#tw nonconsensual drug use
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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...
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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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Chapter 1: pages 33-36💦
#naruto#gaalee#dubcon warning#dubious consent#tw nonconsensual drug use#tw intoxication#rock lee#gaara#gaara of the desert#fanart#naruto fanart#manga#kel i love you
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So, Demon Puppy’s summoning ritual was gotten via somebody making a deal with a Light Demon. Specifically, they were asking the for a ritual to capture a baby demon. Baby Aspect Demons summoning rituals are not something mortals normally have access to.
The plan was to raise the Puppy as a slave, basically. However, they completely underestimated the lifespan of a demon, and it ended up having to take a couple generations for him to grow up. Eventually there was an opportunity to escape, when the one in charge of maintaining the ritual failed to replace a candle. Puppy immediately slipped into the shadows and escaped, having been trying to do since the moment he was captured.
Of course, since he grew up starving and imprisoned by humans, he never really got to learn how to demon good. His first contract was just walking up to a guy and begging for food.
Awww poor baby :( I haven’t decided the details of demon blackys past, other then he was likely captured due to his powers. It’s just been so long since he’s been in the actual demon world with people to talk to that he’s oblivious to demon etiquette. I imagine there was a lot of conditioning and or severe drugging involved to keep his powers under their control since you know he can just summon anything if he thinks about it. Thus when not using him he probably was kept heavily drugged so he couldn’t actually use his powers since he couldn’t think
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A mutual of mine received a plot bunny where Dick has to go undercover as an escort and Slade happens to be the bodyguard of Dick's client. Dick had to otherwise Bruce would have forced Tim to go. And like. It gave me so much brainworms. Slade having to hear them have sex, knowing that Dick's cries are fake. He doesn't sound like that when they... Don't make it personal. This is a contract. Don't make it personal. He repeats that to himself like some kind of mantra while gripping his gun so tight he might break something as he hears the man slap Dick and insult him, as he watches the kid hide his black eye with makeup, as he watches how skinny he got for this mission (because the bastard likes them "slim", the son of a bitch), as he watches Dick suck the man off and he has to pretend he doesn't see the kid's empty eyes, as he has to restrain himself when the son of a bitch slips the kid pills in his drinks when he clearly said no.
Slade kills the man the second his contract is finished.
Ooohhh I can imagine how much it was killing Slade to finish the contract!! The way Slade knows Dick's cries arent real >>>>
I think he would try to somehow help Dick out too, like maybe tell him not to drink when that bastard slips him the pills. It wouldnt work every time but still he would try his best to make that time a little bit better for his little bird.
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Inhuman CH 1
Based on Star Trek TOS
Commission for @idontinternetwell
Summary: Spock has an experience that leads him to question his identity as a Vulcan. His friends help him through discovering the multiplicity of himself as a human, a Vulcan, a scientist, and a son.
Celebrations on the enterprise were frequent, though typically composed of only a small number of crew members. This was a special occasion. The crew had just completed their full third year of missions exploring the galaxy and documenting scientific data. To commemorate the milestone, the mess hall was decorated and drinks were overflowing. The ship was placed in orbit around a vacant planet and as minimal a crew as necessary took shifts to keep her there.
Captain Kirk was already well mixed into the party, having conversed with people as they were arriving. He was glad that the crew members were getting a night to relax, as it helped morale and kept his ship running smoothly. He took a swig of his drink and looked around for his second in command but he must have still been finishing up his notes.
Doctor Leonard McCoy had already resigned himself to a night of treating alcohol poisoning, and various minor injuries that were also alcohol related. Until the night took a turn for the worst, he sat relaxed at a table making small talk and sipping a cup of coffee.
Spock was running late, or rather was making a conscious choice to arrive late so as to avoid the awkward beginnings that the majority of social events bloom from. He always felt out of place in these affairs. The way that a being reacted under the influence was incredibly unpredictable, or at the very least almost immeasurable scientifically. Sure he had drank before, but never like the drunkenness he had witnessed from others. It was the unbridled emotions that sprung forth from the drink that confused him.
Emotion was not Spock's strong suit, both the feeling of it and the understanding of its effect on others. Though half human, he for all outward appearances was Vulcan. He never found it necessary to connect with that human half, and found it quite uncivil when observing his human crew members as they loudly displayed their feelings and innermost thoughts, (and in a social setting nonetheless).
As Spock arrived at the party everyone seemed to be having a pleasant time. He made his way to the bar and ordered a cup of tea before sorting out where to take a seat. He looked around the room and saw many faces that he knew well. Most of them with a blush spread across their cheeks and nose and grins on their faces. A few already had enough and were slumped in the corner. Another group giggled madly, mostly younger recruits that just wanted a way out of their parents’ homes.
This group was not particularly fond of Mr. Spock as he was known to reprimand anyone who fell out of line and was generally easy to make fun of. Tonight they had planned the ultimate prank. On their last docked mission they had come across a potent drug that had been fueling their days off with added entertainment. But tonight it wasn’t for them to take. Instead, as Mr. Spock’s eyes wandered, (no doubt looking for the Captain) one of their friends slipped a bit of this drug into his tea.
Spock grabbed his cup and walked the least obstructed path to where Bones and Jim were seated in the corner. Both looked worse for wear and ready to return to their quarters.
“Gentlemen,” Spock greeted them, taking a seat.
“Spock,” Jim smiled, “Glad you could finally join us”.
“Well, where the hell have you been? Combing your ears?” Dr. McCoy jokes, grinning and leaning back in his chair.
“If you must know Doctor, I was completing my daily logs and ensuring that the ship can continue to function.”
