#broken teacup

[skairart]

Saw mitski’s promotional photos and wanted to make a fake DE portrait

[edenparkway]

Current Hyperfixation on (and Amplexations of)  Hannibal and its Metaphors

Part Two, The Teacup

So what is a teacup? What grand purpose does it serve in the tapestry of existence? What need does it serve? A standard teacup, utilitarian in design, maybe a thing of beauty, but it merely exists at the whims of its user—a servant to their desires. When a teacup shatters, a profound loss befalls it—some of the powdered essences of its being are scattered into the air. Kintsugi, the ancient art of repair often shown in fan art of the teacup in works associated with Hannibal and Will, doesn't just repair, it adds. It adds new mass to the cup's shattered fragments, replacing the fine particles lost when the cup is shattered.

What is a repaired teacup? What need does it serve? The teacup is not merely mended. Something far greater transpires—it gains splendor. It becomes more than its former self; it ascends to the realm of artistry through the skill of an artist which, for a moment in time at least, serves the cup just as the cup once served the man. The repaired cup is a creation of beauty in its own right. It exists for itself. It may hold a drink again and be drunk from, but that is no longer its function. Its purpose extends far beyond quenching a thirst, for it feeds the soul with its sheer elegance and allure. It is art, and the need it serves is purely aesthetic.

Similarly, our own journey of self-discovery and introspection can be likened to the teacup's transformation. Like the shattered teacup, we may experience moments of brokenness and loss, where some parts of our being feel scattered. But as we embark on the journey of repair and self-understanding, we, too, have the opportunity to become something more—something greater.

To return to the origin of the teacup metaphor, the utilitarian teacup metaphor can be applied to Will's character. Will, as a character with cognitive and developmental challenges, is treated poorly by other characters throughout the show, much like the teacup. He experiences brain damage, PTSD, and hallucinations, leaving him vulnerable and struggling to assert himself. He is infantilized and dehumanized, just like a teacup reduced to a mere vessel for others' desires. This creates a sense of vulnerability and powerlessness, similar to a teacup that cannot mend itself.

Hannibal, as a character, sees Will in a unique light, not merely as a tool but as a canvas for his manipulative and artistic machinations. This relationship can be metaphorically compared to the role of a Kintsugi craftsman repairing a broken teacup. Hannibal takes a special interest in Will from the beginning. He recognizes Will's unique mind and abilities, acknowledging that Will has the potential to see and understand the world in a way that others cannot. Hannibal, like a skilled craftsman, sees the potential beauty in Will's fractured psyche and sets out to "repair" him to his liking. He becomes the orchestrator of events that push Will to his limits, exposing him to violence and darkness, and subtly manipulating him towards a transformation. Similar to how Kintsugi adds new elements to the broken teacup, Hannibal introduces new experiences, challenges, and traumas into Will's life, changing him in profound ways. Hannibal seeks to mold Will into a more complex and refined version of himself, embracing the darker aspects of his psyche and nurturing his potential for violence. Like the shattered teacup, Will is vulnerable, and Hannibal exploits this vulnerability to shape him into what he deems artistically appealing. Throughout the show, we see Will's internal struggle with his identity and the influence of Hannibal's machinations. He grapples with the darkness within him and the emotional toll of being manipulated by Hannibal. This internal conflict is akin to the process of self-discovery and self-awareness on a deeper level, similar to the metaphor of examining the shattered elements of oneself in Part One.

So how can this aspect of the metaphor apply to introspection in the real world? In this metaphor, I must assume the role of both the seeker and the artist. (Unless someone else drops in to play) and I find myself on a mission to discover who I truly am, acknowledging that my identity is also multifaceted and not limited to singular labels or definitions. I may have aspects of myself that I perceive as good and virtuous, while also acknowledging elements I might perceive as bad or undesirable.

Just as the Kintsugi craftsman adds new elements to the shattered teacup, I must acknowledge and embrace the fractured parts of my identity. I cannot shy away from exploring the darker aspects of myself, recognizing that these experiences and emotions are a part of my journey toward self-discovery. The metaphor also emphasizes the idea of creating something beautiful out of what is found during the process of self-exploration. It's about finding beauty and strength in the complexities of one's identity, even in the broken and challenging parts. Like the repaired teacup that gains splendor through the craftsmanship of the artist, I try to create a deeper understanding and acceptance of who I am, resulting in a more complete and self-aware version of myself.

