known by:Stray, Daughter of Anubis. IMy ask box is always open. I am: 34, female, kinky, but have hard limits on underage (dni). Almost everything else I'd love to discuss! I can be as cruel as I am kind and loving and I protect my...
Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham fic
TW for eating disorders, noncon/rape, Daddy kink, Stockholm Syndrome, death, abuse, drug use, murder, cannibalism, csa/grooming mention
Read after the cut
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You watch as Hannibal prepares his kill for the Lover to find, opening it cleanly from stomach to throat, pinning back four corners of the cooling skin to put the organs on display. They smoke in the dingy space, giving off a stench a shit and meat so powerful that you keel to one side to vomit weakly on the floorboards.
Hannibal comes away from his work to mop up the mess until no trace of it is left, then cleans your face as well. He finds a hessian sack and folds it to cushion your head, then sources a bit of water to pour into your mouth, washing the bile out.
Still he keeps you turned to Tara-Lynn, commanding in this gentle way for you to watch him with her, to continue to engage in what you have both done. It is a devastation akin to the quakes that once parted continents, of a mountain erupting under the sea.
You could have forced Hannibal to be sole enactor of this vicious attack, but you had spoken, wanting the young woman dead. It had given you pleasure to do so, a cold and righteous satisfaction that only now, sitting with the dead, recedes into disgust at what you've done.
You cannot account for the fact that you are in love with the same elegant wretch that poses the corpse like a painter's model.
Love, or fear—how close those instincts run, flank to flank, breeding together. You have lost the opportunity to run, now, and both of you know it; even when you are older and stealthy enough to skulk out from under Hannibal’s impossible eye you'll never dare speak against him, will always owe to him the freedom that he will inevitably claim from you again.
As he peers into the cave of the dead woman's chest you see how handsome he is in this devilish craft, how it suits him to be so deadly.
Noticing the pressure of your gaze Hannibal turns to you, peeling his gloves down over his fingers with a hearty snap.
“I will do no more,” he says. “The Lover will only desecrate my work, after all.”
He has wrapped some of Tara-Lynne’s innards in plastic, you notice, as he begins the detailed system of cleaning the shed of his presence. He cannot help but have his trophy, placing it in a protective box to retain its freshness as he finishes up at this site of death.
You observe in a respectful silence, though perhaps you could not speak even if you found yourself compelled to comment. Through the drug in your blood you go in and out of different states of perception, the moving picture in which you're cast bearing all the colours of an erotic Italian film, or amaryllis, crimson and green.
You're not quite conscious as Hannibal gets you into the car and drives you home, nor when he gives you a bed bath, your head leant back over the side of the mattress as he washes your hair over a bowl of water. The product he runs through it smells of tangerines, the towel he dabs you dry with of a luxury hotel, all heady perfume.
He dresses you in violet cotton pyjamas with frilled hems like woven vines and puts you to bed, a book playing in audio format: a reading of a Donna Tartt novel in the author’s own voice. Her soft, pretty accent talking through the tale makes you think of Léon Frossard and his Southern rides with Liliane; they'd gone to Jackson, Mississippi one year. Léon had talked about Elvis, who’d been born there. Liliane had listened and imagined little lonely Priscilla in Graceland over the state line. How she'd never felt at home.
You have half dreams of dead girls, one of them bound in rope, her throat grinning into a knife. Then you dream of Anna-May waking up in her bed with a sharp, violent breath, looking into your eyes across the room in terror and relief.
When your high finds its temporary end you roll over in bed to see Hannibal switching off the audiobook, which he has allowed to run for hours so that you will not stir to silence.
Hannibal looks as he frequently does in the morning, which is to say too perfect for any mortal life: his hair fashionably tousled to mimic having come from his pillow, a sterile shirt poking cheekily up from under his dressing gown.
He has the colour of health in his high cheeks, energised by having ended an enemy of one he loves.
You probe at yourself inwardly for your own feelings, anticipating a hurtling onslaught of hysterics, guilt so severe as to send you off to a self-induced death.
As of yet these emotions do not present themselves. Indeed there is nothing but acceptance of what you'd both done in the night, that a living soul is freed from her tormentor and a black one delivered justly under the earth.