“Isn’t that Scotty’s job?” Spock sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. This was going to be a long night. Instead of making a snarky comeback he raises his eyebrows and takes a long drink from his tea.
“So,” Kirk begins trying to find some way to diffuse the tension that always is present when these two are together, “What did you think of our last mission?”
Dr. McCoy clears his throat, “It would’ve been a nice place for vacation, if it weren’t for the hostile locals.”
“I found the local culture quite fascinating,” Spock takes another long drink of his tea but this time it tastes sickly sweet. “Excuse me, I’m going to go have a word with the bar about the proper sugar proportions for tea.”
As he stands his legs feel wobbly and dizziness overcomes him. He steadies himself on the table.
“Spock, are you alright?” Jim asks, concerned.
Spock nods and makes his way clumsily to the bar. He sets his cup on the counter, but before he can say a word to the bartender he begins to feel queasy. He rushes to the bathroom and closes the door behind him.
Something is very wrong. He leans against the wall near the toilet and his stomach does backflips but nothing comes up. His body feels heavy and sweat drips down his temple. Could it be some illness from their last mission, a tropical disease of sorts? He should get a medical assessment from Bones. His mouth is dry and so he heaves himself to the sink and lets cold water run into his cupped hands before drinking and splashing it on his face. When he opens his eyes the face in the mirror is his but something's not quite right.
His face is flush with pink and his eyebrows are long and full. He reaches up to touch his face and as he turns his head he sees his ears are no longer pointed but curved like that of a human. But surely this is his face as he pokes at it and pulls at his mouth and eyes the creature in the mirror does the same.
Spock jumps as the door to the restroom swings open and a crewman walks in.
“Oh, hello Mr. Spock, enjoying the party?” He says smiling before catching sight of his face in the mirror. Spock’s face is pale and his eyes wild.
“Is everything alright Mr. Spock? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Spock just stares at him through the mirror. He wonders if the crewman can see what he sees. The tingling in his face has begun to spread over his whole body and he feels incredible.
“I’m most satisfactory.” Spock says, trying not to laugh at the way his voice sounds.
“If you’re sure,” the crewman shrugs, heading for the toilets. The upper officers were always a little weird.
Spock rights himself and makes his way to the door carefully. His normally long limbs now feel like he’s on stilts. He pulls the door open and it’s like an explosion of noise. All the voices of the ship at once bombard him and he flinches before embracing the cacophony and stepping back into the party.
He manages to spot his table and begins his journey back to Jim and Bones. The room spins as he walks through it but it’s less nauseating and more like an amusement park. A smile lights his face as he stumbles between people. Spock offers slurred apologies as he almost takes out a rather small mechanic who’s drink spills into his shoes. He either doesn’t realize or doesn’t care as the liquid sloshes in his shoes all the way back to his table.
He clambors into a chair and leans back just taking everything in.
“What the hell is with you?” Bones asks concerned. He doesn’t think he's ever seen Spock smile this much.
“Absolutely nothing,” Spock says dreamily.
“No, something’s definitely wrong.” Kirk says, looking him up and down. He notices his pupils are incredibly dilated. “Spock, did you take something?”
Spock doesn’t even register the question, “This party is really magnificent you know. We’re so lucky to be here doing what we do.” His eyes are glassed over and his body completely relaxed in the chair.
“Spock?” jim tries to get his attention waving a hand in front of his face, he turns to jim and smiles.
”Jim,” he says excitedly and then turns to Dr McCoy, “Leonard!” He looks back and forth at them, “You two really are great acquaintances to have. I am undeserving of your comradery.”
Suddenly his body is flooded with emotions. He squeezes their hands tightly. He’s never felt so many things all at once before. He is grateful for his friends and their companionship to him over the last two years and he's happy to be out fulfilling a mission, happy to be somewhere new. He's sad because he knows that the mission will end one day and every day brings them closer to completion.
“I feel…” he begins, but he feels too much to simply say it. The emotions running through him spread a green blush across his cheeks and nose and the tips of his pointed ears and his eyes watered. Spock stands suddenly, knocking his chair over.
“I would like to make a toast.” He shouts to the room looking for his cup that is long gone. He grabs Kirk’s instead and raises it. The room falls silent.
“To all of you here but most importantly to my best friends Captain Kirk, and Dr. McCoy, I do not often partake in the expression of emotions but it seems I cannot help myself tonight.” He began calmly though his words sloshed around his mouth like socks in a washing machine. A few whispers of confusion run through the crew. Is Spock drunk? A few whisper to each other replying with shrugs and giggles. Are we in trouble? Some wonder, the only time having seen the second officer address them was for reprimands.
“I feel the need to express my gratitude to you, my closest comrades. Exponentially over the last two years my fondness for you two has grown and you are very dear to me,“ Spock’s voice cracks and his tear ducts give way. When he speaks again his voice has grown louder.
“I feel most connected perhaps because of our shared ancestry,” he pauses and thinks for a moment. “Humanity. Humans. Incredible. I myself am half human!” Spock is shouting now, “ In fact I chose my humanity to be here instead of with my fellow Vulcan people.” he weaves through the tables and continues shouting. Jim and Bones are following behind him but can’t keep up with his long stride. The crowd is growing more rowdy and some cheer him on or yell out obscenities.
“I love humanity.” He exclaims throwing his hands in the air causing the liquid to spray from the cup he’s holding. The crowd laughs and he laughs back.
“I love this ship. I love our work, I love love, love…love” Spock keeps repeating the word as he is practically waltzing through the crowd now.
“The crew is never going to respect him after this.” Bones says, raising his eyebrows to Jim.
