MANNA- CHAPTER THIRTEEN: TEA
Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic
TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, implied child abuse and more
Read after the cut...
-
For a near week your deceptive submission endures, the hours newly tightened by a schedule your host has contrived to divert you from your anti-appetite.
Days rise from the borderless veil of time like castles from a dawn mist. Made a school child again, you sit before documentaries and foreign art films, take up a journal whose pages bear but glances of your internal woe.
You find yourself wishing that you could write with any particular talent.
As a girl you’d yearned to be an author, never daring to materialise the urge with any substantial effort. Now you can’t imagine you’ll ever be allowed so loose-penned a profession, if any at all, kept covetously home and infantilised until you cannot think beyond a fraction of words.
Why, then, does Hannibal go to such arduous lengths to educate you? Surely it is only so that—before the eyes of peers—you'll be the cultured averment of triumph through therapy.
In the soirees of your doctor's hopes you cleave, willing, to his side, bewitching the throng with smirking witticisms before sucking his cock with that same clever mouth when the last guest steps, merry and ignorant, into the night.
Already Hannibal aspires to materialise that abstraction. You find proof enough of it in the wardrobe he’s amassed for you, which expands as the days progress.
Some of his choices are attractive to you, reluctant though you are to consider this— long velvet gowns in puce, umber, black, blouse and skirt co-ordinations plucked from the runway, some still in boxes emblazoned with designer names.
Others of the selection offend you, however, in their bald intent for closed-door wear. Girlish dresses in light chiffon, corseted silk in flowering lace. Short necks and hemlines, some of them scarcely reaching the knee. Then there are sheer nightclothes stored in perfumed sheets, no practicality but for the sort of sleeping in which no slumber is to be had.
You’re to dress like some obscure young celebrity, a whimsical echo of an era thirty years passed. Still, there is an attempt in this incredible closet to appease you as well as to change, adapting your preferences to a style acceptable to Hannibal’s eye.
It’s of particular note to you that the garments are each the same size, implying that you haven’t gained significant weight since your last awareness of its value. Conceivably the labels might have been replaced, but it’s so unlikely a trick that the theory is quickly thrown out.
Hannibal is inviting you to trust his process with a peace offering of equilibrium, the second-best prize to starvation.
You are not such a fool as to take it yet, though in action you may appear to have done so.
When in the presence of your keepers you remain in unwavering character, an amplified, changeling copy of the child you'd once been. In this way you're allowed your little misbehaviours—pulling a face at food you do not like, or the shrugging rejection of an idle caress.
So long as you sit at meals, and don’t speak in any manner that threatens the illusion of family you are unharmed, and laden with unending gifts. It would be a winning childhood, had you been born into it through a far less insidious violence than that which brought you here.
Still, the awareness that you must simper and lisp for another month before you venture an escape soon wears upon your tolerance.
One Saturday morning, alone in your room, the silence of that cushioned cell amplifies your every thought to a piqued tenor.
You miss when hunger bled like smoke through your skull, ridding its halls of all but its fey shape. With a scalding clarity you behold what you are now: a homunculus, the issue of diablerie, cut small by men’s black magic.
You cast yourself amidst a tide of cushions and mimic your own words upon them in a bitter snarl.
“‘Yes, Daddy’”, ‘no, Daddy’. ‘Little one’. Oh God! It’s all so stupid. Stupid!”
An involuntary laugh chatters through you like a coin thieved from a beggar’s cup, hateful and maniacal. Yet you perform this anger as you do the docile coquette, the bounds between that self and your own a gradient that softens by the day.
It’s become rather easier to be a monster’s daughter than a woman, this you cannot deny. The longer you are extracted from the world the less you’ll remember of how to live within it, if you ever knew, before.
The misery of this thought proves too much to bear.
You cry until your head is as hot about the brow as a horseshoe turned white from the forge. The sobs wrench the muscles of your stomach in two pained halves, and still you weep until you laugh again, thinking how deranged you’d sound to any eavesdropper in the rooms below.