"Why did you make me watch when you killed her?" you ask as Hannibal sets a tray of English tea and crumpets at your bedside.
"You chose to look," he says evenly. "Had you closed your eyes there would have been little I could have done to prevent you, save severing the lids. I’m not given to such gruesome mutilation, at least not upon those I dearly care for."
Hannibal bends lightly at the waist to blow on your tea, his breath rippling the surface. Even this, you think, will bear something of him, then, a fragment of his DNA in a particle of stray saliva. Another subtle rape.
"You told Will you thought he was right," you say. "That you should protect me rather than involve me, like Abigail. But you weren't telling the truth."
"I agreed with him, then," says Hannibal. "But you asked for my help in advancing change, and so my opinion altered. It was necessary for you to witness death before you committed a murder with your own hands. I wished for you to understand that it is a process like any other—in removing the mystique I hope, in time, your fear and revulsion of it will lessen, as well."
You pick up one of the crumpets, dropping it hastily back in aversion to its many holes. They are too much like wounds in white skin, not all of them of natural formation.
Hannibal smirks and hands the crumpet back to you, holding onto its edge until you've taken a bite.
"I don’t expect you to make peace with death with any immediacy," he says. "But the lesson will find you, nevertheless."
You chew the piece of crumpet thirty times before you let it pass your gullet, soft as hash.
"Are we going to eat Tara-Lynne?" you ask once it's gone down.
"Yes," says Hannibal firmly. "Later. At our evening meal, with Will. Do you intend to stage a scene of protest?"
How he would like that, you think, an opportunity to pin you between his thighs like a shrieking piglet to be given his meat.
"No," you say. “I’ll eat it.”
The marks of age on either end of Hannibal's mouth press deeper in.
"I would not be so sure of that."
"I know you'll feed her to me no matter what," you say. "So I want to know when. To participate rather than be taken advantage of."
The tea cup, though cooled by Hannibal's breath, still stings your hand with its heat as you pick it up to drink. You hold the pain in your palm like a field mouse, a delicate thing brought in from the wild. It helps the inner ache.
"So you have indeed taken in what I’ve taught you," says Hannibal with satisfaction.
"Some people deserve to die," you say. "Yes. I see it now."
"You don't regret it, then."
You look into the tea as though into a cauldron's brew, a spell in it somewhere.
"No."
Then, with a little start of fear, you say, "Do you still love me, Hannibal? I'm not an innocent little girl anymore. I'm almost a killer."
Were you not holding a hot drink in your hand Hannibal would have made love to you, so overcome is he by his instinct to console you.
"Your innocence was never your prize," he says, touching his knuckles to your brow. "Your inquisitive nature and ability to develop, however, I greatly cherish, and Will does, as well."
*
The younger of your father-jailers does not come in until dinner approaches, stealing quietly through the enormous house to where you await him at the dining table, head back against your chair, spinning in another eddy of narcotic wonder. There had been a crumbled pill in the tea, perhaps, or the butter on the crumpets, cooked into the oil.
Hannibal had not trusted your mild mood to last, or had simply wanted to manufacture another.
Will sees it in you at once: the open pupils of the eyes, the jaw hanging softly open, tongue toying along the ends of your teeth.
"Ah," he says with a neutral interest. "So it's going to be that kind of evening. What are we celebrating?"
You look at Will with one eye shut, trying to keep the moving pieces of your vision together. His hair is so wet from having been soaked with snow that it is as black as panther hair; you'd run your fingers through it if you were able to stand and go to him.
"I killed Tara-Lynne," you say in a babyish sing-song. "Or at least I told Hannibal to. So he did. He's cooking her kidneys for dinner. Rognoncini Trifolati, he called it."
You drag out the syllables of the Italian words, enjoying the dancer’s rhythm of them.
"Garlic, white wine,” you say. “That’s what he’s cooking her with. We're all going to eat her together.”
Will’s head twitches aside, and though his expression scarcely changes it appears entirely different—not one of judgement, nor of disappointment, which you had feared from him.
“I don’t remember Hannibal mentioning any of this,” says Will. “Seems like I’m always missing out on the big milestones. How are you feeling about it?”
You screw your face up, noncommittal.