“Look,” Jim says scanning the room, “They’re recording. We’ve got to put an end to this now.” but he spoke too late. As Spock attempts to spin around, he trips and falls, landing flat on the ground. The room goes silent and Kirk takes that opportunity to address the crowd as Bones attempts to lift Spock from the floor.
“Alright folks,” he says smiling and waving, “Thank you for your time. It seems Mr. Spock is clearly ill, and we will be taking him to med bay to recover. Please go about your night.”
Bones secures an arm around Spock and is struggling to get him toward the door. Kirk throws Spock's other arm around his shoulder and together they manage to usher him out of the room.
Spock has no clue what's going on,“Why thank you gentleman for the dance,” he says, his voice weak and his eyes begging to droop closed.
Just before they exit the room Kirk yells, “I had better not see any recordings of this anywhere. Delete them.”
As the door closes behind them they can hear the ruckus that ensues but they have to focus on getting him to bed.
“My mother was a lovely human. I bet all our mothers were lovely humans” Spock says to himself.
“I miss her dearly.”
“What are we going to do about him? Kirk asks as they slide him into a bed. He relaxes as his head hits the pillows and he whispers “M'aih” before closing his eyes and falling asleep.
“Im a medical doctor, Jim, not a psychiatrist,” Bones says, going through his equipment to find what he needs.
“Well he's clearly been drugged. I didn't see him drink a single drop of liquor.” Jim says, tucking Spock's arms neatly onto the bed.
“I can run some blood tests,'' Bones says, collecting a sample. Spock whines as blood is drawn. “We can flush out whatever is left in his system with some fluids.” He hooks up an IV and then sets to work testing the blood.
Jim sits with his head in his hands rubbing his temples,“Out of everyone to cause a sceneI never thought it would be Spock.”
“Well, it seems it wasn't entirely the big oaf's fault,” Bones says looking over his data
“It looks like he was drugged with some kind of party dust. One of the crew must've picked it up somewhere and slipped it in his tea.”
“Who would…” Jim begins, but the truth is a lot of people would jump at the chance to see Mr Spock make a fool of himself. Bones and Jim share a look. Most people are aware that Spock is highly intelligent but these two both know that Spock is incredibly kind and the value that his friendship holds. Bones may joke but through and through Spock is his friend and more than once the three men have put their lives on the line for one another.
“I'd really like to keep him for observation, but I think he at least deserves the privacy of waking in his own quarters tomorrow.” Bones shifts the bed into a rolling position and together they walk the sleeping Spock back to his quarters and carefully lift him onto the bed. They pull the covers around him and he turns to his side, fully relaxing into his own bed.
“Sweet dreams elf ears,” Bones whispers, earning a jab in the side from Kirk as they leave the room.
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Chapters: 5/?
Fandom: Super Dangan Ronpa 2, Dangan Ronpa Series
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Soda Kazuichi/Tanaka Gundham, Soda Kazuichi & Soda Kazuichi's Father, Soda Kazuichi's Father/Soda Kazuichi's Mother
Characters: Soda Kazuichi, Soda Kazuichi's Father, Soda Kazuichi's Mother
Additional Tags: Thriller, Yandere, Kidnapping, Drug Use, Needles, Everyone Needs A Hug, Attempted Murder, Assault, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Delusions, Non-Consensual Drug Use
Series: Part 5 of Tumblr Ask Series
Summary:
This was written over the course of 2 years through private asks on Tumblr between CrazyNekoChan and I
Concept: It's been just Kazuichi and his dad for pretty much Kazuichi's whole life. Turns out, there's a reason for that.
#danganronpa#kazuichi souda#soudam#mrs souda#mr souda#yandere au#yandere Mrs souda#yandere female#tw yandere#tw kidnapping#tw nonconsensual drug use
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You’re so right, friend, it’s been far too long since we’ve recommended this fantastic fic! Thanks for submitting it. - S
We Used To Be Friends by gluupor [Rated M, 104576 words, complete, 2020]
Neil's life is thrown into disarray when his best friend is murdered. As he starts his senior year of high school, he finds himself on the outside looking in, a social pariah whose former friends are only too willing to bully and ostracize him.
Working for his father, a private investigator, leads him to evidence that his friend's murder may not be as straightforward as it seems. Neil throws himself into the investigation, hoping that solving the case might help him regain some of what he lost.
tw: implied/referenced csa, tw: implied/referenced drug addiction, tw: non-consensual drug use, tw: involuntary outing, tw: classism, tw: racism, tw: bullying, tw: violence, tw: homophobia, tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: implied/referenced murder
#rec#reader submission#neil josten/andrew minyard#neil josten & david wymack#au: high school#au: veronica mars#au: detectives#theme: enemies to lovers#theme: demisexuality#theme: mystery#tw: implied/referenced csa#tw: implied/referenced drug addiction#tw: nonconsensual drug use#tw: involuntary outing#tw: classism#tw: racism#tw: bullying#tw: violence#tw: homophobia#tw: implied/referenced child abuse#tw: implied/referenced murder
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Whumptober Day 24
Have a little Steve Whump on me. <3
Teen & Up - Gen - Stranger Things
The Truth Spills Out
The drug that the Russians had pumped Steve full of hadn’t worn off as thoroughly as he’d thought. Throwing up had eased the symptoms somewhat, and the rush of adrenaline had masked them well up to the point that Steve drove himself home. By the time he reached his street, his vision was a little twirly, and Steve didn’t park so much as he ran into his mailbox and stopped in a moment of startling clarity. His car was crooked, half in the driveway and half out, and Steve blew out a breath of relief that he had somehow managed to make it.