Afterwards you sit very quietly, like an ailing bride in a Victorian novel; you are, after all, very ill, and it suits you well to behave so.
Having nothing better to do, you switch on the television and skim through the channels with neither aim nor interest.
Thin, beautiful women populate the screen, their waists like darner flies, their wrists as narrow as your thumb. Even the history programmes feature experts with trim figures in sensible interview dresses.
Perturbed, you flick on and on until you find something on eighteenth century Paris, hosted by a grandfatherly old professor marked safe from scrutiny in the absence of compare.
You watch until your lids fall, thinking of catacombs full of monk bones, the cloying scent of ancient death, each as forgotten under dust as you are by all those who once loved you, and revered by those who never have.
In the afternoon Hannibal wakes you gently by turning the television off at the set.
“Are you feeling alright, little one?” he asks. “It’s unusual for you to sleep in so late.”
You hum in a noncommittal fashion, scarcely bothering to open your eyes.
Perhaps he’ll let you drowse the day away; you’d dream through all horrors like this, should your insomnia give you reprieve. A week, a month, a year sold to the sandman in exchange for peace— yet the dark would follow you there, also, antlered men in imagined night.
“You’ve been in bed long enough,” says Hannibal, peeling back your sheets with a brisk tug. “Up you get. Alana is visiting us this evening. She’ll have some questions for you.”
Weakly attempting to thieve back the blanket, you say, “I really don’t feel like talking to her. Can’t you do it? Please?”
“Jack won’t be satisfied with a second-hand report. Alana must see that you’re comfortable here. Not a particular incentive for you, but I can provide others.”
You open one eyelid, enticed by this readiness to bargain.
“So what do I get if I say yes?”
“A light dinner,” says Hannibal. “And—depending on your behaviour—perhaps another reward we’ll negotiate later tonight.”
At this you sit up; starving is a precious contraband in the doctor’s abode, worth more to you than every decadent thing under its rafters.
“Feeling better already, I see,” says Hannibal, through one of his charitable smiles. “Please stand by the mirror and allow me to dress you.”
Unbidden there comes the thought of his hand under your skirts, pressing inwards like a starfish sucking at a stone.
“Oh, come on, Dad,” you say, in flustered haste. "Really?”
“There’s a certain picture I’d like to create for Alana’s benefit,” he insists. “One of wellness and serenity. Your selections tend to imply something far more brooding and morose.”
With a testy little sigh you slip out of bed, rubbing your arms free of rising gooseflesh.
“You bought me those ‘brooding and morose’ outfits, remember, Dad? What does that say about you?”
“That I seek to please you,” says Hannibal, touching your mouth with playful thumb. “Today I hope that you’ll return the gesture.”
He holds aloft a pastel blue dress in transparent lace, a beaded line of detailing pointing downwards at the hips in a suggestive v.
“I don’t know,” you say, far more sharply than intended. “It’s short. And I don’t like the colour.”
“The shade will suit you,” Hannibal replies. “And you’ll wear a shift underneath for modesty, if that’s your concern.”
You don’t bother with reproof; he’s guiding you out of your nap-rumpled clothes and into the dress before you can think of an excuse he’ll entertain.
Unresisting, you only glance aside, breathing shallowly so as not to brush your chest against him as he adjusts your collar.
That Hannibal hasn’t made love to you since you shared a bed makes you think that he’s waiting for something, a moment fermented to sweeten the sex. He is, you warrant, as driven by pleasure as any man, being only of a tighter and more methodical restraint.
You can’t decide whether you’re glad of the wait or if you’d prefer he throw you down on your bed and ravish you now to have done with it.
Doubtless Hannibal considers an identical dilemma, turning you before him like a ballerina in a mirrored jewellery box.
“Even the greats couldn’t hope to replicate this image of you,” he says, as he inspects his work. “To attempt it would have them rending the canvas to pieces rather take credit for their failure.”