“I’m glad Tara-Lynne’s dead.”
“But not necessarily glad you had to do it.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Okay. That’s reasonable.”
Will circles around your chair and leans back against the table so that you’re face to face, his motion leaving trails of shapes and sparkling colour in the air. You run a hand through it, spelling his name.
“I should have been there with you,” says Will.
“No, you shouldn’t,” you say. “You’re basically a cop. You shouldn’t be doing things like that.”
“I shouldn’t have done what I did to you,” says Will. “But I did. So I’m sorry that I wasn’t there this time. That I have to be away from you both.”
He touches your hand, and you play with his fingers, as content as a child.
“You really do love me, don’t you?” you ask. “I really thought you wouldn’t anymore, afterwards. I think if Hannibal hadn’t given me his special tea I would have been awake all night long worrying about it. I’m supposed to be your innocent baby girl.”
Will’s hand shuts like a book over yours, trapping it in his.
“You’re not supposed to be anything but you.”
“And what am I, Daddy?”
“A person who made the right decision,” Will says. “Hannibal told me what Tara-Lynne did. I know that’s why you made that call. You cared about Anna-May; you asked about her. You were relieved when you heard that she was safe. You did this to set her free.”
“But,” you say, looking into the fairy-like loveliness of Will’s beastly face, the close cup of stubble, the ungiven kiss on his lips. “But I—”
“Liked it?”
Will’s mouth, still holding your kiss, seems to tilt; perhaps it even does, that slight smugness that is always in him somewhere. Thinking himself elevated from all others in the world, even you, the girl that destiny has deigned his secondary mate.
“I knew that you’d enjoy it,” he says. “Your moral thinking is too strict to allow anything but gratification on seeing something evil taken from the world. Taking it yourself.”
You push Will away slightly, all-too aware, suddenly, of the slight overbite of his white teeth, the canines overlarge, the lower row mildly crooked, and still quite perfect.
He is too beautiful to be real. To be good.
He draws you back into him firmly, wickedly.
“Well?” he says. “Am I right?”
You feel a random lurch of disgust with him, this pitiful being that had once anguished at the thought of becoming a being of evil. How he relishes it now, having learned through his two lovers that he is seen for what he is.
“Hannibal cut her throat, not me,” you say, as curtly as you can through the slur of drugs. “I just sat there like a peeper or something. I’m always on the outside. Behind the glass. No matter how much I’ve wanted to prove myself to you both I couldn’t do it.”
“You have,” says Will. “Without a doubt.”
You snort.
“I think I’m going to start feeling bad about all this, pretty soon. Once dear old Dad lets me feel things for myself. He knows I’ll crash. That he’ll have to pick me up and make me feel all better again.”
Will looks briefly in the kitchen’s direction, drawn desperately to it in want of his other half.
“Did Hannibal take you to bed with him afterwards?” he asks.
As if by psychic projection you see where his thoughts go: Hannibal putting you on your back in a bed of blood, a fucking like a musical bridge, taking you both to a new and erotic low.
“He carried me up to my room, sure,” you say innocently. “I slept all night long.”
Will shoots you a hard look.
“You know what I want to know.”
Sighing, you say, “No. He waited for you.”
You’re certain Will’s face registers relief before Hannibal’s opportune entry through the kitchen door.
“Ah,” he says, pulling his stained apron up over his head and folding it into a flawless square. “Will. I thought I heard you come in. I assume our daughter has given you her good news.”
Will turns—not hurriedly, for all he craves the sight of Hannibal ahead of him, the smell of his imported cologne and hair products under the rich aroma of meat to be served.
“I’d like to come along on the next outing,” says Will. “But I suppose it’s enough to be here when Tara-Lynne joins us at the table.”
Dinner is brought out shortly after, first appetisers which you pick at lazily, distracted by a fresh fall of snow beyond the house, each flake like a fine structure of glass. Then the kidneys come, diced into many slim ovular pieces in a golden wave of garlic, and you are forced to mentally connect the torn open carcass of Tara-Lynne with this exquisite meat.