Scrubbing his hands over his eyes, Steve tried to banish the blur from his vision before getting out of the car. His feet felt clumsier than usual, and he stumbled, holding onto the sides of the vehicle as he walked around it, wobbling on weak legs as he moved. The adrenaline was gone, the exhaustion was setting in, and Steve felt too dizzy to move away from the car. He was sure he’d fall if he did, though the pavement was looking comfier with each passing second.
“Are you drunk?” His mother's shrill voice had Steve’s head snapping up from its drooped position, and he blinked rapidly at his mother. Everything was still blurry, a little off-kilter, like a double-exposed photo taken at slightly different angles. But he could still make out his mother standing under the house lights, and when he turned his head, he could see his parents’ car in the driveway. “Answer me, Steven! Are you drunk?”
She snapped the words at him, and Steve answered automatically, blinking through the dark at her. “No, m’high.”
“I told you he was doing drugs, Martha!” His father stepped out of the house, but Steve lost sight of him when his stomach suddenly rolled and forced him to hunch over as he threw up all over their driveway. “This is why we had to cut him off, and look at him! He’s still blowing his money on narcotics!”
Steve spat on the ground, grimacing. Bile and water were all he had to come up, but the act of heaving was hell on his sore stomach muscles. “Not doing drugs.” He said, wiping at his mouth with his shirt and wrinkling his nose at the vomit and blood already on it. “‘Cotics neither.”
“Excuse me, young man? Do you expect us to believe that lie when here you are throwing up and telling us you’re high?” His mother came toward him, likely to haul him inside by his ear before he made a bigger spectacle of himself for the neighbors.
Steve dropped the shirt and straightened up, blinking slowly as her face took on a look of shock. “Not lyin’.” He insisted, blinking harder and covering his eyes as his vision spun. He did not want to throw up again. “You don’ un’erstand.”
“Oh, we understand alright, Steven!” His father said as he walked over to them. “Stop lying and tell us what you’ve been doing tonight.”
Steve felt like he couldn’t breathe suddenly. The commanding tone of his father’s voice, the one that demanded obedience, sounded too sharp, and Steve felt like he was back in that blood-splattered room with the Russians.
“Answer me, boy!” His father barked, and Steve couldn’t help but answer as the truth, all of it, spilled out.
“I was being tortured!” Steve shouted, hands falling away from his face. His parents both gasped, but Steve continued through their shock. “I was being tortured by Russian soldiers under the mall! The freaking mall, because of all places, Hawkins is the most messed up place in America!
“It’s got other dimensions and monsters that you couldn’t believe,” Steve said, eyes bright with tears that further blurred his vision, and he lifted his hands to bury them in his hair and pull. ���I mean, you really wouldn’t believe them. They’re faceless and made of shadows and melted flesh, and they can possess people, and that is so, so scary.”
“Steven-”
Steve cut his mother off, rambling right over her. “Do you know how many times I’ve nearly been killed in the last two years?” He asked, eyes manically glancing between the two blurry figures in front of him. Panic, and fear, and anger were all brewing inside of him as he started to list things off, counting on his fingers. “First, Nancy almost shot me. She was stressed, it’s whatever. Then I nearly get sliced in half from that faceless thing that climbed out of the ceiling.
“Then, a year later! Almost to the date! I’m attacked by those demodogs and barely make it back to the bus with the kids. Then Billy shows up while we’re trying to save the world, and he nearly kills me for no good reason! Did you know that I can barely hear in my left ear now because of him? Oh, and then there’s the tunnels of death that we had to hike through and SET. ON. FIRE! With those freaky living vines and the monsters, I still can’t believe I’m still alive!
“Oh, and then this week.” Steve cut himself off as he started laughing hysterically, taking a few unsteady steps in a circle. “I could have died so many times this week. First, when we were on the roof spying on those guys carrying guns around behind the mall, and then when that elevator of death started up, I nearly died from a heart attack. Then there were Russians. RUSSIANS! And they had guns and knives and bone saws and-” Steve sobbed as he wrapped his arms around himself, feeling cold. “And they stuck a needle in my neck- and I couldn’t-” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Then there were more Russians, and that beast made out of people and rats! Then Billy again and- Oh Billy. God, Max is gonna be such a mess over this because he- He didn’t make it.”
Steve sobbed and fell to his knees as his strength and ire left him. “And god, you’d know all of this if you were ever here instead of god knows where, and I can’t- I can’t-”
“Hey, hey, it’s okay, now, sweetie.” Warm arms wrapped around him, and Steve blinked at the sudden appearance of Claudia Henderson next to him.
“Mrs. Henderson?” Steve said numbly, leaning into her embrace. “What’re you… Is Dustin okay?”
“Dustin will be just fine once you join him in the car.” She answered. “Come on, now. Let’s get you up.” She pulled away and helped him up, catching him as he staggered into her side. “It’s alright, sweetie. Just lean on me.”
He nodded his head as he followed her instructions, not fully hearing it as the kind woman said something to his parents and shushed their protests before pulling him along with her.
Dustin was waiting in the car and immediately latched onto Steve’s side as he was helped into the backseat. “I’m sorry. I had to tell her everything, or she wouldn’t come.” He mumbled into Steve’s shoulder.
“She knows?” Steve asked dumbly after a moment of processing the words.
“I know, sweetie. You kept my Dusty safe, and now we’ll take care of you for a change, okay?” Mrs. Henderson said, staring at them from the front seat with a soft look.
Hot tears filled Steve’s aching eyes, and he hugged Dustin back hard as he nodded, letting them spill over with a sob as the night caught up to him at last.
