each as forgotten under dust as you are by all those who once loved you, and revered by those who never have.

In the afternoon Hannibal wakes you gently by turning the television off at the set.

“Are you feeling alright, little one?” he asks. “It’s unusual for you to sleep in so late.”

You hum in a noncommittal fashion, scarcely bothering to open your eyes.

Perhaps he’ll let you drowse the day away; you’d dream through all horrors like this, should your insomnia give you reprieve. A week, a month, a year sold to the sandman in exchange for peace— yet the dark would follow you there, also, antlered men in imagined night.

“You’ve been in bed long enough,” says Hannibal, peeling back your sheets with a brisk tug. “Up you get. Alana is visiting us this evening. She’ll have some questions for you.”

Weakly attempting to thieve back the blanket, you say, “I really don’t feel like talking to her. Can’t you do it? Please?”

“Jack won’t be satisfied with a second-hand report. Alana must see that you’re comfortable here. Not a particular incentive for you, but I can provide others.”

You open one eyelid, enticed by this readiness to bargain.

“So what do I get if I say yes?”

“A light dinner,” says Hannibal. “And—depending on your behaviour—perhaps another reward we’ll negotiate later tonight.”

At this you sit up; starving is a precious contraband in the doctor’s abode, worth more to you than every decadent thing under its rafters.

“Feeling better already, I see,” says Hannibal, through one of his charitable smiles. “Please stand by the mirror and allow me to dress you.”

Unbidden there comes the thought of his hand under your skirts, pressing inwards like a starfish sucking at a stone.

“Oh, come on, Dad,” you say, in flustered haste. "Really?”

“There’s a certain picture I’d like to create for Alana’s benefit,” he insists. “One of wellness and serenity. Your selections tend to imply something far more brooding and morose.”

With a testy little sigh you slip out of bed, rubbing your arms free of rising gooseflesh.

“You bought me those ‘brooding and morose’ outfits, remember, Dad? What does that say about you?”

“That I seek to please you,” says Hannibal, touching your mouth with playful thumb. “Today I hope that you’ll return the gesture.”

He holds aloft a pastel blue dress in transparent lace, a beaded line of detailing pointing downwards at the hips in a suggestive v.

“I don’t know,” you say, far more sharply than intended. “It’s short. And I don’t like the colour.”

“The shade will suit you,” Hannibal replies. “And you’ll wear a shift underneath for modesty, if that’s your concern.”

You don’t bother with reproof; he’s guiding you out of your nap-rumpled clothes and into the dress before you can think of an excuse he’ll entertain.

Unresisting, you only glance aside, breathing shallowly so as not to brush your chest against him as he adjusts your collar.

That Hannibal hasn’t made love to you since you shared a bed makes you think that he’s waiting for something, a moment fermented to sweeten the sex. He is, you warrant, as driven by pleasure as any man, being only of a tighter and more methodical restraint.

You can’t decide whether you’re glad of the wait or if you’d prefer he throw you down on your bed and ravish you now to have done with it.

Doubtless Hannibal considers an identical dilemma, turning you before him like a ballerina in a mirrored jewellery box.

“Even the greats couldn’t hope to replicate this image of you,” he says, as he inspects his work. “To attempt it would have them rending the canvas to pieces rather take credit for their failure.”

The compliment is long forgotten when, later, Alana breaches the house, her pretty face above her mulberry blouse like a lily in a violet bouquet.

Her casual manner in kissing Hannibal’s cheek at the door suggests a social visit, as does the gift of white wine under one thin arm. Still, she remembers her duty, taking you aside with a subtle professionalism within two minutes of having greeted her host.

Her kindness is a shingle in a cyclone, dashed away by the futility of its own existence.

“Dr Lecter told me you’re doing a lot better than when I last saw you,” says Alana, placing one of her graceful hands atop your own without comment as to its frigidity. “Are you feeling more positive now, or would you disagree with that?”

Slipping your fingers out from under hers, you say, “Well, I have a TV now. I’m allowed to do a lot more things I’m actually interested in. That helps. Thanks for that, by the way. I know you talked Dr Lecter into it.”

Smiling, Alana says, “I can’t take credit for that. He was already making preparations when I brought it up. He's racked up quite the shopping bill.”

The notion of Hannibal navigating the catalogues of online stores is ridiculous, somehow anachronistic, but then again you’ve witnessed him tapping at a sleek iPad, a jarring sight, on every occasion.

“How about mealtimes?” asks Alana. “I understand you’re working towards a plan that’s easier for you.”

“It’s still hard,” you mumble. “Tough. You know.”

Your eyes are on Alana’s patent court shoes, picturing a blandly organised rack of identical heels in alternate shades. Perhaps ankle boots for the colder days. Simple. Nothing flash.