Your belly hums with pleasure even before you’re bidden to taste it, sold on its visual and olfactory merit. Perhaps this is some trick, you reason, another meat given to this meal instead of the dead woman. But as Hannibal sits at your side, and Will at the other, the expectant tension of the table could only be that which would exist between cannibals across a recent catch.
“Do you need assistance to eat tonight?” asks Hannibal, one hand already turning to your fork.
You pick it up yourself instead, thinking that having only achieved a partial success in the career of killing you’d better put yourself forward in another way. Yet underneath that confident act is a self that quivers and cries at having been so commanded, that is appalled that the same man that would feed you by hand has slashed open a woman your age and snipped out her organs for his kitchen.
You are another victim, for all you’ve perpetrated the unforgivable. A walking member of his many dead.
“It smells good,” you say.
Hannibal smiles, the indulgent one he reserves only for your successes.
“Yes,” he says. “She certainly does.”
Still he does not pick from his own plate, nor does Will, each of them immersed in concentration, caught between expecting you to scream out or begin to cry, or both in infantile turns. Out of self-preservation and a want to please them you put fork to tongue and take the disk of meat.
The quality of it cannot be denied. Shutting out the commands of your anorexic inner officer and your natural horror of such a feast you make a noise of approval and reach down again to your plate.
“No pointers for the chef?” asks Will teasingly as he and Hannibal follow suit.
“None,” you say. “It’s delicious. She is.”
“The way she never was in life,” Hannibal comments. “Previously she had such a bitter taste. Now I find her to be far more tolerable. Don’t you agree, Will?”
There is a level of performance to this meal from all of you, an exaggeration of the process of consumption and its enjoyment, a scripted air to each aside and appearingly passing remark. Will and Hannibal know you do not want to conclude the meal, know it as certainly as you had not wished for it to begin. But you eat to the bottom of your plate, sipping water to discourage the strained, sick feeling of having a full stomach already
.
Anna-May would like you far less than even Tara-Lynne were she to see you like this, licking your cutlery of her human flavour. Yet she would not wish to have her sister back with her, would learn to find relief in her having gone away from the world in such a fashion.
Engorged from the multiple dishes, particularly the last, you kick your chair back from the table with your healthy foot, watching with eyes semi closed as the men take away the plates and come back with a triplet set of wine flutes.
These you touch together with chiming clinks—Hannibal makes some silly joke about the murder, which you do not quite take in, and Will watches you both with a hint in the pressure of his stare.
Promptly it is understood by Hannibal, and the glasses are put aside in favour of a better vintage, one young and fresh. Home brewed.
Hannibal sweeps you up by your waist and props you like a mascot upon his table, your legs—one in sheer burgundy nylon, the other in its pitiful cast—dangling freely into the air beneath, the toes of your functional limb brushing Will's trouser leg as he slips from his place to be among you.
Reality shifts like a cryptic animal, the colours and woven patterns in the men's suit jackets altering in auto-mimicry of the mood for sex. What was sage deepens to emerald, what was brown then into gold.
From head to chest you feel the bleed of chemical annihilation, the killing off of your previous self, regenerating into a genetic blend of your two fathers, truly theirs at last. First it is known to you by the griping of fear, that of kicking off from a rock down through water whose depth the light cannot touch, some shape—gargantuan, arcane—opening a sleeper's eyes to greet your diving mass.
Then, as Hannibal and Will turn your face back and forth between you to kiss your lips there is a sexual vibration, a desire for them to pass you by and join with one another instead. They are like secret lovers kissing through a gate, or twins through a sheet, the object—you—that restrains them from their transgression so slight as not to matter at all. Their hands unbuttoning the silk dress and unclipping the Italian lingerie interlink so many times that they are undeniably holding one another, Will's palm on the back of Hannibal's fist as he peels your stocking back from your knee, Hannibal's fingers singing like many needles through Will's as he undoes the catches of jewellery Hannibal had put on earlier in the day.
You hear the pearls slip down the second satin of your body, feel them used like an erotic toy upon you, pulled through the lips of your cunt and the part of your buttocks, drawn back and forth as you roll helplessly upon its strand.