#whumptober2023#no.24#i've got a head full of chemicals mouth full of ridicule#neglect#stranger things#fic#mentions of blood tw#nonconsensual drug use tw#drugs tw#mentions of death tw#read on ao3#fanfiction#ao3#ao3 fanfiction#ao3 link#fanfic#ao3 fanfic#steve stranger things#steve harrington#stranger things steve
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" parker? can you hear me? are you all right? " :3c
I can hear you. Something’s wrong.
She tries to make the words appear, but they’re lost somewhere between her head and her tongue. Parker stumbles forward, catches herself against the desk for a moment, and falls to her knees. Fear pulls at her chest. Her body is her weapon, her getaway ticket; her confidence in her physicality has been her survival.
All that confidence is gone now. What was it? The drink at the party? Something she touched in the safe? She makes a wordless noise of panic as something thumps against the locked door. Please be Eliot.
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tw - dub/con, afab!reader, cockwarming, medical malpractice, nonconsensual drug use, manipulation, unbalanced power dynamics, and obsessive behavior.
[commissioned piece. donate to palestinians in gaza here.]
“It really is a shame to lose such a lovely patient.
His hand drifted from your thigh to your hip, rocking you back as you tried to squirm away from him. He was too deep, too big, and you’d been sitting on his cock for too long. Whenever you tried to shift your weight, though, the arm wrapped around your waist would tighten its hold and drag you back into place, leaving your ass slotted against his hips and your cunt struggling to clench around his base. You didn’t know how long he’d kept you like this, but it must’ve been longer than an hour, if not two, three, four. Despite your foggy senses, you could feel slick dripping down your thighs, an empty void in the pit of your stomach where pleasure should’ve been. You could remember hearing that Harper was a good doctor, but that couldn’t be right. Doctors weren’t supposed to make you feel so bad.
“I mean, I know it should be a doctor’s goal to see their patients off as happy and as healthy as can be, but—” He paused, sighed, and you could picture him rolling his eyes, feigning wistfulness as he let out an airy chuckle. “Good, obedient patients can be so rare, especially in a town like this. I’m allowed to mourn the loss of my best charge yet, aren’t I?”
You felt him twitch inside of you, and in search of a distraction, your gaze fell to the collection of papers fanned out over the desk in front of you. You knew you were supposed to be reading them, but the text seemed so impossibly small, and your last round of medication was still clouding your senses, making it hard to focus on much of anything beyond the throbbing in your core, the feeling of his cock stretching you open despite your body’s best attempts to force him out. You could recognize the phrases, signal out words like ‘unfit’ and ‘dependent’ mixed in with the rest of the benign text, but when you tried to put it all together, none of it made sense. It was all you could do to check the boxes Harper pointed to, sign your name on any dotted lines that hadn’t already been filled by his. You could only hope that, when you finished, he’d let you stand up, get off of him, go back to your cozy room with its nice, soft padded walls. You couldn’t imagine having to sleep in his office, again.
“And you’ve been so cooperative, too,” he went on, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder. You felt his lips against the shell of your ear, then your cheek. “Always taking your medication, always following your treatment plans, always coming to our little sessions with an open-mind – the pinnacle of an ideal patient. Honestly, sometimes I think I could tell you to stick your hand in a vat of boiling water, and you’d do it with a smile on your face. All for the sake of your recovery, of course.”
It was him moving, this time – shifting forward until your stomach was pressed against the blunt edge of his desk and he was all-but draped over you, his body pressed flush against yours. You let out a pitchy whine by way of protest, but Harper didn’t seem to notice, only humming as his hand found yours. “Almost done, little mouse. Just one more page.” He was practically cooing as he took you by the wrist, guiding your hand to the bottom of the final page. Two thick, cutting lines occupied most of the available space, his neat signature taking up the first. He brought you to the second, almost daunting in its vacancy, his index finger tapping against the back of your hand. “You remember your name, right? Can you write it for me?”
It was so hard to think, to stay awake, to try and remember a time where he hadn’t been planted so deeply inside of you. “If…” you started, only to trail off. You blinked once, then twice, and did your best to force your tongue to move. “If I do, can I go home?”
Usually, Harper hated it when you talked about the orphanage, about school, about home. You hadn’t meant to, you just wanted to go back to your room, and you moved to correct yourself, to promise that you didn’t want to be anywhere but this hospital, his hospital before he frowned and prescribed you another electrotherapy session, another dose of the small, white pills that left your thoughts blurred and your body hot. But, anything you might’ve been able to spit out died with a breathy laugh, a peck to the corner of your jaw. “Of course,” he purred, rocking his hips gently against yours. “Sign, and I’ll take you home tonight.”
For the first time in weeks, you felt yourself start to smile. Hastily, smudging the ink more than once, you scrawled your name across the brutal line, dropping the pen and going slack against Harper as soon as you were finished. There was another open-mouthed kiss to your throat, then the dip of your shoulder, and he dragged you back onto his lap with a playful squeeze to your thigh, a grin pressed into the crook of your neck. You squirmed unabashedly, now, your hands graspingly weakly at the arms of his chair in hopes of pulling yourself to your feet, but Harper held you tight. “Where do you think you’re going, little mouse?”
“I need to— You said I could go—”
“Just give me another minute, darling.”
His cock pulsed against the walls of your cunt, and you felt something break open inside of you.
“I want to appreciate this moment before we get you to proper, brand-new home.”
