oh my god I LOVE YOUR WORK it’s so amazing o could read it all day long and never get bored especially WILL FINALLYYY someone acknowledges Will like the dom he isss
aww, thank you so very much!! that's so sweet of you :") xx
he's not sure if they're truly ready for him. he's huge, and he doesn't want to hurt them. and yet they look so stunning, with their legs spread wide apart, their hole almost begging for him to slide his cock inside them. inviting him almost.
he runs his hands up and down their waist, checking for the last time if they're absolutely sure about this.
"you sure?" he says. his hands are large. warm. calloused. he places one of them on their belly. it covers almost half of it; if not more. they nod.
"words. sweetheart," he says, but still presses the tip of his cock against their hole. "i need words." not sliding in. not yet.
"yes, duncan," they reassure. their voice carries a soft plea, a tone of begging almost. "please. i'm so sure."
⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 thinking about will graham who takes his inexperienced student's virginity ⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢
he'd be so gentle with it, murmuring soft reassurances as he slides his cock into them so so slow. his hot breathes cooling down on the temple as he presses kisses onto their hairline. their nails digging into his back, as they try to get used to the sensation of his cock inside of them.
"that's it sweetheart...so good f'me.." he'd say, as their breathing evens out slowly.
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚husband!will graham x reader 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚
mind palace;𓆝 𓆟 𓆞
will could recall how his heart had dropped when he'd received the call from crawford. he'd told him that they'd found you. finally. no matter how battered your state was. you were alive. he'd rushed to the hospital as soon as he'd gotten the news. after months of you being lost, he'd finally found you. after months of believing you were dead, he'd found you. it had taken a lot of convincing from crawford and beverly to leave your side by the hospital bed after your operation.
so, after going back home, he started working on the most important thing. he contacted a constructor. he built ramps in his house. lowered countertops and sinks. installed a lift in the shower. replaced the tables and chairs. realigned the furniture to suit you better. and waited. for the call from the hospital. telling him you were okay. telling him that you were awake, asking for him. but, it never came.
instead, it was a call that broke his heart. shattered it into tiny little pieces, like a glass. the damage was too extensive, they told him. you'd lost your memory. amnesia. the ugly word stuck on the roof of his mouth. he refused to use it for you. it was cruel. it wasn't your fault. none of it was your fault. but oh, how he couldn't help but blame you. if only you'd not gone on the mission. if only you'd been more careful. he'd felt guilty afterwards, of course. it never left, even though he knew you wouldn't know how he felt. you perhaps wouldn't even care. why would you? you couldn't remember him.
couldn't remember your husband. you'd forgotten all of it. how you'd met. how you'd followed him around like a duckling when you were just an intern. how'd you'd annoyed him with your bird-feeding habits and constant babbles about your cat. how'd you'd knitted him a sweater on his birthday - used his favourite colour, too. how'd you'd let him cry on your shoulder when he didn't feel good. how'd he'd kissed you, for the first time, after your first undercover operation, the adrenaline and oxytocin intoxicating every nerve in his system. how'd he'd pinned you against your office desk and made love you to, whispering sweet nothingness in your ears. how'd he'd taught you to fish, teasing you about your unease with worms. how'd he'd slid the ring on your finger. how'd you'd gotten married in the quiet solace of the church only the both of you would know how to appreciate.
you didn't remember any of it.
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ
sitting on your wheelchair, you watched as will opened a can of chilled beer, pouring it into a glass. your own hands held a wine glass, the maroon deep and rich in the glass. the liquor swirled against the glass as you fidgeted with it. your eyes were on the ring on your finger. it glinted the fury of the flames of amber that burned in the fireplace. the fury of your heart. the guilt, that ate you alive.
he plopped down on the sofa, watching you staring at your hands. you'd recently started moving your hands in coordination, and he was taking that as a good sign of your recovery. even though he knew you had a long way to go ahead. he was going to stand by you. no matter what. taking a sip of his beer, he broke the silence,
'something on your mind, honey?' your eyes darted from your fingers to meet his. how would you say it? your mind was always a tangle of thoughts. sometimes like a nightingales' cry from a distant, sometimes a memory so vivid it hurt your brain to recall it. the nightmares you could get over. but how could you get over this? a man loving you when you couldn't even remember marrying him. when you couldn't imagine yourself loving him. when you couldn't remember yourself loving him. the guilt ate you alive. slowly. like a maggot feeding on a dead body.