The compliment is long forgotten when, later, Alana breaches the house, her pretty face above her mulberry blouse like a lily in a violet bouquet.
Her casual manner in kissing Hannibal’s cheek at the door suggests a social visit, as does the gift of white wine under one thin arm. Still, she remembers her duty, taking you aside with a subtle professionalism within two minutes of having greeted her host.
Her kindness is a shingle in a cyclone, dashed away by the futility of its own existence.
“Dr Lecter told me you’re doing a lot better than when I last saw you,” says Alana, placing one of her graceful hands atop your own without comment as to its frigidity. “Are you feeling more positive now, or would you disagree with that?”
Slipping your fingers out from under hers, you say, “Well, I have a TV now. I’m allowed to do a lot more things I’m actually interested in. That helps. Thanks for that, by the way. I know you talked Dr Lecter into it.”
Smiling, Alana says, “I can’t take credit for that. He was already making preparations when I brought it up. He's racked up quite the shopping bill.”
The notion of Hannibal navigating the catalogues of online stores is ridiculous, somehow anachronistic, but then again you’ve witnessed him tapping at a sleek iPad, a jarring sight, on every occasion.
“How about mealtimes?” asks Alana. “I understand you’re working towards a plan that’s easier for you.”
“It’s still hard,” you mumble. “Tough. You know.”
Your eyes are on Alana’s patent court shoes, picturing a blandly organised rack of identical heels in alternate shades. Perhaps ankle boots for the colder days. Simple. Nothing flash.
Alana pauses, quickly assessing your disinterest in the exchange.
“Hannibal says he’d like you to agree to more therapy sessions,” she says. “He feels you’re opening up. I think we both know that’s probably wishful thinking on his side, but don’t shoot him down just yet.”
“I won’t,” you say. “Couldn’t anyway, right?”
Alana rearranges her discomfort into another closed-lipped smile. You can’t envision that lipstick ever moving, striped across her face as yours has been by both of the friends that she holds dear.
“So how are things between you and Will now?” enquires Alana, quite on cue. “Rumour has it you’re getting along like a house on fire.”
Truthfully Will has rather cooled since the night of the seizure, his envy retreating to the black of some inner primordial cave. He seems both caustically amused by your recent performance and cynical of its longevity, yet neither judgement is as severe as before.
The thought of your kindness sits with him, has been taken up with the cagy hunger of an orphan to a heel of bread. Piece by piece you’ve given him more of it in flirting words, but these he’s yet to take, turning each away with a smirk.
“Don’t try so hard,” he’d said, only a day ago, but when you’d thrown an idle foot across his lap as you read a book beside him he hadn’t removed it, only pretended to ignore the intrusion.
“Me and Will are okay,” you say to Alana. “That’s all.”
You must give away something of your successes in your expression, for Alana’s mouth twitches into a coy grin.
“Just okay?”
At that moment Hannibal knocks on the open door, a merciful trespass, setting you free of her.
*
As promised, you’re offered a modest salad while Hannibal and Alana make their way through numberless courses over the gifted wine.
At first you’re too absorbed in the mortification of eating in front of the other woman to pay attention to their mounting chemistry, dragging the same tattered leaf through streams of congealing oil.
It’s only as you’re making a fortress of cutlery across a lump of uneaten meat that you take full stock of the flirting at work before you.
Though attempts are made by both parties to fold you into the conversation they are mild at best, almost neglectful.
Alana glances up into Hannibal’s eyes in frequent, laughing enjoyment, touching his shoulder or forearm lightly; he, for his part, looks upon her lips and the curves of her form and speaks fondly to her, his voice hushed with a want of sex.
You’ve heard it often enough to know it, and should be glad to have his attentions otherwise distracted.
Yet your hands creep under the table, squeezing your thighs and stomach as though to claw out the matter you've ingested through your meat.
"I'm done," you blurt out, cutting across Hannibal's opinion of a recent classical performance he’s attended. "Can I go upstairs?"