#yandere#yandere x reader#yandere x you#yandere imagines#degrees of lewdity#dol#harper the doctor#dol harper#harper x reader#yandere harper#dol harper x reader#yandere drabble#yandere degrees of lewdity#degrees of lewdity imagines#yandere dol#dol imagines
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Chapter 1: pages 41-44📲
gaara’s HANDS
#naruto#tw kidnapping#tw nonconsensual drug use#gaalee#rock lee#gaara#gaara of the desert#fanart#naruto fanart#manga#kisame hoshigaki#kisame#itachi uchiha#kakuzu#hidan#akatsuki#hope you like it💋
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Normally moon can stay up til like 1 to 2 am even on a non work day, so he definitely was confused when he started being barely able to sit up at only 11. Moon always has a little snack at around ten thirty and Infected sun takes the chance to spike whatever drink he has at that time, leading to him passing out well before twelve most nights.
#fnaf moon#daycare attendant#moondrop#fnaf sun#sundrop#sunrise#fnaf security breach au#role reversal au#human au#tw nonconsensual drug use
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Flowers
Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x female!reader
Summary: You're living a perfectly content life on Geidi Prime with your husband. It's a shame your mind can't rest, sparked by glimpses of a life unknown. Loosely based on the song from Hadestown.
Word Count: 1.5k
TW: Dark!Feyd-Rautha, Dead Dove Do Not Eat, yandere!Feyd-Rautha, manipulation, gaslighting, like SO much gaslighting holy shit, descriptions of violence, abusive relationship, emotional abuse, isolation, tragedy, nonconsensual drug use, nonconsensual medical treatement, induced memory loss, amnesia, dubious consent, pregnancy, songfic, happy-but-not-really-happy ending, I know I said female!reader but there's virtually no pronoun usage or descriptive words in thisfor the reader besides titles so maybe GN!reader??
A/N: I'm blown away, almost 500 notes on His Kiss, the Riot? Holy shit, all of the thanks! Here it is, the final part! I'm ending it with the song that actually started this whole idea. Listening to Eva's interpretation of Eurydice singing Flowers gave me the most delicious, fucked-up bit of inspiration and this came out. I was clutching my own metaphorical pearls writing this cause damn, this gets dark. Like, way more than I thought I could write. Anyways, I hope you enjoy the end of this twisted tale. Thank you for reading! As always, I appreciate you taking the time to like, comment, and reblog.
Read Part One and Part Two
AO3
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Dune properties, characters, or storylines-- nor do I own anything related to Hadestown. The images used in this are not my own, and any similarities to stories or events other than what are directly referenced are strictly coincidence.
Lily white and poppy red
I trembled when he laid me out
“You won’t feel a thing,” he said, “when you go down”
Nothing gonna wake you now
Drops of blood.
A wicked, black smile.
“You won’t feel a thing.”
You wake up with a gasp. Your doctor had warned you about dreams like this. They weren’t real, just an aftereffect of your accident.
The medical staff for House Harkonnen had been gracious enough to inform you of your predicament. When your family had recently hosted the Harkonnens, you quickly met and fell deeply in love with the na-Baron Feyd-Rautha. Your love for each other was so intense that you had demanded to get married right away. Your father disapproved of the union, so he disowned you and banished you, demanding to never see you again.
On the journey back to Geidi Prime, a stray asteroid hit the ship and caused you to hit your head. Feyd had apparently worried for your life, which saddened you and warmed your heart. It was nice to know that someone truly cared for you. However, your mind wasn’t quite the same afterwards. Your life before Geidi Prime was completely unknown to you. Your memories were in a fragile state.
That was just a few months earlier. Unfortunately, your mind has not yet recovered your memories prior to the accident. You were diligently taking a specially brewed tea that would calm your mind so it wouldn’t fracture under the immense pressure to try and fix itself. When you asked how long it would take for you to recover, your heart cracked when they said that it may take the rest of your natural life.
While it broke your heart to hear of your father’s dismissal of your feelings, you believed that you were strong enough to carry on. Having no further ties to your home world made it better to settle in with your new family.
You are a Harkonnen now.
Now, your footsteps make the quietest of echoes as you traipse down the narrow corridor. Heads of nearby servants and slaves bow, and eyes snap to the floor as you pass by. You feel the barest of sympathies, for not being allowed the simplest of human connection with their na-Baronness. But it was paradise considering the consequences should anyone ever feel bold enough to try otherwise.
Your husband wouldn’t allow that.
Dreams are sweet, until they’re not
Men are kind, until they aren’t
Flowers bloom, until they rot and fall apart
“Can I not have a single friend on this planet?!”
You burst into your shared chambers, rage rushing through your veins. All you had wanted was to have lunch and tea with one of the few female palace advisors you had taken a liking to. Maybe share a laugh or a story. Make a connection outside of your new family. That was all ruined when Feyd barged in and gutted your companion, stomach-to-throat, while she sat in her chair.
You were sure that your shoes had trailed blood down the hallway, but your mind was focused elsewhere at the moment.
“What use would you have for friends? I am right here.” He closed in on you, grasping your arms and forcing you to look in his direction. “Am I not enough for you? Do I not give you everything you should ever desire?”
His hands tighten around your wrists, making you flinch. A stray tear falls from your eyes, guilt starts to overcome your anger.
“No, not at all, husband! You have given me everything I could have wished for and more,” You wrench your hands out of his grip and grasp his face. He showered you with gifts, never let you go hungry or thirsty and this is how you repay him? “I just… I didn’t think you would want to hear me talk about certain things. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful.”
“I know you don’t, my darling.”
You take a deep breath as you feel the tension in the room start to settle.
“Your mind is already fragile from the accident… I just want to keep you safe.”
Safe. That was the key here. He takes step back and retrieves a small dagger from his belt.
Feyd holds it up, showing you the weapon. “Did you know that your friend had a blade dipped in poison strapped onto her person?”
You can feel the blood rushing from your face. No. You didn’t know.
“I-I didn’t see a knife on her. She couldn’t have-“
“She did.”