Alana pauses, quickly assessing your disinterest in the exchange.

“Hannibal says he’d like you to agree to more therapy sessions,” she says. “He feels you’re opening up. I think we both know that’s probably wishful thinking on his side, but don’t shoot him down just yet.”

“I won’t,” you say. “Couldn’t anyway, right?”

Alana rearranges her discomfort into another closed-lipped smile. You can’t envision that lipstick ever moving, striped across her face as yours has been by both of the friends that she holds dear.

“So how are things between you and Will now?” enquires Alana, quite on cue. “Rumour has it you’re getting along like a house on fire.”

Truthfully Will has rather cooled since the night of the seizure, his envy retreating to the black of some inner primordial cave. He seems both caustically amused by your recent performance and cynical of its longevity, yet neither judgement is as severe as before.

The thought of your kindness sits with him, has been taken up with the cagy hunger of an orphan to a heel of bread. Piece by piece you’ve given him more of it in flirting words, but these he’s yet to take, turning each away with a smirk.

“Don’t try so hard,” he’d said, only a day ago, but when you’d thrown an idle foot across his lap as you read a book beside him he hadn’t removed it, only pretended to ignore the intrusion.

“Me and Will are okay,” you say to Alana. “That’s all.”

You must give away something of your successes in your expression, for Alana’s mouth twitches into a coy grin.

“Just okay?”

At that moment Hannibal knocks on the open door, a merciful trespass, setting you free of her.

As promised, you’re offered a modest salad while Hannibal and Alana make their way through numberless courses over the gifted wine.

At first you’re too absorbed in the mortification of eating in front of the other woman to pay attention to their mounting chemistry, dragging the same tattered leaf through streams of congealing oil.

It’s only as you’re making a fortress of cutlery across a lump of uneaten meat that you take full stock of the flirting at work before you.

Though attempts are made by both parties to fold you into the conversation they are mild at best, almost neglectful.

Alana glances up into Hannibal’s eyes in frequent, laughing enjoyment, touching his shoulder or forearm lightly; he, for his part, looks upon her lips and the curves of her form and speaks fondly to her, his voice hushed with a want of sex.

You’ve heard it often enough to know it, and should be glad to have his attentions otherwise distracted.

Yet your hands creep under the table, squeezing your thighs and stomach as though to claw out the matter you've ingested through your meat.

"I'm done," you blurt out, cutting across Hannibal's opinion of a recent classical performance he’s attended. "Can I go upstairs?"

It's with difficulty that you bite off the habitual 'Dad' that has replaced 'doctor' in your vocabulary.

Hannibal offers you a near invisible look of disgruntlement at the interruption, quickly mollified by Alana's fingers at his elbow.

"I'm sure we're boring you," she says. "Go on up and relax. You don't have to stick around just to be polite."

You glance at Hannibal, seeking his approval before you stand. His eyes, within so static a face, are black glass in their suspicion.

"I'll come up to speak to you later on," he says, at last. "If there's anything you need, don't hesitate to ask for it."

Rather than go immediately to your den above you linger to watch as the couple drink in the parlour, so close as to almost be in one another’s arms.

You see from Hannibal's relaxed posture that he is not ablaze with a fascinated love for Alana as he is for Will; he holds her merely with the affection of an old friend, and, too, with an uncomplicated desire.

He would never rape Alana Bloom; such violence, to Hannibal, is an entry into a cabal of which she has no part. Her value to him is as representation of his treasured comforts, and all that which Hannibal would not willingly change.

Alana is as used for her parts as you are, in her way, and oblivious to it, like some grinning scarecrow blind to the birds that snicker and creep at its back.

Yet as you watch her lean, murmuring, into Hannibal’s neck you feel a tooth of ice grind through your heart and turn away, feeling numbly for the bannisters behind you.

Almost on hands and knees you climb the steps to your bed, brought low by that astonishing cold.

Pausing at the bathroom you prostrate yourself at the toilet’s mercy, still unable to empty yourself of the pain and bile you'd evict to be naked of your jealousy.

In surrender you rest your head on the cool floor and remain there even after the compulsion to vomit subsides.

If you cannot flog yourself for your sins as the saints did then this will do, sprawled before the porcelain God of another degredation.

Presently the bathroom door creaks open, striking an unwanted rod of light across your face.

“Go away,” you mutter, wiping your face with an angry scrub of your knuckles. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

Hannibal looks at you with a minister’s pious severity.

"I see. So I was correct. You object to Alana and I having a sexual relationship. Any other father would sternly inform you that it’s none of your business, and as your therapist it’s even less so.”

Raising your head, you snap at him as fiercely as you dare.

“What about me?”