'i don't know you,' you mumbled, unable to form words. how were you supposed to voice your concern? but perhaps it was a good thing - you being concerned about a man who in your mind was a stranger. because your heart knew. knew whom it loved. knew how it beat in sync with the one it loved. perhaps, that was your way of loving him back.
'that's not right. you just can't remember me,' reassured, placing the beer glass on the coffee table. getting up from the sofa, he knelt in front of you. taking your hand in his, he plead, 'but i have faith you will. you will, won't you, honey?'
'i need you to stop loving me. it makes me feel guilty. because i can't remember who you are-and-,' before you could speak any further, his hand was on your mouth, muffling out your words as if it physically hurt him to hear those words.
'the world's a cruel-cold place, honey. but all i am, is a man, who wants it in his hands. and y-you're my world, honey. you always have been. so please, don't tell me to stop loving you. because i can't. no matter how much i try, i can't. it's too cold for you here, in this world.'
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ will graham x fem!undercover agent reader 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚
mind palace;𓆝 𓆟 𓆞
'you're incapable of making alright decisions,' mr. graham said, losing the usual sense of calm in his voice. you could see his face turn red, through you weren't sure whether it was because of the cold air outside or because he was angry. either ways, it didn't bother you. who was he, judging your decision making skills?
'i think i'm capable of making pretty alright decisions, mr. graham,' you replied, tone sharp, making it clear that you didn't want any further of his opinions. though it bugged you, in the back of your mind, that he was right, you didn't want to acknowledge that little voice. he was usually right about situations like these.
this was a truly a dangerous game you were playing. stepping out of your professionalism, to be a vigilante, to be a pawn for 'the online murderer', as they'd named him. you'd finally tracked him down, and knew exactly where he resided. you may have used unethical methods to locate him, which even went against your own morals; tracking him down had been the main goal for you and your colleagues for quite a few months now.
'i don't even know why i'm trying to change your mind,' he huffed, walking into the office, his pace faster than it was, leaving you behind, your feet drowned in the cold snow that gathered around your boots.
it now seemed like a bad decision to tell him your plans. if there was anything anyone knew about will graham, it was the fact that he'd do anything-even if it required him his own life-to try and save the life of others. you didn't want him to ruin your plan. you had it planned out, and you knew that it would be only be successful without hindrance. a little slip of plan, and you would die.
it was quite the risk, but you were ready to take it. if it meant saving the lives of others, you were ready to take action, be a pawn in the path of death.
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ
you took a deep breath, trying to calm down your nerves. for the last time, you checked the green screen behind you, making sure it was alright. you were about to log into a call with the notorious killer, who was wanted dead or alive. preferably alive. that's exactly what you were going to do.
swallowing, you moved the curser on your screen, editing the background behind you before logging into the meeting. the circle on the screen turned a few times before you saw the man you had been searching for.
'hey, darling,' he said, waving at you. you felt your stomach churn. he was quite the handsome man, though not your type. he had sharp features, perfectly styled blonde hair. his eyes were a deep shade of gray. if you didn't know the cruelty behind this facade, you'd probably found and fallen into the appeal of the man.
the first step had been checked out from your plan. the second step was going to be a bit tricky, but you knew he'd fall into the trap.
'hello,' you said, hoping you acted out your part. this wasn't the first time you'd been used as a lure - a femme fatale per se - for your team. you were pretty good at what you did. but all the time you had proper guards watching over you. this time you didn't. it was a solo mission.
'shy are you?' he asked, distracting him from your thoughts. you giggled, the sound unnatural to your ears.
'a bit, i guess,' you admitted. you smiled shyly. the eat of fear on your cheeks passed as a sweet blush.
'you're such a cutie aren't you?' he asked, clicking his tongue. 'i'd love to see you in person.' he tilted his head, watching your background now.
'i must ask, why have you edited that background of yours?'
'it's because...well i'm a bit messy. don't want my first date to think i'm a freak,'
'first date? you're telling me this is the first time you've been on a date?' you smiled, shyly. you tuck your hair behind your ear.
'yes, it is. the men think i'm too shy. they like someone experienced i guess. the women think i'm too repulsive. god i really feel like an attention seeker now,' you watched the man's eyes turn cold. you watched his pupils dilate.
bingo. he'd been lured.