He drops the blade and leans in closer to you, forehead aligning with yours. “There are people out there who seek to harm you, who seek to harm me through you. I can never let that happen.”
You nod furiously. You couldn’t believe that you had been so stupid.
Trust is unbelievably hard to come by in the Galactic Imperium. Your few months’ worth of memories can even attest to that. It seems that the only people you can truly rely on is family.
“I only want what’s best for you.”
You understand now.
Is anybody listening?
I open my mouth and nothing comes out
Another argument discussion had emerged from your telling of your latest dream. Your husband was convinced that you were entirely too exhausted to put any stock into what your subconscious was telling you, but you thought otherwise.
Fingers run through a patch of bright pinks, yellows, and blues—
“I swear to you, it felt so real! It was almost like a memory, like something I-,” A firm hand is placed on your shoulder as you give a slight stumble. Feyd puts a hand on your back, leading you to the edge of your bed, setting you on the bench that was placed against the footboard.
“Please, have some of your morning tea, my darling. You look a bit peaked.” You accepted the cup he gave you, settling down and taking a few sips of the warm, spiced drink. Your mind instantly calms, anxieties evaporating from your body like puffs of smoke. Never mind the memories that you had just… Floating.
Your husband is now on one knee in front of you, arms encasing your body, as his hands cup your face. He brings your eyes to meet his, seemingly searching. For what? You do not know.
“What were you saying about this dream of yours?” A pause reverberates throughout the room as your head tilts in confusion.
“My…?” You stutter, mouth opening to complete a thought that was no longer entirely there. “I can’t quite remember. What were we talking about?”
Your husband gives a smirk, analyzing your face once more before placing his hand on the dark fabric covering your swollen belly.
“Nothing of import. It seems that my heir is set on scrambling your thoughts.”
There seemed to be nothing in this world that brought more joy to Feyd-Rautha’s face than the sight of you and his unborn child. He’s more protective of you now than ever, having guards always posted near you, having you wear a shield during all public appearances. Not to mention, he was damn near insatiable in private. His hands and mouth are practically dragged away from you and your growing stomach every morning.
You give a chuckle. “I’d heard about pregnancy brain before, but never knew it to be this taxing! Perhaps I’ll take a walk later if I’m feeling up to it.”
Feyd gives your cheek a soft pat before rising to his feet, “Rest, my darling. I shall check in on the both of you later.” His hand rests next to yours, giving your belly a quick rub before he walks towards the door.
Your head goes to set on your pillow, the warmth from the tea running through your body. You must be really tired, since you fall asleep so quickly.
Quick enough to not hear the deadbolt lock clicking from the outside once the door is closed.
Flowers, I remember field of flowers
Soft beneath my heels
Walking in the sun, I remember someone
Someone by my side, turned his face to mine
The dreams start to encroach your mind while you are awake. You continue to follow your doctor’s instructions: take your daily tea, rest often, don’t overexert your body or your mind. But, ever persistent, they push through, finding parallels with your daily life to latch onto.
A hand, gently enlaced with yours, guides you through a meadow—
You husband’s hands lead you to stand with him by his uncle’s side, preparing for another ceremony.
A laugh, familiar and warm—
A chilling cackle of laughter reaches you in your viewing box, watching your husband gleefully slay another adversary in the arena.
Bright, yellow sunlight caressing your face and neck—
The black sun of Geidi Prime pulses in your periphery as you wave to a crowd below, your husband standing stoically next to you.
A kiss, given freely—
Feyd ravishes you in your chambers, lips melding together with yours.
My darling—
My love—
My darling—
My darling—
My darling—
My darling—
My darling—
“Is everything alright, my darling?”
You blink, snapping back to the present. Pale, smooth skin and blue eyes, your husband extends his hand towards you. Safe. He gives you everything. You and your child will never struggle or suffer with him. You are safe with him. Aren’t you?
Blood splatters over a patch of bright pinks, yellows, and blues—
You give a bright smile.
If you ever walk this way
Come and find me lying in the bed I made
#dune#dune 2#dune part 2#dune part two#feyd rautha#feyd rautha x reader#feyd x reader#feyd rautha harkonnen#feyd rautha fanfic#feyd rautha fic#dune fanfiction#dune fic#feyd rautha harkonnen x reader#feyd x you#feyd rautha x oc#austin butler#austin butler fanfiction#inspired by hadestown#hadestown au#dune movie#dune 2024#dune part II#orpheus and eurydice#hades and persephone#feyd rautha fanfiction#jada writes sometimes#dead dove do not eat
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SCENARIO : BEING STOLEN FROM A NEWFOUND FAMILY FROM YOUR PAST CRIMINAL “FATHERS” DOESN’T FEEL GOOD AT ALL.
───── ⋆⋅ ☆ ⋅⋆ ─────
DARK FIC : ANGST FIC : 1,058 WORDS
TWS : HEAVY YANDERE THEMES, MURDER, BLOOD, GORE, KIDNAPPING, CONSENSUAL AND NONCONSENSUAL DRUGGING, THREATS, MENTIONS OF FRAMED TERRORISM, FYOLAI BEING MANIPULATIVE AND DELUSIONAL LITTLE BITCHES /affectionately, READER KIND OF SPIRALS HALFWAY IN
LISTEN TO : I LOVE YOU HOE (w/ 9lives) - Odetari :||: THE FOX’S WEDDING - MASA WORKS DESIGN
You should’ve known that you never really could escape them, no matter how hard you tried. You wanted to scream, shout, sob, beg, whine, yell, anything at all, but the gag in your mouth prevented any sound whatsoever.