“My friendship with Alana is very different to what you and I share,” says Hannibal, and you snort, wiping a stream of clear mucus across your lips.

“I’ll bet.”

Hannibal turns his head at a quizzical angle, and you perceive the very second of his understanding like the unveiling of some trick.

“You must explain yourself, darling,” he says. “What is it about this that has upset you?”

The logical answer should be that you wish to save Alana from him, that you cannot watch her beaming, black-haired head roll out from under the axe.

Instead, you blurt out, “Don’t you get it, Dad? How it makes me feel? You’re supposed to understand me, and I’m pretty sure you do. You knew that it would hurt me. You did this on purpose the way you wave me around in front of Will.”

Using the sink to right yourself you get to your feet, standing on pathetic, defiant tiptoe so that you might gaze into the devil’s face directly.

“If you have to do this, then please, just me. Just me. I can’t stand it. It makes me feel sick to think about you and her together. Knowing you’ll touch me afterwards. Don’t do this to me. Please."

“I see,” says Hannibal.

He speaks with such calm that you deflate from your anger at once.

“Very well,” he says. “I can make an excuse for Alana to leave. Would that please you, little one?”

This time you don’t answer, only stare at him with huge and terrible eyes until he retreats to the stairway.

“Oh, god,” you say, under your breath. “Amy, you’d really hate me right now, wouldn’t you?”

You hear Hannibal and Alana talking in low undertones, the female voice a coo of thoughtful sympathy. In time Alana collects herself to leave, but only when her car propels itself quietly from the driveway does Hannibal come to you again.

By now you’re sitting at your dresser, making a humiliated attempt to recollect your dignity with cosmetics. You know that Hannibal will not like what you’d made of your face—the eyes painted black, your lips the colour of your heart, a sinking, well-bound stone.

Yet all he says as he stands behind you is, “Look at me, little one.”

Your hand shakes, blotting your eyelid with an errant apostrophe of mascara.

“Don’t want to.”

“I know. I’d like you to, even so.”

The gentleness of Hannibal’s voice is an agony to you. You’ve never hated nor been more drawn to him than you are now, this impossible spirit in the vessel of a man.

Stiffly you turn on your chair, meeting his gaze to find it truly repentant.

“I won’t make love to Alana again,” says Hannibal, and you know as you do the reality of elements that he does not lie. “I see that this triggers your fear of abandonment too greatly. But it might not be possible for me to avoid all romantic advances.

“There are rumours abound as to our arrangement already, and it will seem suspicious if I don’t take a lover. But I’ll do my best to be faithful to our family.”

He pauses, watching you battle to suppress your disgust for him, for yourself, for all things in the bracken of his design.

“For now, I’d like you to relax,” says Hannibal. “This level of distress will make you ill. I’m concerned that it already has.”

Taking you by a hand as clammy as mermaid skin he leads you down to the living room to serve you from a pot of fragrant tea.

Though its calorific value is likely near to air you catastrophize with immediacy, unable to touch the cup, let alone drink.

“I’m not doing it on purpose this time,” you babble. “I’m not, Dad, please, you’ve got to believe me.”

Hannibal raises a hand to caress you— that, and only that, and yet you shrink against the couch in expectancy of a blow.

An appalled look tightens Hannibal’s expression, a hypocrisy of which he seems endlessly capable.

“There, now,” he says. “I can tell the difference between unruliness and genuine struggle. You and I both know that tea is only leaves and water— why do you believe against logic that it will affect your weight?”

“I don’t know,” you say, with a helpless shake of the head. “I feel like if I drink it I won’t be able to stop myself. I’ll eat and eat until I’m... big, and then I won’t be able to go back to the way I was. Everyone will see me differently. Treat me like they used to. People can be cruel.”

“And none crueller than you are to yourself,” says Hannibal, and he eases the cup between your hands so that you must take it or scald yourself raw. “There is nothing shameful in having a body of any kind, and any who judge you for that would wear their foolishness like a flag for all to see. Nevertheless, I’ve balanced your weight here, and will continue to do so if that is what’s needed for you to believe in my intentions.”

He aids you to drink, lifting the cup to your mouth over and over until the last drop. From the bitter taste you know it altered by some drug.

For once you do not care.

The night has left you so ashamed of your bearing that you’re half joyful to be done with it, sinking back as euphoria transforms all things that touch you into nirvana.

Your fingers drape across your body in aimless exploration, stopping only as Will enters the room with Hannibal at his side.

The younger man’s eyebrows jump as you giggle and hide your hands behind your back.

“You’re smiling,” says Will. “And I’m not sure how I feel about the circumstances.”

“Our girl is relieved to see you, Will,” says Hannibal. “A familiar face is a balm for even the most taxing day.”