'you've grabbed my attention now, little one,' the nickname almost made you want to gag. but you let your forced smile stay plastered on your face. he grabbed a cigarette from his desk. he placed it between his pink lips, and lit it up.
'so, where do you live?' fuck. you weren't expecting him to be so direct.
'why do you ask?' he smirked. he blew out a puff from his mouth.
'i wanna know who i'm talking to. felt like an ice breaker. it's okay if you don't want to say. what do you do for a living?'
'i work as a barista. i'm working on a novel, currently,'
'oh yeah? that's sounds cool. read a bit to me,' he said. it was more of a demand than a request.
'nope,' you giggled, hopefully, playfully, 'no spoilers,' he took the last draw from the cigarette. he leaned in close to the camera, letting you see his background more clearly. you had been simultaneously screen recording. this would've helped you track him down and complete the fourth and the last step of your plan.
'tell me where you live, little one. you've got me entranced. i don't want no woman with experience. you'd do. i'd teach you so much, you'll practically be begging me to stop teaching you so much.'
he pushed the cigarette into his ashtray, watching you intensely, as if studying you.
'but i won't stop. you'd like that, won't you?'
your plan needed some modifications, it seemed.
'yeah,' you whispered, licking your lips. you tried your best to make your eyes look glossy, and pretend to be drawn in by his disgusting words.
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ
'you're growing up too fast,' beverly teased you, plopping on your bed. you and her had been two peas in a pod, since you'd met each other. no one saw the other without the other. most of what you'd revealed to 'the online murderer' was false. but one thing was true, you'd never been on a date. you were pretty inexperienced in that field. the times you had been the lure for the menacing masterminds weren't dates as such. but this one was.
the situation was so tense, it made you want to throw up with the intense hormones that churned within you.
'shut up,' you said, trying not to spill out your feelings and the secrets you'd hidden from her. you didn't even know why you'd talked about your plan to will graham, with whom you were barely acquainted with. maybe you'd wanted the proper judgement, even though you'd known it was dangerous.
'no i won't. i'm so proud of you,' she said, pulling at the hem of your skin tight burgundy dress. you put on your luxurious fur coat, pulling it close to your body, to keep it warm. stilettos weren't the best option for the kind of 'date' you were going to, but she'd insisted on them.
'do i look okay?' you asked.
'you look like a total bombsh- wait someone's calling.' she took out her phone from her leather jacket. you read the saved number as 'will graham' in a quick flash before she put it to her ear to listen.
'yes will? katz this side.' you couldn't hear what will had said to her on the other side of the phone, but you could see the annoyance grow on her face.
'what do you mean, will? i think she's responsible enough to take care of herself. just because you-'
the line ended with a huge beep that echoed.
'what's he say? you asked, suspicious.
'nothing. he's being a jealous prick, that's all. go enjoy your date,'
with that, you were pushed outside of your house, into the cold bitter wind.
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ
you'd never expected to be stranded here. in the middle of what seemed nowhere. with the noises around you blurred. the world too serene to be true. this wasn't supposed to be like this. you weren't supposed to be lured.
but you were enough in the senses to know that you were supposed to get away. to escape. you ran however fast your cold, sore feet took you. to where, you didn't know. you weren't going to die like this, you were sure. you didn't want to die like this. like a stupid vigilante.
the world was dark. all you could hear was the dark fear that creeped under your skin. that crawled into your stomach, and poured into your heart. you shook with the putrid feeling. it was hot hatred and rage. it was mere stupidity.
you couldn't die like this, trapped into a world of fear. trapped where you knew nothing but fear. you had to escape. but the pain. it followed you.
it flowed down your back, hot, thick and crimson. it was stuck in your mouth. it tasted like iron, warm on your tongue.
then came the collapse. the collapse where, you didn't know. but the grip you recognized. it was hot and strong. unfamiliar but so familiar. the electric blue in his eyes like the ocean, you saw the waves in them. the curls on his head messy, like the situation you were in.
'w-will?' you whispered. there was no recognition of your own voice in your brain. he nodded, pulling you closer.
'please stay with me,' he said, his hand shaking as he spoke into the phone. he pulled off his jacket, and tied it tight around your cold feet.
'stay away,' he said, to whom you didn't know. you flinched at the anger in his voice. but you crawled closer, the scent of his cheap aftershave comforting.