Not like if it wasn’t there it’d change anything. The basement is still sound-proof either way. You just wish Fyodor put a second thought in cleaning it up, because it smelled horrid in there.
Probably because of the pile of rotting body parts in the corner, or the bloody, moss-covered walls.
…he probably did this on purpose, actually. It’s only a part of your punishment, for leaving your loving fathers, is what he might say.
The gag was leaving a literal bad taste on your tongue, and if you could see the chains on your wrists, you’d bet they were already bruising and scarring. It was too dark for that though.
That was all in the start, however. It’s been nearly months since you’ve been ‘saved’ and ‘returned,’ in Nikolai’s terms. Everything had only been horrible, up until you were finally trusted enough to be let out of the basement. You would never say this, but it is partially thanks to Nikolai’s delusion and nagging of Fyodor that sped up that process.
…you missed the Agency. A lot, actually.
You missed Atsushi, and how he’d comfort you and you two just went out for chazuke on breaks.
You missed Yosano, and her headpats with the occasional need for healing. Despite her (kind of hidden) sadism, you never really were awake to feel her abilities… pre-measures.
You missed Dazai’s stupid antics, and the way he’d somehow drag you into them one way or another, but always made sure you never really got in trouble.
You missed Ranpo just rambling or being sleepy with you, occasionally sharing sweets and always calling for you to join him on cases whenever he could.
You missed Kunikida scolding you for joining Dazai’s shenanigans, but always doting over you like a real dad.
You missed listening to Kenji ramble about cows and farm animals.
You missed going out with Kyouka and eating crepes with her.
You missed just chatting with Fukuzawa, and even the cats at the shelter you two would visit.
You never voiced these though, because lord forbid you speak of anything or anyone on the outside while within the confines of Fyodor’s new base… you didn’t want to see that basement ever again, either.
“Oh [Y/N]! We’re baaaaaack!~” A (unfortunately and overly) familiar voice called out happily, before you were immediately tackled into a hug by none other than Nikolai. “Didya’ miss us?” He’d ask, and you already knew exactly what to say.
“Of course I did. I always miss you, Dad.” You smiled, hugging him back tightly. You knew how this went, and you knew that this would slowly but surely coax him into letting you out of the base… and after a few outings sticking by his side, surely you’d be freed.
Surely. Surely you kept telling yourself. Optimism and hope slowly blending into desperation and longing inside your mind. Surely you’ll find a way to run away. Patience is a virtue. Patient, patient, patient and good little [Y/N] before you leave them again.
“Waaha, how cute!” He’d exclaim soon after, hugging you even tighter before picking you up and spinning around, and you had to force out a fake chuckle and expression of joy. He only put you down (but still held you,) when Fyodor entered the room, brushing off his coat. It was then when you noted that they both had small splashes of blood splattered across certain spots, but you didn’t say anything on it. You knew how that went…
───── ⋆⋅ ?! ⋅⋆ ─────
"You can't- you can't keep doing this if you want me to stay!" You shouted at the two, blood-soaked males who in return just stared back at you.
"Are you saying you don't want to stay, my dear?"
"N-no, I just...-"
"Are you saying you'd leave us if we didn't stop?"
"That's not what I was saying! Don't put words into my mouth! I- ?!" You were cut off by a sudden cold knife to the throat, held by a gloved hand appearing out of a yellow portal.
"Watch your words wisely," Fyodor warned, "We are your fathers afterall."
'Never,' You wanted to shout, 'Never in a million years will you two ever be anything more than monsters to me.'
But even a fool knows when to bite their tongue.
───── ⋆⋅ ?! ⋅⋆ ─────
“Hey, Father?” You turned to Fyodor whilst still hugging Nikolai.
“Hm? What is it, doll?” He responded, taking off his cape and hanging it on a rack near the door before looking back at you.
You hated that nickname. “Doll.” Like you were some sort of item to show and control.
'Not for long,�� You’d think, ‘Not for very long at all.’ Though you were about to ask a risky question… you’d just hold on tight to Nikolai and hope for the best.
“...what happened to my kidnappers?” You hated referring to the Agency like that.
“Oh.. Well, not much. Merely a bit of… framing.” He said darkly, and eerie and small grin crossing his face.
"They won’t ever take your freedom away again, and you’ll never ever have to leave us again, isn’t that right dove?” Nikolai smiled evilly whale hugging you even tighter to the point that it hurt, and you had to muster up the ‘happiest’ smile you could.
"Yes, thank you Dad, and Father.” You said softly, looking at the two ‘gratefully.’
...You were going to get out of this hell hole, and you were going to save the Agency, one way or another.
───── ⋆⋅ ☆ ⋅⋆ ─────
'This might be a bit of a stretch,’ You thought to yourself as you stared down at the large drop ahead of you. Its been a long while, and you’ve finally been allowed to go outside with them… however, you’ve taken precautions. You know exactly what to do.
You’re on top of a large building with a barrier, and you’ve marked it just enough so that you’re only barely out of reach of Nikolai’s ability. It’s also only a matter of time before they find you…
…It’s a long way down. Do you want to jump?
— TAG : @kolyakisses
#{ uhhh writes !! }#{ uhhh luvs fyolai !! }#me after i make the last line a literal#omori reference#bungou stray dogs#bsd#bsd x reader#platonic bsd x reader#yandere x reader#platonic yandere#platonic yandere x reader#yandere fyodor x reader#fyodor dostoevsky bsd#platonic fyodor x reader#yandere hcs#yandere imagines#platonic x reader#x reader#yandere nikolai x reader#nikolai gogol bsd#platonic nikolai x reader#yandere fyolai x reader#platonic fyolai x reader#fyolai#bsd fyolai
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