Will looks from you to Hannibal ponderously.

“Alana was here earlier,” he states.

“She was, much to our little one’s chagrin.”

“Do you have to talk about her?” you interrupt, in loose-tongued irritation.

Hannibal chuckles.

“We do not. There are other topics I’d find far more engaging.”

You watch from under heavy lids as the men discuss the Lover’s case in low, library murmurs.

“Tanya Marrow was found washed up by the Patapsco River this morning,” says Will, with a grim regret. “Her wounds were fresh, meaning the Lover only mutilated Tanya and placed her into the doll when he was ready to throw her away. He was content with how closely she resembled the woman he’s desperate to make, for a while.

“But she wasn’t close enough. In the end he had to remind her that she was just a toy to him, and punish her for her lacking.”

The contrast of these dreary horrors with the rainbow light of feeling through your needy cunt should sicken you, but your mind is in disorder, barely one thought akin to the next.

“We’ve made a breakthrough in regards to the dolls,” Will continues. “The well-made ones are expensive; for one person to have so many implies that the Lover is either a wealthy collector, or that he’s able to access them at a considerable discount. Possibly for free.”

“I’m assuming the factory producing these dolls has been identified,” says Hannibal.

Will swallows a mouthful of whiskey.

“There are only four vendors known to produce the style of doll the Lover uses. Jack’s got someone looking into their customers, narrowing down the suspects to buyers in Virginia. Considering how specialised these clients are that shouldn't take long.”

The older man listens with a solemn intensity, scarcely drinking from his own glass.

“I see the Lover almost exactly now,” says Will. “He knows he has to take his bride eventually; he’s circling her, choosing women that are closer and closer to her physical proximity. The next target will be someone she knows.

“It’s a dangerous move, but by now the Lover wants someone that’s stood so close to this woman that he can taste her. Imagine her beneath him when he defiles the inferior victim.”

Fear swims, crocodilian, within you, disturbing your narcotic stupor.

Seeming to sense it, Hannibal says, “Let’s continue this line of conversation later on. I wouldn’t want to give our surrogate daughter bad dreams.”

Will glances at you, watching you fumble idly with the hem of your dress.

“You don’t plan to cast her as our daughter in tonight’s play, do you?” he asks, plainly.

“That would unnecessarily chasten the evening,” says Hannibal. “She’s the woman for whom we are legally responsible, and what we deem fit for her continued health is ours to determine.”

You recline across the couch like an empress, watching the firelight glance shadows across your skin like a garment in a dream. Hannibal slips a hand from your shoulder to your breast, teasing the tiffany lace across your nipple, and the warmth and delicacy of the touch breathes through you a shiver of ermine delight.

Only vaguely do you acknowledge your revulsion, a whisper at a keyhole on the other side of the house.

“What did you give her for her to let you touch her like that?” asks Will, curiously.

His hands play upon the sides of his whiskey glass, and the thought of them upon your thighs or between them drives your lower lip between your teeth with unbeckoned desire.

“I’ve offered her release from her spirited rebellion,” says Hannibal. “Even having promised us fealty, this act she wouldn’t easily endure. I wish for her to experience intimacy unhindered by her mental bounds.”

His fingers glance beneath the neckline of your dress and cross your bare skin as a swan's wing meets the sky, rushing a moan from you more akin to a sob in its juddering resonance.

“Besides,” Hannibal continues, “she’s had a trying afternoon. Her body welcomes this.”

Will’s face, washed honey bronze by firelight, is so neutral that even if you were not high you’d fail to extract the mechanisms of thought behind it.

“We’ve both succeeded in bringing her to climax,” says Hannibal, as his other hand folds your skirt against your pelvis. “But never her consent. Tonight, perhaps we will.”

“In this state she has no real autonomy,” Will argues. “We’re witnessing an illusion.”

Hannibal pauses, his face like that of an antiques dealer slyly unveiling some stolen wares.

“Not exactly,” he says. “Little one: you’ve described me as handsome. Do think that Will is good-looking?”

Your concentration wavers as two digits inscribe an ouroboros in your arousal. The wrongness of it all only enhances the sensation, the thought of being a lovely toy for older men to play with.

Your name on Dr Lecter’s lips recalls his question.

“Yes,” you say. “I— I do.”

You don’t know why you’re honest. Even a child, embarrassed, could lie.

Will smiles, and for a moment there is something almost sweet in his expression.

Then the dark of him slithers behind it again with predatory ease, and he leans forward, knees apart, possessed of a revelation of self-assurance.

This is the self he becomes when challenging Dr Lecter, the arrogant observer of all living things.

“I already knew that,” says Will. “I don’t mind hearing it clarified, though.”