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ
you'd lost track of time when you'd woken up. you didn't know how long it had been since you'd passed out. there was white light all around you, almost blinding you when you'd opened your eyes.
you turned your head to your left. the similar messy mop of curls laid his head beside you. his warm hand was on beside yours, barely touching. how long had it been? it couldn't have been too long. you were still dazed, however. you moved your hand, to touch his.
he raised his head with a quick jerk. before he could open his mouth, you clutched onto his hand.
'i'm sorry,' you whispered. 'i should've listened to you,'
'you did what you thought was right. you always do,'
'i can be a bit stubborn,'
he nodded, smiling. you watched a single drop of tear escape his eye. he wiped it with his shirt cuff.
'i-i don't know what i'd done if you'd been killed in my arms. i was too late to bombard your date,'
your date. right. you didn't remember what had happened to him.
'i know you wanted him unwounded. as good as a horse. but he's in one of the hospital rooms right now. i shot him,'
'oh.'
for what felt like the first time, he looked into your eyes. it wasn't the first time however. they were there in what you believed to be your last moments. they held you close to their warmth, the light against the stark dark fear.
'are you okay mr. graham?' you asked. the both of you had escaped. you were scarred. but was he scarred too? you had to know.
'don't-don't call me that. why do you call me that? will you ever only call me by my name when you're in the verge of dying?'
he took your hand in his, pulling it close to his forehead. softly, he rested it on the back of your palm. the tears ran down his face, falling onto the white bedsheet. there was a dull ache in your heart. you wanted to wipe them off. you didn't know why he was hurt. but it hurt you to see him in hurt.
'i only ever realized how much you mean to me when you were in my arms, dying. begging for me take away your pain. only when i'd gotten your blood on my hand did i know how much your presence affects me.'
you stared at him, confused. what was he trying to say.
'don't speak in such riddles, will. she's pretty oblivious when it comes to these things,' the familiar sound of your friend echoed in your ear. you turned around your head to see beverly standing by the door, bunch of books in her hand. she walked into the room, keeping them by your table.
'it's the middle of winter, there are no flowers i could get you. hopefully you'll like them. i'll just leave them here,' she said. her hand stroked over your hair.
'and will,' she continued, now that she had his attention, 'jimmy and brian are betting on this confession. 5 dollars are at risk,'
will chuckled. it warmed your heart. beverly walked out the door, leaving you and will together, alone.
'let me take you out on your proper first date? please?'
before you could've said anything, you heard brian's gleeful laughter and the tossing of coins into a wallet.
❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ follow up fic if this does well and if anybody would be interested! feedback is always appreciated. taking requests. previously @willsstraydoe
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ will graham x fem!reader 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚
nsfw ahead, dni if uncomfortable ⋆˚࿔
mind palace;𓆝 𓆟 𓆞
the sound of the dogs scratching against the wood of the door echoes in the hall before you register the sound of tires against gravel, the familiar sound of will graham pulling up in the driveway.
you set down the lemon tea on the table, the steam curling atop the ceramic, flipping through a magazine. it wasn't often that will graham came home in a way that was stable, and you had suspected, today wouldn't be one of those rare times either. especially when he had texted you about being late.
nights like this often meant he would come home sweaty, grimy, grumpy, and clingy. now, he wouldn't have fancied himself to be a man who was dependent on the comfort of physical touch, but, that was before he had met you. there was something comforting about your touch, sexual or not, something that grounded him to moment. something that brought him into reality when his days were usually spent floating in a cusp of reality and abhorring nightmares.
he set down the keys on the table, placing the boots by the doorway as he dropped his bag on the floor carelessly. the dogs hauled around him, begging for affection. he bent down, giving each of them a fair chance of administering wet kisses on his stubble as he petted them.
'where's mama?' he asked them, as if they could answer. they yelped, padding away into the kitchen in a pack. he followed them into the dim light. catching sight of you, the tension in his shoulders visibly melted. the tightness in his body uncoiled, and he walked towards you, wrapping his arms around you, resting his face on your shoulder, brushing kisses on your neck.
'tuckered out,' he mumbles, sighing as you slip your fingers between his curls, bringing him close as his kisses grow more frantic, more searching. you breathe in his scent, the signature scent of tobacco from lucky strikes, cheap aftershave, the slight iron like smell from crime scenes that never really washed out.
'that bad huh?' you tease, as he holds you tighter at the action of you soothing your fingers through his hair.
'yes ma'am,' he says, 'need you,'
'gotta clean up first. you're disgusting!' you giggle, playfully pushing him away.