It's with difficulty that you bite off the habitual 'Dad' that has replaced 'doctor' in your vocabulary.
Hannibal offers you a near invisible look of disgruntlement at the interruption, quickly mollified by Alana's fingers at his elbow.
"I'm sure we're boring you," she says. "Go on up and relax. You don't have to stick around just to be polite."
You glance at Hannibal, seeking his approval before you stand. His eyes, within so static a face, are black glass in their suspicion.
"I'll come up to speak to you later on," he says, at last. "If there's anything you need, don't hesitate to ask for it."
Rather than go immediately to your den above you linger to watch as the couple drink in the parlour, so close as to almost be in one another’s arms.
You see from Hannibal's relaxed posture that he is not ablaze with a fascinated love for Alana as he is for Will; he holds her merely with the affection of an old friend, and, too, with an uncomplicated desire.
He would never rape Alana Bloom; such violence, to Hannibal, is an entry into a cabal of which she has no part. Her value to him is as representation of his treasured comforts, and all that which Hannibal would not willingly change.
Alana is as used for her parts as you are, in her way, and oblivious to it, like some grinning scarecrow blind to the birds that snicker and creep at its back.
Yet as you watch her lean, murmuring, into Hannibal’s neck you feel a tooth of ice grind through your heart and turn away, feeling numbly for the bannisters behind you.
Almost on hands and knees you climb the steps to your bed, brought low by that astonishing cold.
Pausing at the bathroom you prostrate yourself at the toilet’s mercy, still unable to empty yourself of the pain and bile you'd evict to be naked of your jealousy.
In surrender you rest your head on the cool floor and remain there even after the compulsion to vomit subsides.
If you cannot flog yourself for your sins as the saints did then this will do, sprawled before the porcelain God of another degredation.
Presently the bathroom door creaks open, striking an unwanted rod of light across your face.
“Go away,” you mutter, wiping your face with an angry scrub of your knuckles. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
Hannibal looks at you with a minister’s pious severity.
"I see. So I was correct. You object to Alana and I having a sexual relationship. Any other father would sternly inform you that it’s none of your business, and as your therapist it’s even less so.”
Raising your head, you snap at him as fiercely as you dare.
“What about me?”
“My friendship with Alana is very different to what you and I share,” says Hannibal, and you snort, wiping a stream of clear mucus across your lips.
“I’ll bet.”
Hannibal turns his head at a quizzical angle, and you perceive the very second of his understanding like the unveiling of some trick.
“You must explain yourself, darling,” he says. “What is it about this that has upset you?”
The logical answer should be that you wish to save Alana from him, that you cannot watch her beaming, black-haired head roll out from under the axe.
Instead, you blurt out, “Don’t you get it, Dad? How it makes me feel? You’re supposed to understand me, and I’m pretty sure you do. You knew that it would hurt me. You did this on purpose the way you wave me around in front of Will.”
Using the sink to right yourself you get to your feet, standing on pathetic, defiant tiptoe so that you might gaze into the devil’s face directly.
“If you have to do this, then please, just me. Just me. I can’t stand it. It makes me feel sick to think about you and her together. Knowing you’ll touch me afterwards. Don’t do this to me. Please."
“I see,” says Hannibal.
He speaks with such calm that you deflate from your anger at once.
“Very well,” he says. “I can make an excuse for Alana to leave. Would that please you, little one?”
This time you don’t answer, only stare at him with huge and terrible eyes until he retreats to the stairway.
“Oh, god,” you say, under your breath. “Amy, you’d really hate me right now, wouldn’t you?”
You hear Hannibal and Alana talking in low undertones, the female voice a coo of thoughtful sympathy. In time Alana collects herself to leave, but only when her car propels itself quietly from the driveway does Hannibal come to you again.
By now you’re sitting at your dresser, making a humiliated attempt to recollect your dignity with cosmetics. You know that Hannibal will not like what you’d made of your face—the eyes painted black, your lips the colour of your heart, a sinking, well-bound stone.