At this point, I feel it is responsible to note that it's essential to avoid romanticizing or glamorizing the idea of being one's own "Hannibal." (Take my advice, I'm not using it anyway.) The character Hannibal Lecter in the show Hannibal is a fictional and highly manipulative individual, and attempting to emulate such behavior in real life could be harmful to oneself and others. However romantic the end of the show might be, we were warned about jumping off a cliff just because our friends are all doing it.

The teacup metaphor relates to a deeply introspective journey where a person seeks to understand and accept their multifaceted identity. Like the Kintsugi craftsman creating art from a broken teacup, they aim to find beauty and strength in their fractured self, leading to a deeper understanding and appreciation of who they truly are, for themself.

[katsitting]

Broken Teacup

Rating: T

Ships: Tomione

Tags: Alternate Universe - Adopted Siblings, Alternate Universe - No Magic, and Creepy Tom Riddle.

AN: I woke up the other night with this idea, and I hate myself for it. 

This is the unanticipated continuation of Bedtime Stories, a little one-shot I wrote sometime earlier this year. I don’t understand why I am like this. I may be expanding this verse as well, but that won’t be some time. I have to stop lol.

AO3 Link

A breath caught in her lungs, the weight of it burning from her diaphragm up to her esophagus. It was like smoke, the wisp of its tendrils curling in her throat like it was alive. And maybe, it was. Perhaps, in the time that she’d sucked in her breaths, closed her eyes to calm the rapid beating of her heart, something had crawled into her neck.

“Sister? Is something the matter?”

The way he said that title was like winter’s cold breath on her face, light and all-encompassing. Unsettling and refreshing at the same time.  

A fifteen-year-old Hermione tried not to shudder, eyes opening to cast, what she hoped, was an even look at her brother.

He was sitting at the kitchen table, where her father typically sat in the mornings. It wasn’t uncommon for him to do it, for him to claim that spot when her parents were away at work. Sometimes, it made her brain itch to see him there, but in other moments, with her eyes still crusted with sleep, she didn’t find anything amiss about it at all.

“O-oh, no. Not at all, I was just coming in to grab something from the kitchen.”

Tom looked at her, eyes appraising. It was like a physical touch, that look. Almost as though the weight of his eyes were fingers and hands, the touch of them enough to strip her bare, to unmake her with just a passing glance.

He was too beautiful, too wrong. He had no business sitting there, in her father’s chair, a steaming cup on his left with a book splayed open in front of him. He shouldn’t have been there this morning, shouldn’t look that good with his dark eyes, wavy hair, and flawless skin.

Swallowing, Hermione passed the threshold where the living room became their kitchen, tearing her gaze away from Tom’s heavy stare and fixing it instead on the fridge scant inches from the table.

Silence enveloped her as she moved, her steps on the tiled floor enough to make her heart stutter in her chest, her hackles raise, because Tom was still looking at her. He always did, as if he couldn’t do anything but look at her. His eyes drawn to her like magnets, keyed only to her specific presence.

Hermione hated when he did that, always had. It always made her breath hitch, her skin crawl with something she didn’t want to give a name to. Like she didn’t fit in her skin, her mind bound to flesh and bone and muscle that crushed her into their tiny confines.

Hermione tried not to think of it as she reached the cupboard, rummaging for her favorite cup.

The weight of Tom’s stare never left her back, even as a flush spread from her neck and up to her cheeks, visible even when she tried to fight the heat twisting over her cheeks.

It was unbearable, those eyes. The silence, no better, when now her breaths were the only thing breaking the quiet that had settled into her bones, slipping in between the gaps of her ribcage.

“Sister.”

Hermione froze, the sound of his voice, smooth as silk, enough to make even her breaths still. Her hands shook, mid-air, poised by the cup she was about to reach for on the topmost shelf.

“It’s too high up. Would you like some help?”

Hermione bit her tongue hard enough to bleed, adrenaline and something else rushing up and down her spine at the thought of him assisting her at all. That meant that he would have to get close to her, that he would have to touch her, somehow, when he passed the cup over to her hands.

She didn’t want that, even if a voice, too sultry and soft to be hers, said the opposite, murmuring that she’d very much want his help.

“That’s not necessary! It’s quite alright, Tom,” she said, unable to bear to say the word ‘brother.’ Because this feeling in the pit of her stomach, twisting and writhing like something alive, was not something she should feel for her brother. It wasn’t right, it was--

“Nonsense, sister. We both know you can’t reach that shelf.”