'gotta take a shower with me, sugar,' he says, unbuttoning his shirt, revealing his tanned skin underneath khakis.
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ
will graham is an efficient man. he doesn't believe in wasting time. so, the second you step into the shower with him, he pushes your back on the cool tile, lips heavy and hot on yours, hands exploring every bit of naked skin underneath the rough pads of his fingers. every mark on your body is accounted for. the water from the shower is hot on your cold skin, a jarring contrast.
'gosh yer fuckin' gorgeous,' he drawls. he sits down on his knees, helping you rest your thighs on his shoulders as his lips wrap around your clit, two fingers entering your cunt simultaneously. he licks at a furious pace, his nose brushing the harsh curls on your mound as he eats you out. he curls his fingers inside you, the way he knows you like it.
'gosh, always so wet f'me. so good f'me. sweet like sugar,' his voice vibrates against you, your fingers tangling into his wet hair as you pull him closer, your back arching against the wall.
'f-fuck, will... that's so good. right there,'
'i know doll, i know. know your spots like the back of my hand, doll.' he reassures, doubling his pace as he feels your velvet walls clamp around his fingers, a certain sign of the orgasm that he knows has coiled in your lower belly.
'cum all over my face, hon. be a good doll f'me,' he encourages. he slips inside a third finger, and coils them together, and flicks his tongue on your clit for the last time before you spasm, whimpering out his name, your orgasm releasing in one singular gush all over his tongue. he laps it all up like a starved man, licking you clean through it all.
only once you come down does he get up, leaving your knees wobbly as you lean onto him for support. he grabs you by the chin, pulling you into a heavy kiss. your legs wrap around his waist, his cock thick and angry against the slit of your cunt, waiting to slip into you.
'gonna make you feel so good, sugar,' he promises, slowly slipping himself into the inviting heat of your cunt. the water continues to fall and form pebbles on both of your heated bodies, the sound of the shower muffling out the wetness that resides between your thighs.
'f-fuck, that's good,' you say, as he starts moving in a slow pace. his fingers find your left nipple, as he slowly rolls it around between his index and thumb, the other hand kneading your right breast. the coarse curls of his pubes rub against your clit with each thrust, adding an electricity of pleasure that sits stubbornly at the end of your spine with each thrusting motion.
'yeah doll? that feel good?' he asks, pressing your back harder against the wall as his thrusts from faster and more erratic. his left hand slips and finds the flesh of your ass. he massages it, occasionally spanking it, his teeth grazing the skin on your neck.
the second orgasm tightens within your body faster than either of you anticipate. your own fingers find purchase between your moving bodies as you rub your clit while he moves within you, the nerves on his cock hitting the right spots.
'oh yeah doll, play with yerself f'me. sucha good fucking doll,' he says, breathing going erratic as he feels your walls clamp tighter around him with each thrust.
'wanna cum together...' you cry out, fingers not stopping, trying to hold your orgasm in as it sits at the brim of your lower belly, waiting to explode all over him.
'yeah...-yeah sugar?'
with that, he releases himself inside of you, thick hot ropes of cum painting inside your cum, as your orgasm explodes, toes curling and eyes rolling at the back of your head. the pleasure was inescapable. blooming slow and tedious, roots sinking into the both of you.
❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ follow up fic if this does well and if anybody would be interested! feedback is always appreciated. taking requests. previously @willsstraydoe
⤷ ゛thinking about will graham x hannibal's wife!reader ˎˊ˗
when hannibal surrenders himself to the fbi, will, out of courtesy visits his wife. it's not to console her. it's not even to inform him of hannibal's arrest. it's to tell her that hannibal never loved her as much as he loved will, for which he surrendered.
she's furious. shattered, even, just at the sight of him. there is a sick satisfaction that blooms within him, seeing her like this. and she, enraged and eccentric, rushes into the kitchen to grab a knife. one of the same knives her husband used to pull apart human organs on their kitchen counter.
but before she can do more than brandishing the knife at will, he has her down on the carpeted floor, hands above her head, his knees locked around her squirming body as he squats over her.
'shh shh shh,' he consoles; a mockery, his free hand taking the knife from her hands and throwing it away. he pulls out his gun, trailing it down her throat. she cries, tears falling sideways, into her hair,
'stop it,' she begs, pride simmering down in the face of self-preservation. his lip curls into a smile, as he feels the fight drain from her.