Yet all he says as he stands behind you is, “Look at me, little one.”
Your hand shakes, blotting your eyelid with an errant apostrophe of mascara.
“Don’t want to.”
“I know. I’d like you to, even so.”
The gentleness of Hannibal’s voice is an agony to you. You’ve never hated nor been more drawn to him than you are now, this impossible spirit in the vessel of a man.
Stiffly you turn on your chair, meeting his gaze to find it truly repentant.
“I won’t make love to Alana again,” says Hannibal, and you know as you do the reality of elements that he does not lie. “I see that this triggers your fear of abandonment too greatly. But it might not be possible for me to avoid all romantic advances.
“There are rumours abound as to our arrangement already, and it will seem suspicious if I don’t take a lover. But I’ll do my best to be faithful to our family.”
He pauses, watching you battle to suppress your disgust for him, for yourself, for all things in the bracken of his design.
“For now, I’d like you to relax,” says Hannibal. “This level of distress will make you ill. I’m concerned that it already has.”
Taking you by a hand as clammy as mermaid skin he leads you down to the living room to serve you from a pot of fragrant tea.
Though its calorific value is likely near to air you catastrophize with immediacy, unable to touch the cup, let alone drink.
“I’m not doing it on purpose this time,” you babble. “I’m not, Dad, please, you’ve got to believe me.”
Hannibal raises a hand to caress you— that, and only that, and yet you shrink against the couch in expectancy of a blow.
An appalled look tightens Hannibal’s expression, a hypocrisy of which he seems endlessly capable.
“There, now,” he says. “I can tell the difference between unruliness and genuine struggle. You and I both know that tea is only leaves and water— why do you believe against logic that it will affect your weight?”
“I don’t know,” you say, with a helpless shake of the head. “I feel like if I drink it I won’t be able to stop myself. I’ll eat and eat until I’m... big, and then I won’t be able to go back to the way I was. Everyone will see me differently. Treat me like they used to. People can be cruel.”
“And none crueller than you are to yourself,” says Hannibal, and he eases the cup between your hands so that you must take it or scald yourself raw. “There is nothing shameful in having a body of any kind, and any who judge you for that would wear their foolishness like a flag for all to see. Nevertheless, I’ve balanced your weight here, and will continue to do so if that is what’s needed for you to believe in my intentions.”
He aids you to drink, lifting the cup to your mouth over and over until the last drop. From the bitter taste you know it altered by some drug.
For once you do not care.
The night has left you so ashamed of your bearing that you’re half joyful to be done with it, sinking back as euphoria transforms all things that touch you into nirvana.
Your fingers drape across your body in aimless exploration, stopping only as Will enters the room with Hannibal at his side.
The younger man’s eyebrows jump as you giggle and hide your hands behind your back.
“You’re smiling,” says Will. “And I’m not sure how I feel about the circumstances.”
“Our girl is relieved to see you, Will,” says Hannibal. “A familiar face is a balm for even the most taxing day.”
Will looks from you to Hannibal ponderously.
“Alana was here earlier,” he states.
“She was, much to our little one’s chagrin.”
“Do you have to talk about her?” you interrupt, in loose-tongued irritation.
Hannibal chuckles.
“We do not. There are other topics I’d find far more engaging.”
You watch from under heavy lids as the men discuss the Lover’s case in low, library murmurs.
“Tanya Marrow was found washed up by the Patapsco River this morning,” says Will, with a grim regret. “Her wounds were fresh, meaning the Lover only mutilated Tanya and placed her into the doll when he was ready to throw her away. He was content with how closely she resembled the woman he’s desperate to make, for a while.
“But she wasn’t close enough. In the end he had to remind her that she was just a toy to him, and punish her for her lacking.”
The contrast of these dreary horrors with the rainbow light of feeling through your needy cunt should sicken you, but your mind is in disorder, barely one thought akin to the next.