At the sound of his chair screeching, the legs of it scratching on the floor, Hermione jumped. She couldn’t help herself, not when the room fell into heavy silence once again.

Tom’s footsteps silent, always so silent even when he was taller now, older. One would think that after years of living with him, she’d be attuned to his very presence.

But she wasn’t. Not by a long shot. Tom was like a ghost, a preternatural creature that was unreal, even while standing in the very same room.

A shadow fell over her on the shelf, then, and Hermione swallowed hard. His body pressed along her back, his hand emerging from around the wild curls hanging loosely on her head to reach for the cup her fingers were too short to even graze.

He enveloped the cup in his hand, large and white and spidery, and plucked it from the shelf. Hermione’s throat went dry when he lowered it, pressing it against her fingers. If he noticed them trembling, he didn’t comment on it, his other hand emerging from the other side of her hand to coax her fingers into taking it.

His touch was like lightning on her skin, and Hermione shuddered, trembling even as her mind screamed for her to move, to snatch the cup away from his hand and cut the contact. 

“There you are,” Tom murmured, lips so close to her ear that the warmth of his breath curled over the shell. Hermione could scarcely breathe.

And then, just as his presence had come, he was gone.

The heat of his hands, the weight of his lips on her ear, vanished. Cold air replaced his touch, and Hermione let out the breath lodged in her esophagus, hoping that it didn’t sound as loud as it did through the rush of blood in her ears.

It’s over. It’s over.

Hermione squeezed the cup in her hand, tight enough that her knuckles were white, that they ached, and then, with her mind urging her to calm, she said:

“Thank you.”

It was a weak sound, more a hiss, but Hermione knew Tom had heard it.

He heard everything.

[camilleflyingrotten]

Because this crossover was important to me :B

[katsitting]

Broken Teacup- Chapter 5

Rating: E

Ships: Tomione

Tags: Alternate Universe - Adopted Siblings, Alternate Universe - No Magic, Creepy Tom Riddle, and Other Tags to Be Added (I suggest you scope through the all the listed tags on AO3 before diving in)

Excerpt:

Hermione frowned at the picture frame set atop the desk, all of their smiling faces staring back at her. Tom was standing beside her, his hand on her shoulder. She was smiling and so was he, his hair curling over his head in smooth waves that belied a softer nature than he truly possessed.

She had felt the weight of his touch for days after that photo was taken, unnerved by the groove of those nails, at the warmth of his body pushed against her side.

It was what the photographer had demanded, barking tight-lipped orders that they stand closer. And oh, how Hermione’s shoulder had wept bloody tears after that, from how hard she’d scrubbed, and scrubbed, and scrubbed.

If only her loofah could’ve reached inside her to erase the way that hand had made her burn.

AO3 Link

[katsitting]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Rating: E

Ships: Tomione

Tags: Alternate Universe - Adopted Siblings, Alternate Universe - No Magic, Creepy Tom Riddle, Erotic Horror, Disturbing Imagery, Other Tags to Be Added

Excerpt:

She was fifteen, and no closer to understanding what she felt every time she saw him. It was like the squirming of maggots in a corpse, that feeling. Their little bodies curling and writhing inside her, chewing and gnawing at dead skin. She’d seen it once before, watching from behind a glass lens how those worms gorged themselves on dark skin—riveted by how closely the blackened edges of that skin resembled Tom’s eyes.

Hermione wondered if she was dead for feeling this way. If, somehow, from the moment Tom had come knocking on her parents’ door, drenched in rainwater and tears, that she’d died when she first laid eyes on him.

She might as well have, if she hadn’t. With his presence, she’d lost something of herself.

[katsitting]

Do you plan on continuing your Slibings AU (Bedtime Stories and Broken Teacup)? It’s so good. I love Tom’s characterization here.

Thank you! I’m so glad you enjoy the story! :)

I do plan to write more for it. Though that won’t be for some time. 

Maybe nearer to the holidays, I might write more for it.

[katsitting]

Bedtime Stories

Rating: T

Ships: Tomione

Tags: Alternate Universe - Step Siblings, Alternate Universe - Adopted Siblings, Creepy Tom Riddle, Dark Themes, Rating and Tags Subject to Change.

You can find a revamped and expanded version of this story on AO3. 

AO3 Link

“Are monsters real?” 

She knew the answer before he stopped reading, before he grabbed a bookmark from the desk and slipped it inside the heavy tome. He closed the book, and Hermione tried not to shift her feet when he settled the full brunt of his gaze on her. 