You can’t imagine him ever admitting that you’re beautiful in return. Hannibal would, has done so already in such a succulence of language that your mouth could water with it, but not Will, not in so many words.

All that he will allow thus far is that you are not ugly. Blearily you vow to unwind from him his obsession.

“Puppy love,” says Hannibal, looking into your face with a gentle irony. “You’d like him to touch you, wouldn’t you, little one?”

This you don’t answer, and rather than press you again Hannibal makes you come with three fingers inside you, patient as you cry out and roll your head aside in conflict and delirium.

You cannot decide if he means to reward you for your participation with Will or to humiliate you for that same eagerness. It is bewildering and erotic, this envy they have for one another; to quell it you must kneel to the hierarchy, submissive always to your covetous masters.

“Join us, Will,” says Hannibal, at last.

Briefly you think that he won’t, a scoffing lord, above it all.

Then he crosses the room, sets down his whiskey and kisses you, first your mouth, then your neck, leaving the taste of smoke and almonds wherever his lips meet.

Whimpering, you kick your feet on the couch as each petal of ecstasy comes loose from a branch within you.

Sometimes Will’s teeth push against your flesh, not quite biting; Hannibal, on the other side of your neck, gently does, as though inheriting the expected assault from his would-be lover.

His fingers form a cylinder of delight in you, the pad of his thumb undoing another orgasm in a trio of strokes.

“How gifted we are to receive such delights,” says Hannibal, and as you groan he docks his arousal in your own, filling you so entirely with his cock that you think and feel only the fucking and nothing more, a witless hole.

Will brings your hand to his erection, and there is no uncertainty in that motion, nor in his lips about your breast. His rough tongue, the saliva like a paste jewel on your nipple—

Writhing, panting, you stir through pleasure upon pleasure like the layers of the earth, soft, dark, deep.

Your palm tightens on Will’s cock like a night sea about the lighthouse it yearns to bring down, working him with a knowing purpose. As Hannibal continues his pelvic rolls against you Will draws back, avoiding the early release that your cunning fist would bring.

Not once do the men make contact in a sexual manner with each other, and you don’t understand it, this avoidance of the ultimate lust. Yet perhaps it is that they fuck through you, for when Hannibal achieves his orgasm and moves away Will pushes into you without caution of the other man’s seed still warm in that same place.

He looks up into Hannibal’s eyes as he does it, watching his response as he weaves pleasure from a loom of servile flesh.

But then you make some shapeless sound of need, one hand extended, not quite touching him, and Will's eyes return to you with such intensity that you forget that brief, lost woe.

He mimics Hannibal’s command of your body, hands moving, unrushed, from breast to hip as he opens you further to him. His violence is a mage’s dance, something once done around fire, and charged now through the vessel of a young and studious man.

No wonder, then, that you have neither strength nor will to repel him. You roil, loose-limbed as the dead, only your noise and perspiring response to sensation to evidence your ongoing life.

Hannibal’s arms go loosely around you, holding your head in his lap as Will makes love to you with a brooding fervour. Every touch is like the discovery of a new and indescribable existence, having traversed to some frontier of feeling only sects of pleasure have previously founded.

You know yourself wanted by both men, now, feel it through their mutterings of ecstasy, the unending pressure of mouths and hands upon your skin. They crave your wanting of them in return, lap up your slightest sign of it, tainted as it is by Hannibal’s poison.

Will pours in you his ending, his breath a kiss against your eardrum.

You come again with both men gazing upon you, their faces as close and beautiful together as stringed pearls.

Dimly you fear that they will succeed in their work with you, no matter how fiercely you defy their twofold will.

“Hey,” says the younger man, nudging your shoulder lightly. “Snap out of it. You’re bleeding. Did we hurt you?”

Your first thought is, “yes, of course you did.”

The next, having looked down at the red dart through the milk of semen on your thigh, is the same nip of terror you know from an unexpectedly high number on the scale.

The final cognition—and one almost certainly true—is that this carnival of sex has brought that crimson forth like the incitation of bacchanalian madness.

The shock of it wrings you near dry of the doctor’s drug, a bald winter sobriety.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “It’s my period. I haven’t had one in years.”

#manna fic #hannibal fic #hannibal lecter #hannibal lecter x reader x will graham #hannibal lecter x reader #will graham x reader #tw noncon #tw eating disorders #tw bulimia #tw anorexia #tw dubious consent #tw nonconsensual drug use #tw fatphobia

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sobeautifullyobsessed · 2 years

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My thank you and love letter to the Doctor Strange x Reader community...

It’s been a very long time. I’ve written for multiple fandoms for 8+ years now, and I was almost always left on the outside looking in, mainly because my creative choice was to fashion OFCs. The red-haired step-children of fan fiction. Still, I carried on, because it’s what my Muse directed, and the nature of the stories that are within me to tell. I like to think my work has steadily improved over the years.