“We’ve made a breakthrough in regards to the dolls,” Will continues. “The well-made ones are expensive; for one person to have so many implies that the Lover is either a wealthy collector, or that he’s able to access them at a considerable discount. Possibly for free.”
“I’m assuming the factory producing these dolls has been identified,” says Hannibal.
Will swallows a mouthful of whiskey.
“There are only four vendors known to produce the style of doll the Lover uses. Jack’s got someone looking into their customers, narrowing down the suspects to buyers in Virginia. Considering how specialised these clients are that shouldn't take long.”
The older man listens with a solemn intensity, scarcely drinking from his own glass.
“I see the Lover almost exactly now,” says Will. “He knows he has to take his bride eventually; he’s circling her, choosing women that are closer and closer to her physical proximity. The next target will be someone she knows.
“It’s a dangerous move, but by now the Lover wants someone that’s stood so close to this woman that he can taste her. Imagine her beneath him when he defiles the inferior victim.”
Fear swims, crocodilian, within you, disturbing your narcotic stupor.
Seeming to sense it, Hannibal says, “Let’s continue this line of conversation later on. I wouldn’t want to give our surrogate daughter bad dreams.”
Will glances at you, watching you fumble idly with the hem of your dress.
“You don’t plan to cast her as our daughter in tonight’s play, do you?” he asks, plainly.
“That would unnecessarily chasten the evening,” says Hannibal. “She’s the woman for whom we are legally responsible, and what we deem fit for her continued health is ours to determine.”
You recline across the couch like an empress, watching the firelight glance shadows across your skin like a garment in a dream. Hannibal slips a hand from your shoulder to your breast, teasing the tiffany lace across your nipple, and the warmth and delicacy of the touch breathes through you a shiver of ermine delight.
Only vaguely do you acknowledge your revulsion, a whisper at a keyhole on the other side of the house.
“What did you give her for her to let you touch her like that?” asks Will, curiously.
His hands play upon the sides of his whiskey glass, and the thought of them upon your thighs or between them drives your lower lip between your teeth with unbeckoned desire.
“I’ve offered her release from her spirited rebellion,” says Hannibal. “Even having promised us fealty, this act she wouldn’t easily endure. I wish for her to experience intimacy unhindered by her mental bounds.”
His fingers glance beneath the neckline of your dress and cross your bare skin as a swan's wing meets the sky, rushing a moan from you more akin to a sob in its juddering resonance.
“Besides,” Hannibal continues, “she’s had a trying afternoon. Her body welcomes this.”
Will’s face, washed honey bronze by firelight, is so neutral that even if you were not high you’d fail to extract the mechanisms of thought behind it.
“We’ve both succeeded in bringing her to climax,” says Hannibal, as his other hand folds your skirt against your pelvis. “But never her consent. Tonight, perhaps we will.”
“In this state she has no real autonomy,” Will argues. “We’re witnessing an illusion.”
Hannibal pauses, his face like that of an antiques dealer slyly unveiling some stolen wares.
“Not exactly,” he says. “Little one: you’ve described me as handsome. Do think that Will is good-looking?”
Your concentration wavers as two digits inscribe an ouroboros in your arousal. The wrongness of it all only enhances the sensation, the thought of being a lovely toy for older men to play with.
Your name on Dr Lecter’s lips recalls his question.
“Yes,” you say. “I— I do.”
You don’t know why you’re honest. Even a child, embarrassed, could lie.
Will smiles, and for a moment there is something almost sweet in his expression.
Then the dark of him slithers behind it again with predatory ease, and he leans forward, knees apart, possessed of a revelation of self-assurance.
This is the self he becomes when challenging Dr Lecter, the arrogant observer of all living things.
“I already knew that,” says Will. “I don’t mind hearing it clarified, though.”
You can’t imagine him ever admitting that you’re beautiful in return. Hannibal would, has done so already in such a succulence of language that your mouth could water with it, but not Will, not in so many words.
All that he will allow thus far is that you are not ugly. Blearily you vow to unwind from him his obsession.