'that's a good girl. i can see why lecter wanted you,'
╰┈➤thinking about cult leader!will graham x demi-human bunny!reader ۶ৎ
they often come to him, crying and sniffling, curling up against him, trying to seek comfort. the people in this house, in their dark clothes and hidden faces are mean to them, for not being like them. they don't wear the designated dark attire, and neither do they cover their face. they wear soft, pastel fabrics. they wear something that makes them look like an angel.
their soft tail twitches against his thigh as he holds them, their tears soaking through his shirt. his hands work between their legs, his voice low, as he soothes them.
'it's okay, bunny,' he says, his lips pressed onto their hair, his hand slow and gentle between their shaking thighs, 'they don't understand how much you mean to me,'
they sniffle, nodding, hand curling into the fabric of his shirt as the coil tightens inside of them, pleasure simmering.
'they're just jealous of my pretty dumb bunny, yeah?'
he finds himself waking up in sweat, begging for god, begging for mercy. begging for it to end, begging for it to make sense to him. he doesn't know where it ends and where it begins. he's not religious by any means. but, this is all that makes sense now. that is all he can hold on to, as a tether. the voices that whisper in his head don't retaliate about blood anymore. it speaks to him about his sins.
phantom touch on his thighs, goosebumps kissing every inch of his skin. lips against his belly, leading downwards, towards the path of his pleasure. dangerously close to where he needs it. dangerously close to where he's repulsed by. the contradiction tightens as a coil of desire, the taboo of it makes him crave it. he can't save himself. but he can't let himself go either.
his hands find purchase on the antlers of the monster's head, pushing his mouth down, down till the monster's throat constricts, convulses around his throat. the pleasure coils tighter, tighter, tighter. it goes taut before it explodes, white, hot and thick. leaking down the monster's lips, droplets phantom, but not, on his belly.
he can't save himself. but maybe, that's just fine.
feedback is always appreciated. english is not my first language. if you're a dickhead about criticism, i'm going to put hunt you down and put you in the soup.
I'm here to share my thoughts! (You can consider this a request if you want.)
Imagine Hannibal being obsessed with his new patient. She's schizophrenic, so he uses that against her, telling her she's just imagining things, that he's not overstepping her boundaries, and that all the things he's doing to her never happened. Yes, he touched her inappropriately, and yes, he did broke into her apartment, but who would believe her? Would she even believe herself? After all she is just a really sick girl in her early 20s and hes the doctor who is trying so hard to help her.
He even manipulates the judge into signing the papers, saying that she's incapable of taking care of herself and needs a full guardianship, and Hannibal takes her in, she have no rights, and she'll never leave him, he will make sure of it! So now he can do whatever he wants with his pretty little dove.
hiya luv! hope you like this. ♡♡
prisoner;
ೃ༄* hannibal lecter x crime scene cleaner!reader ೃ༄*
dark and nsfw themes ahead, dni if uncomfortable. reader is gender neutral ⋆˚࿔
mind palace;𓆝 𓆟 𓆞
it began innocently enough. at least, it was innocent enough for you to consider it an incongruous mishap, brush it off.
your job required you to clean off guts from waxed floors. pluck out tendons and ligaments from pearly white carpets. wipe off brain matter from crystal clear windows, if not for the brain parts stuck to the glass. remove any evidence that violence existed in a room, remove the broken parts of humans that plastered to the walls and floors as evidence, not dissimilar to flesh, meat.
it didn't irk you much. not anymore. you had touched human flesh more times, through plastic gloves, more than you could count on your fingers. it was jarring at the beginning—it would be more disturbing if it wasn't.
but then, the symptoms slowly crept up on you. they sat at the end of your spine till you were too long gone to recognise yourself in your reflections without someone else staring right back at you. it began with social withdrawals. a friendly decline to a night out that promises drinks and rubbing against stranger's thighs, teetering on the possibility of going home with one of them. this decline, you do question. most of the time, these rejected invitations leave you on the floor of your apartment fingers wrapped around bottles of alcohol. then it flows into an uneasy state of sleepiness—or rather the lack of it. you lay awake at odd hours of the night, convinced that the eye balls that you had collected in evidence bags that day were staring at you from the corner of your bedroom. the lack of sleep leads to an irritability that peels away shreds of your sanity piece by piece.