And I get it- I really do. Most people want to see the ship of their heart, and that is most often with canon characters.

There’s tons of fantastic fic (and face it, not so good as well) out there that gives people exactly that. Are there fictions where the characters are bent and manipulated and made OOC for the sake of making them fit into the narrative the way the author wants them to. HELLS YES! And does it hurt to see the love and praise lavished on these pieces as though they are manna from heaven, while I still struggle to break a couple dozen notes of any kind, and mainly because I have the audacity to fill the written fantasies I offer with strong, original female characters? Not as much as it used to--but sometimes it still smarts.

But I think I’ve found my home at last. The Doctor Strange x Reader Insert community has truly made me feel welcome and embraced me in a way that I finally feel appreciated. And among peers. You lovely people are so key smash and enthusiastic and willing to share ideas and thoughts and advice, it’s like day and night to my old experiences (with one notable exception, because this blogger 🥰🥰 ALWAYS believed in my work and supported me without fail). I never got as many reblogs as I have since giving in to writing my female characters as Reader, and I want to thank you all for every single one of them. You all amaze me too--your imagination and enthusiasm, and daaaaaamn, how astoundingly prolific you are! My only gripe is with myself; why the hell can’t I keep up? I want to match you pace for pace, story for story, else I feel like I’m being left behind in the dust.

Anyway--and hand on heart--just know that I adore and appreciate you all, and you’ve given me the unexpected joy of having my own work greeted with kindness and enthusiasm for the first time in too many years! So please- do read on...and write on too!

PS The blogger I mentioned above is a fabulous author (and amazing friend) in her own right. Besides her canon compliant fics, she is the The Queen of Rarepairs, and has been known to fashion the occasional and delightful OFC when the spirit moves her. You can find her work on both her main blog and side blog- @strangelock221b @dreaminonao3 Please go give her works a looksee- her Doctor Strange pieces are true *chef’s kiss*, my favorites of which are Stephen x Darcy (omg, they are squee worthy and when I read them I simply pretend I’m Darcy) and Stephen x Pepper (face it, the Man falling and being in love is *sighs* DIVINE), and a newer series which she wrote to cheer me up, called The Countess and Her Defender on AO3. All my love to you, T! 💗

#trials and tribulations of a writer #other people's writing #doctor strange fanfiction #doctor strange fan fiction #stephen strange fan fiction #stephen strange x y/n #doctor strange x reader #stephen strange x reader #doctor strange x y/n.stephen strange x y/n #Defender Strange #Supreme Strange #Sinister Strange #Doctor Strange Supreme #Doctor Strange #Stephen Strange #Strangebatch #My Eternal Muse #Muse to oh so many

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nativehueofresolution · 8 months

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🧠🩸

i can't to stick one answer apologies in advance,

🧠 A fic that rewired something in your brain

the fic responsible for all my claudia and gabrielle brainworms <3

this whole series is great, but i love this fic particularly because of how much it fleshes out the complicated family dynamics with daniel's daughter and having to imagine your father as a completely different person right at the end of his life. zoe and megan are canon to my heart

this author has written a lot of great fics but i picked this one specifically because the scene where armand locks daniel out because of a fight and so daniel punches his way through a glass door to get in which armand finds so romantic they make up is just like. a perfection encapsulation of how insane they are during the devil's minion era with their codependent behavior.

🩸A fic with your favourite scene of blood drinking or other use of blood

“We are not bringing a priest here,” Louis retorted “We don’t need to. Tell me,” Armand demanded “It doesn’t work like that, you’re not a priest,” Louis said dismissively “I am everything you need, I fill your cup, I am forever the shape in which you need me,” Armand said, still pinning him down with his hands, his amber eyes intent on his “Forgive me lover for I have sinned?” Louis said testily “Tell me and I will drink it out of you, it won’t belong to you anymore, let me eat it,” Armand said, fangs flashing, his expression sliding vicious and hungry Sin-Eater. “I have been cruel,” Louis confessed finally, “and I have been unkind” Armand bit into his side, drinking, the sin-eater consuming the sin of the deceased. The ritual meal. The swoon bloomed at the site of the bite mark, liquid ease radiating out. Louis sighed in relief.

i am DECEASED

claudia sharing blood with her parents... exploring vampire blood sharing fitting into their family dynamic and lestat in particular... well-written claudia pov fics about the family dynamic are like manna from heaven to me. the last section is just chef's kiss.