“Puppy love,” says Hannibal, looking into your face with a gentle irony. “You’d like him to touch you, wouldn’t you, little one?”
This you don’t answer, and rather than press you again Hannibal makes you come with three fingers inside you, patient as you cry out and roll your head aside in conflict and delirium.
You cannot decide if he means to reward you for your participation with Will or to humiliate you for that same eagerness. It is bewildering and erotic, this envy they have for one another; to quell it you must kneel to the hierarchy, submissive always to your covetous masters.
“Join us, Will,” says Hannibal, at last.
Briefly you think that he won’t, a scoffing lord, above it all.
Then he crosses the room, sets down his whiskey and kisses you, first your mouth, then your neck, leaving the taste of smoke and almonds wherever his lips meet.
Whimpering, you kick your feet on the couch as each petal of ecstasy comes loose from a branch within you.
Sometimes Will’s teeth push against your flesh, not quite biting; Hannibal, on the other side of your neck, gently does, as though inheriting the expected assault from his would-be lover.
His fingers form a cylinder of delight in you, the pad of his thumb undoing another orgasm in a trio of strokes.
“How gifted we are to receive such delights,” says Hannibal, and as you groan he docks his arousal in your own, filling you so entirely with his cock that you think and feel only the fucking and nothing more, a witless hole.
Will brings your hand to his erection, and there is no uncertainty in that motion, nor in his lips about your breast. His rough tongue, the saliva like a paste jewel on your nipple—
Writhing, panting, you stir through pleasure upon pleasure like the layers of the earth, soft, dark, deep.
Your palm tightens on Will’s cock like a night sea about the lighthouse it yearns to bring down, working him with a knowing purpose. As Hannibal continues his pelvic rolls against you Will draws back, avoiding the early release that your cunning fist would bring.
Not once do the men make contact in a sexual manner with each other, and you don’t understand it, this avoidance of the ultimate lust. Yet perhaps it is that they fuck through you, for when Hannibal achieves his orgasm and moves away Will pushes into you without caution of the other man’s seed still warm in that same place.
He looks up into Hannibal’s eyes as he does it, watching his response as he weaves pleasure from a loom of servile flesh.
But then you make some shapeless sound of need, one hand extended, not quite touching him, and Will's eyes return to you with such intensity that you forget that brief, lost woe.
He mimics Hannibal’s command of your body, hands moving, unrushed, from breast to hip as he opens you further to him. His violence is a mage’s dance, something once done around fire, and charged now through the vessel of a young and studious man.
No wonder, then, that you have neither strength nor will to repel him. You roil, loose-limbed as the dead, only your noise and perspiring response to sensation to evidence your ongoing life.
Hannibal’s arms go loosely around you, holding your head in his lap as Will makes love to you with a brooding fervour. Every touch is like the discovery of a new and indescribable existence, having traversed to some frontier of feeling only sects of pleasure have previously founded.
You know yourself wanted by both men, now, feel it through their mutterings of ecstasy, the unending pressure of mouths and hands upon your skin. They crave your wanting of them in return, lap up your slightest sign of it, tainted as it is by Hannibal’s poison.
Will pours in you his ending, his breath a kiss against your eardrum.
You come again with both men gazing upon you, their faces as close and beautiful together as stringed pearls.
Dimly you fear that they will succeed in their work with you, no matter how fiercely you defy their twofold will.
“Hey,” says the younger man, nudging your shoulder lightly. “Snap out of it. You’re bleeding. Did we hurt you?”
Your first thought is, “yes, of course you did.”
The next, having looked down at the red dart through the milk of semen on your thigh, is the same nip of terror you know from an unexpectedly high number on the scale.
The final cognition—and one almost certainly true—is that this carnival of sex has brought that crimson forth like the incitation of bacchanalian madness.
The shock of it wrings you near dry of the doctor’s drug, a bald winter sobriety.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “It’s my period. I haven’t had one in years.”
118 notes
·
View notes