then, the hallucinations begin. medically, they are delusions. but, in your mind both of these events intertwin together, pulling the knot of fiction and reality taut and tight till they breathe in sync. it's a strange feeling, being suspended in a strange abyss of ghastly delusions and hallucinations, while reality knocks at the door of your sanity with an axe. the eyeballs of the dead speak to you. the broken mirrors tainted with human flesh, tendons and ligaments stuck against the jarred edges of the mirrors. the blood has a noise, an iron like noise, something that taints white carpets that were once scented with lavender fabric softeners.
the day you lay flat in the outline of the now dead victim, convinced that your heart was not beating anymore, and the blood was oozing out of your arteries was the day that you were consulted to a psychiatrist. or rather, you were forced to a psych evaluation. not for your sanity, no, but jack crawford's sanity.
this is how you ended up in hannibal lecter's office. what you didn't know that you would eventually never leave his office.
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ
hannibal lecter's hands are in your pants. you remember him setting you down on his desk, slowly pulling out your belt from the loops, and pulling your trousers down. you remember the cold feeling of the polished wood of his desk against your thighs. his hands, contradictorily warm, wet and slippery from the sweat that has gathered between the crevices of his palm. you remember his lips upon your thighs, soft against your skin, his breathing warm as he trails his lips against every kissable inch of your thighs. you remember his voice, thick like syrup, sticking against your skull.
'tell me, how do you feel?' he asked, his fingers tangling into the mound of neatly trimmed coarse curls between your thighs.
'please, don't touch me,' you had said. too afraid to do anything more, or say anything more, afraid of being diagnosed as clinically insane, trying to keep yourself tied to reality as much as you could.
'is that what you see? me touching you?'
'yes, doctor lecter.'
'tell me, how am i touching you? by all means, i must assure you, i am not touching you. that would be rather inappropriate, and break the boundaries of our relationship.'
this would be one of the many instances that he would lie to you. just to see you unravel, and grasp at the sense of reality that kept escaping you. one by one, he intends to peel away any sense of identity you may have left. he begins it by invading your personal spaces, and planting parts of himself into your apartment.
injecting drugs, in the wine bottles through the corks, that make you question yourself with every breathe that you take. lacing your groceries with medicine that makes you lose sleep, till the only way you can sleep without feeling phantom eyes or hands on you, or hearing imaginary voices, is by counting the hair on your head. replacing your incense sticks with the ones that he lights in his office, so that all that goes in your head his him. messing up the order of your neatly lined books, paintings and journals. forging your handwriting and writing feign entries in your journals, creating an existence of reality that never existed. placing a sex toy that you never bought in your drawer. stealing your underwear from the unwashed laundry.
and yet, every time you come to him, your nerves jittery and untamed, he feeds you the lies of an existence that you never lived, that you never wanted, that you all forgot, he feeds you the lie of your sickness, the one that makes you hallucinate. the one that makes you delusional. the one that he 'tames', the one that that is a damsel in distress.
he clips the feathers one by one from the wings of his dove.
and then, he attacks his dove's morsel.
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ
the death of your boyfriend leaves you scarred. jack crawford does not allow you to clean up your love's flesh from the waxed floor of your apartment. not when the handcuffs rattle against your wrists. not when he pushes you into the back seat of the fbi's van, putting you under arrest before you can say anything to defend yourself.
and yet. this moment, is the clearest you've ever felt. there are no eyeballs that follow you. there are no phantom hands that stroke against your skin. there is only the memory of slipping and falling upon on the blood that oozed out of your love's body. that is how you decide your escape.
'i only need one hand free,' you whisper. before the guards can do anything, your thumb cracks, and your hand slips free from the handcuffs. it strikes hard against the guard's face, temporarily shocking him which gives you enough time to escape the van.
the escape costs you nothing, and everything. you run back to the only place you know. unfortunately, for you, you run back to the lion's den, without knowing it. the lion that stole your morsel from you. the lion that would pluck the last feather from your wing before placing your featherless, helpless body between his teeth.
'i know i didn't kill him. but there is someone who wants everyone to believe i did.' you say once you reach hannibal's office. his hands gather your body, shattered with grief. this time, his touch isn't phantom. this time, he won't lie to you about the hands on your body. this time, he'll tell you that this is the first time he's ever laid his hands on you. there are dried tears that streak the skin of your cheeks. your eyes are swollen, red. pupils dilated.
this is the last feather the lion plucks from the dove's wings.