#ty!!!#a character flaw of mine is i get really shy about commenting on fics (i am working on it) but i do love gushing about them #ask game replies #a meal to remember

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thetomorrowshow · 1 year

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tiger

empires superpowers au masterlist

this is a dark one sorry :( it hearkens back to the heavy angst of the main fic, so do what you will with that. i've put the entire fic under the cut just bc i'm a bit more nervous about this kind of thing atm.

cw: dehumanization, food, abuse, starvation tactics, treatment of a human as an animal (typical of the main fic)

this story takes place during jimmy's captivity.

The first time it happens, Jimmy’s still new to this whole thing.

He’s being good. He’s quietly kneeling under the table, his head pounding and a bad taste in his mouth. He’d been in the observation room for the past however-long, and even though he hates this meeting room, it’s nice to have a change of scenery.

Xornoth is there, of course, not touching him but instead eating something—dinner, probably, from the smell. Jimmy hates it when Xornoth eats in front of him. They know exactly what they’re doing, they know how little he’s fed. But he doesn’t say anything. He hasn’t spoken in so long, he’s not even sure he’d remember how.

He doesn’t need to speak, though, as his body takes care of that for him. It’s some type of steak or something, he can tell, and the smell of it is so mouthwatering that his stomach can’t help but cry out in a desperate attempt to get its owner’s attention. It gets more than just Jimmy’s attention, though.

Xornoth stills, looks down at him. Jimmy keeps his eyes on the ground, cheeks burning. He’s going to be in trouble now, isn’t he? It seems like everything he does is a death sentence these days. What’s it going to be today? The whip? The tentacles? Just a good old punch to the jaw?

Xornoth, however, doesn’t even seem all that perturbed. Their smile turns vicious and they dab at their blackened lips with a napkin before speaking.

“Are you wanting to be fed?”

He doesn’t nod. He won’t give his captor the satisfaction. Xornoth only sighs, then with one gloved hand, plucks a bite-sized piece of steak from their plate. They wave it slowly in front of Jimmy.

And Jimmy really wants that steak. He’s not sure how long he’s been here—he was kidnapped in August, he knows October has passed, too long too long too long—but the best thing that he’s eaten in all those months has been an orange. He’s mostly been surviving off of peanut butter sandwiches with the occasional bruised apple thrown in. Perfectly cooked and seasoned steak, tantalizingly held in front of him, ready for him to take? It’s the first glimpse of proper food after forty years of manna.

“Beg for it,” Xornoth tells him, and all his hope flies out the window.

He’s not going to beg. He hasn’t sunk that low. He’s not going to die of starvation, so he’s fine with what he’s got. He gives a little shake of his head, turns his eyes to the floor.

Luckily, Xornoth doesn’t argue. They tsk, but turn back to their meal.

He doesn’t really have anything to be angry about (he has lots to be angry about, he reminds himself, he can’t forget that), but it irks him anyways. He’d somehow held onto the hope that even through refusal, Xornoth would allow him at least a taste of the food.

But soon enough, Xornoth is done, knife and fork clinking against the plate as they set them down. They pat Jimmy on the head one more time, then rise and leave the room.

That’s usually when a handful of guards arrive to unchain him and take him back to his cell, but as Jimmy waits, nothing happens. After hours of kneeling on the floor alone, he finally dares to move, shifting his legs so that he can stretch out a little bit.

Xornoth doesn’t return.

Xornoth doesn’t return for a long time.

When they’re back, Jimmy’s started shaking so badly he can’t make himself stop. He hasn’t had food or water in too long—his internal clock is so screwed that it could have been one day or three and he wouldn’t have any clue—but it’s too long and he can hardly see straight.

Xornoth doesn’t acknowledge it, just sits in their chair and works quietly, not even petting Jimmy’s hair. Not that he doesn’t appreciate the lack of the awful touch, but it’s as if Xornoth hasn’t taken any notice of his condition and he needs food. Xornoth is his best chance at getting it and they won’t even look at him.

Time is hazy in its passing, so Jimmy’s not sure how long it’s been before someone brings in a meal for Xornoth. It smells sickeningly heavenly, entirely indiscernible but desirable, and Jimmy can’t help that his dry mouth attempts to produce saliva. He hates this. He just wants to go home.

There’s a couple of minutes of the sound of silverware against a plate, then there’s a hand in his face. A hand with, pinched between its fingers, a chunk of seasoned potato.

“So hungry, aren’t you?” Xornoth murmurs. “Beg for it, pet.”

Jimmy’s cheeks burn. This is another one of their games, isn’t it? Starve him until he can’t help but obey. He hates it. He hates Xornoth, he hates everything about this place. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to!

His body is starving, though. He needs to try and get his strength up. He can cause accidents on purpose, now. He can escape. When he’s out of here, this moment of humiliation will be buried and forgotten.