There was nothing malicious in those depths. Nothing monstrous or haunting. Unlike the stories, her mum would tell her about boogeymen and creatures waiting to grab her ankles. Their claws poised and ready to snatch her from underneath her bed.

Still, there was something about the darkness swirling in the boy’s eyes that always made her nervous. It always had, even after years of living with him. 

But that was nothing new. Her adopted brother had always been strange. Older by only eight years, but still someone she respected as much as she dreaded. He always found a way to make her uncomfortable. Though how he managed without saying anything rude or untoward was still a mystery.

Though, in spite of these flaws, Tom was still well-behaved. Kind, even when Hermione was certain he didn’t have to be. Incredibly smart, a person whose achievements she admired. A person she wanted to be like, even if he made her skin crawl at times with how he acted around her when he thought she wasn’t looking.

It made her want to impress him. Because he was just so smart. His brain fascinated her, made her want to pull apart the flaps and see for herself what was hidden inside. She couldn’t help it, really. Her parents just loved him, and teachers talked so nicely about him that she herself couldn’t find it within her to dislike him.

Against her better judgment, no less.

“No, little sister. They aren’t.” He said after a moment, his eyes gleaming brightly under the incandescent desk lamp. “They are stories meant to deter us from misbehaving.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed.

She didn’t know what the word deter meant. It hadn’t been in any of the books her mum had gotten her. It sounded advanced. 

She didn’t want to ask Tom what it meant. It would show him that she wasn’t as bright as her teachers professed she was. It would make her look dumb in front of her brother. 

That was the last thing she wanted.

“Oh.” 

It was the only response she could think of. She could piece the phrase together to mean that the tales of monsters were supposed to scare her and make her behave. But something about the way he was looking at her made her hesitate.

He seemed to be watching her closely, as if he were truly seeing her for the first time. 

She had always wanted her brother to notice her. He was always distant, even when living in the same house. Always far away, his mind seemingly adrift, lost in a world she could not follow. 

But in that second, Hermione wasn’t sure she wanted the attention.

He looked...kind of scary.

“But people are much scarier than monsters.” He said, and Hermione’s stomach dropped at the way the corner of his lip lifted in a soft smile.

It was meant to be comforting, but it made her skin itch.

“Worse, in fact, than any of those children’s books you will ever read.” 

Hermione flushed with embarrassment at the way his mouth twisted, sharp and pointed at the word “children.” His scorn was like a slap to the face because she herself was a child. Did that then mean that he found her repulsive? An embarrassment?

She didn’t like it.

She wanted to leave, but couldn’t find the courage to. He was looking at her and although that wasn’t a physical restraint, it certainly felt like one. She was rooted in place. His excited expression gave her little choice.

“Because monsters can be seen.” He continued, seemingly catching on to the irritation on her face. “They are grotesque. Ugly. Something you could spot without having to try at all.”

Hermione nodded slowly, ignoring the fact that she didn’t know what “grotesque” meant.

“With people, you don’t know what you’ll get. The most beautiful man, with the sweetest smile and kindest gaze, could be the monster mum has warned you of. More terrible than a villain you could read about.”

Hermione sucked in a sharp breath when brother put the book down on the desk, and turned to face her completely. 

His eyes danced with something she could not name.

“Do you want to know why that is, little sister?”

It took her a moment to answer, overwhelmed by the spark of excitation that suddenly bloomed in her brother’s eyes. It floored her, robbed her entirely of her capacity to speak.

She nodded her head instead, not trusting herself to say something without embarrassing herself further.

“We invite those into our home. We eat with them. Play with them. Sleep in the same room as them. And we are unaware, blind to the horrors hidden behind their pretty smiles.”

Hermione’s heart accelerated in her chest when Tom grinned at her, all teeth. It was sweet and sugary. It lit up his face like Christmas tree, made the ominousness within his gaze sparkle with amiability and comfort.

It was disconcerting how quickly he could go from terrifying to sweet. How he had done so in the span of a second as he explained how people, though not monsters, could be worse than them.

“Did that answer your question?” 

Hermione clasped her hands together at her back, and shot him a nervous smile. It probably didn’t look nearly as nice as his.

“Yes, thank you, brother.” 

She didn’t wait for his reply.

She didn’t need to. She had known the answer from the very start, had known exactly what he was going to tell her and how, before she had knocked on his bedroom door.

Monsters weren’t real, but they didn’t need to be. 

People like Tom were far more terrifying.