Hannibal's fingertips unseal your labial mouth, and Will's traipse the form of your waist as though inducing a crystal glass to sing. There is a hard cock aligned with a bruise on your thigh that Hannibal had put there when he had last fucked you, amorous with the killing thrill. Another length pushes up between the playful pearls, which then are wound about its base until it swells and noses your crying cunt, wanting to be let in, to console.
There has never been so poetic a rape, one so stained by love that you allow it, open armed, moaning like some cherub tricked down through Hell's gates. You strain to your attacker’s faces for another kiss, seek the burning hearts of night that are their eyes as they take you between them. They each fuck you in turn, slip out of you in a welter of passion to encourage the other in, each still erect, engorged by pride.
Their cocks brush once, crossed like holy arms in the tangle of you three, and both men shudder, yet still do not attempt to make the mishap a contact of intent.
"Oh, go on," you say, but are not understood, or are perhaps knowingly denied; impossible now to imagine that Hannibal and Will could ever fail to know your meaning, to predict what you will say or think.
One gorge of blood seems to run through the tongue that turns around your nipple and the breast itself, one blood between the finger and the glinting vulva, though you cannot, surely, all share the same type, the rarity of it an impossibility. Still it is stronger between Hannibal and Will; even as you come on the younger man's length, stinging from the roughness of his taking, you know it, are humbled by your place in their castle, though you have served them well.
They make use of you long after you've had your release, as though taking turns stabbing an enemy, one whom they still desperately love. It is a murder of time, of the past, of a spiritual hymen you had hoped to defend and have now, through clever force, lost; silly, you think, that you'd defended it when of course they would take it, as all breeds of innocence in you have been assumed by men as though splendour unearthed in some long war.
They have undone the weaving of your brain so well between them that even aware of the anguish of loss you are relieved by it, find yourself gleeful and glad of it, a tension split like the face of a drum.
The killing has reinforced a thought you've had since sheerest youth: that you are a terror, and further into other terrors you will go, tear into them until you are only satisfied by blood.
Hannibal, then Will, Will then Hannibal—so unlike in visual presentation, they are yet duplicates, rutting you until the act is a physical echolalia, neither of them seeming able to stop. Contracting in this repetitive action you make to scream, but it is a noise more of pleasure of pain that comes out.
Indeed, you do feel it, though your working heel blackens with bruising from the impassioned kicking of it in a struggle you haven’t noticed you've begun. It is the shame of it all, of what you've done, that makes the sore cut of this animal fuck more than an outright attack. The guilt of eating a cake, or stealing wine from under your father's nose, of a incest made through adoption, of slaughtering one who deserves it—all heightens the sensitivity of your inner tissues. All makes you want what you should not.
The reflection you see of yourself in the kitchen window is of a girl grown to love the underworld, the juice of its fruit on her mouth and her thighs and in her back molars as she cries out, two pairs of teeth in either side of her shoulders, a curly-headed devil grinding a pronged tool up your middle, a sleek sibling demon beside him, pushing upon his lower back.
Only at this touch does he come. Through the love of this other man, made coequal.
Some new mini Greek vases drawn on rocks! (Apologies if I already posted some of these I've lost track a bit). All done freehand with posca paint markers. If you like these and haven't seen the many others I've done, search "Greek vase" on my blog for the others!
hugh dancy jerking off hehe, in case u forgot or have never seen it b4 :3 VOLUME UP !! this is his character cal robertson from the hulu series called “the path”. yes i have absolutely GOONED to this more than once
You say I am your god, the one whom you worship. But I’ve heard how you speak of God, and I do not desire to share his name. Place me above, higher than even he could imagine. I have given you love where God has only given you pain. Together, you and I create art and bring it into being. We are the infinite masters of our lives. Let us shape one another, mold, impress upon. If you get on your knees for me, let it be only to bring pleasure, never to beg for mercy. Our sins have stained us a crimson red that no water could ever wash away. Never have I seen a creature more beautiful than you, under that moonlight, covered in that near black—the drained life force from our first collaboration—it is a sight I shall never forget. Even the roaring ocean could not wash it away. I still keep the shirt you wore tucked away as a memento—a foolish moment of sentiment, but I have never been smart when it comes to you.
well when all else fails at least there’s daydreaming about your oc getting tortured and abused and experimented on and assaulted and dehumanized and torn apart and surgically modified and
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