Slowly, haltingly, he bows his head, further and further until he’s almost lying prostrate. He nudges his nose up against Xornoth’s boot, hoping to convey his . . . submission, he supposes, as bad a taste as the word leaves in his mouth.

A click of their tongue. “Come now, darling. Beg.”

He can’t talk. Xornoth knows he can’t talk.

It’s even more mortifying than anything else so far, but Jimmy is desperate for food. He needs something, anything. He can feel that he’s going to collapse soon. He just has to survive, and survive by any means necessary.

He can’t speak, but he lets out a whine. He whines, nudges at Xornoth’s leg, gives them the most pleading look he can muster without vomiting out of disgust.

Xornoth smiles, a cruel, sharp thing. “Close, pet. We’ll work on it. Here.”

With that, they drop the chunk of potato on the floor.

It could be a trick. He could go to eat it, only to have his fingers stomped on. But he’s just too hungry to care.

He scoops it up with both hands, fingers shaking too badly to properly pick it up, and, with one more glance at Xornoth, shoves it into his mouth.

It’s so very salty that he nearly chokes, but it’s too good to lose—the rest of the seasonings are so good they make his stomach turn, he’s so hungry, so he swallows it quickly without savoring to try and fill that hole in his stomach a little bit quicker.

Then he waits, licking his lips to catch any last vestiges of flavor, to see if Xornoth will offer him any more.

They drop a small piece of pork eventually, which Jimmy again grabs and shoves into his mouth. He freezes, mid-chewing, as Xornoth takes his hands and examines his fingers. Their face settles into a frown.

“We’ll work on that, as well,” they say, dropping his hands. “In the future, you are to only pick up the food I give you with your mouth.”

Well, if that isn’t just the cherry on top?

There’s nothing he can do to change their mind, though. He’s here to survive, not to be comfortable.

He needs to get out of here, and soon. He’s not sure how long he’ll be able to take eating food off the floor like an animal.

Hopefully, he’ll be out before it comes to that.

Graceffa finds it strange, they can tell.

Xornoth cuts the gristle from their meat, holds it at their lap. Their pet eats it from their fingers, lips brushing their gloved hand briefly.

He’s becoming so well trained.

“Why do you do that?” Graceffa asks suddenly. “I mean, it’s kinky, but I thought he wasn’t part of that?”

They don’t answer immediately, taking a moment to wipe the grease from their leather glove onto their pet’s cheek. “Tell me, Graceffa, have you ever known anyone who privately owns a tiger?” they ask once their glove is clean.

Graceffa nods.

“Those owners often use the dangerous beasts as a spectacle,” Xornoth continues, still gazing down at their pet. “They swim with them, hand-feed them, beat them—all to show that they’ve become master of one of the most formidable animals in the world.”

Their little bird isn’t listening—or if he is, he isn’t comprehending. The look in his eyes is far away, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shorts.

“Pet,” they say softly, and their pet’s attention snaps to them. They jerk their head to the side. “Beg our guest for scraps.”

He nods and crawls under the table until he reaches Graceffa’s leg, nudges against his knee. “Please, sir,” he rasps, voice almost a whisper. “May I have your scraps?”

Graceffa meets their eyes, lips spreading into a slow smile. “I see,” he says lowly, picking a string of fat from the pork on his plate. Under the table, their pet licks it from his fingers, swallowing without even chewing first. He starts to shuffle back, only for Xornoth to kick him sharply in the bony thigh. Their pet cowers.

“Thank him,” they admonish. Their pet swallows several more times.

“Thank you, sir,” he manages. Graceffa laughs shrilly; their pet starts at the sound and scoots back toward Xornoth, pressing himself close to their legs.

Coming back to them for comfort and safety. Exactly as they want it.

Their hand comes to rest in his hair, and they feel him relax slightly under their touch. Graceffa continues speaking, but they don’t pay much attention. They have plans for their pet after this.

There will be blood on this table tonight.

#empires smp #esmp #empires smp fanfic #jimmy solidarity #empires superpowers au #esh au #mas writes #for the first time ever i feel kinda nervous about maintagging #i have a strict always maintag rule #mostly for filtering on my own blog #or so my followers not interested in x smp or x character can block the tag and properly block my stuff #but with all the twitter drama atm. idk i feel a bit cautious #if this is the first fic you've seen from me: hi!#this au atm is mostly about superpowered flower husbands as they recover from trauma #this part in particular is just a brief flashback in time to jimmy's abuse #if you want one of my more palatable series i can recommend 'trust au' or 'hubris killed the god'#or just about any of my standalone one-shots are fairly chill #i tag all my writing with 'mas writes' if you're interested in something not. this.#anyway to my usual readers: sorry abt this one besties. i SWEAR there's fluffy ones in there somewhere #lmk what you think!#love you guys

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