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phantomsies · 4 months ago

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grown woman • r. sukuna

📝: modern au, black fem!reader (she’s in her 30’s), alcohol use, missionary, oral sex (f. receiving), choking, cumshot, subby-ish sukuna, spit play

wc: 2.2K

📃: I’m still struggling to get back used to tumblr so I’m gonna be a lil slow posting. It’ll also be on patreon as well and hopefully, it doesn’t get flagged!

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a subtle touch, a gentle kiss..a slight nudge of the nose to the neck. It was all of the small movements that made him tick. Even the slightest bit of movement sent his heart into a fit of flutters. Honestly, it wasn’t anything to be ashamed of either..for he was simply a man in love. Unapologetically and unconditionally. Some would even credit you solely for his change in demeanor…from a slick, smooth talking womanizer who couldn’t even spell love. To the shameless romantic with enough passion to fuel the entire planet. Hell, if you let him tell it, the world didn’t even start spinning and the sun never shined until you came around. In essence, you changed his life!..and quite frankly, his image as well.

Ryomen Sukuna was known for many things throughout his life but being a monotonous, adoring homebody was not one of them! No longer were the days of club hopping and late night hookups…wandering home with whatever girl piqued his interest for the night and taking out all of his unbridled sexual frustration on her. In an even more callous move, she was out before the sun even rose and her name was irrelevant. He’d come to work with the same charming, fun disposition as if he hadn’t ruined another girl’s perception of love and healthy relationships. It was all a part of the game as far as he was concerned. So naturally, when you entered his life over a year and a half ago..never would this man have imagined that he’d be standing in the kitchen of a shared condo; towel draped over his bare shoulder as he stirred a pot of homemade sauce to serve with the dinner he’d prepared for you. Domesticated like an animal that had once roamed the streets mindlessly..now, spending his Saturday nights drinking wine with R&B reverberating through the speakers of a mounted flat screen. It was the after effects of dealing with a grown woman, after all. Firm in what you wanted, even more steadfast in what you wouldn’t tolerate and what he could do if the rules didn’t suit his fancy. However, him walking out of the door was the least of your worries now. Especially when you had him reeled in so closely.

“Mmmph..damn.”

the gesture catching his attention as you sat adjacent to him on the couch. Long, slender brown legs crossed as you nursed your own glass of Sauvignon. It was your third one of the evening and it was certainly taking its toll. So much so, your appetite had completely shifted from what was being prepared…

“Don’t worry. The food’s almost done..just finishing up a few things.”

to the one who had so graciously concocted the meal! Make no mistake, Ryo’s cooking was nothing short of a divine dining experience. But the carbonara wasn’t the only thing you were in the mood to slurp on! See, he could appreciate your honesty for the things you desired. How you weren’t shy or bashful about your needs. So long had he been the one controlling the narrative..making the decisions and sadly, trampling all over the women in his life because they made it easy to do so. But you weren’t any of them and that fact was reinstilled each time you two were alone. (Y/N) had finally grown tiresome of quelling your urges and set the cogs in motion so that this evening could truly end the way you both hoped for. You’d been hiding your time, watching him move around from the stove to the fridge, bringing you tiny samples in between and even halting momentarily to steal an influx of kisses. He’d been fantasizing about spreading you out on that table but with growth came reservation and he always waited for you to initiate things now. Twirling him around and moving him as if he were your puppet and like the helpless lover boy he’d transformed into, Ryo followed!

“Actually…why don’t you turn that off? I’ve got something better..” Instead of preparing plates, he was summoned by the wave of a finger..decorated with French tips and the sight of your fur lined robe slightly ajar from you pulling it open. “Oh, is that right? So watching me sweat over that stove was just for your amusement then, huh?” You immediately sensed the sarcasm in that deep voice of his and that toothy, foolish grin on his face gave away any hint of annoyance. As he drew closer, your legs spread further apart and you’d welcome him in between with no hesitation. Cackling as your lips connected into sloppy tongue kisses and those nimble hands cupped his face. Those large tattooed hands wasting no time in groping you subtly as they roamed your exposed skin.

“More like for my pleasure. Now shut up and come eat this pussy..”

his sharp eyes would cut at you, followed by a chuckle as that frame towered over you. Both of his hands and arms resting by your side like two giant pillars.

“And since when did you start telling me what the fuck to do? You know I don’t take orders from anyone.” But if Ryomen knew one fact..it was that you weren’t these other little girls he was used to fooling around with! You’d put him in his place and he’d stay there if he knew what was good for him. Quiet as it was kept, he loved the shit! Something about being bossed around by a woman who was a fraction of his size made him illicit feelings he shouldn’t have. Sitting cross armed with seemingly not a care in the world, (y/n) raised your leg..only to place it atop his shoulder blade and pressed down until that six foot five frame sank to its knees.

“Yet here you are…doing..exactly what the fuck I told you.” Honestly, that snarky tone would’ve gotten anyone else slung across the room. But not you..he graciously accepted those demands and got to work. The tension was mounting and veins began to protrude from his forehead. Without a single moment of haste, Ryo aggressively tugged your panties to the left side and out of his way..allowing him to delve into your center. Leaving sloppy, full licks all over your wet folds, suckling roughly on your clit and clawing his fingers into your thighs in the event you tried to scoot away from him. It didn’t take long before a trail of saliva and delicious cream began to trickle down to your most sensitive areas.

“Ugh!—fuck..yeah, good boy. You know what I need.”

your words seemed to have elicited a response out of him; a half verbal one that caused him to loudly grunt and follow it with a hard slap to your thigh. Eventually, your legs began to tremble and the sensation reverberated throughout your entire body. “You better be lucky you taste so goddamn good..I shouldn’t give you shit.” “Mmmhm. I hear you…”

Meanwhile, your digits scoured his hair..guiding his head along. Your legs were resting idly on Ryo’s shoulder and still rattling when you’d feel your throat constrict. Those large hands coiled around your neck and he’d squeeze lightly just to add to your mounting pleasure. Those calculated movements would only continue to grow increasingly more aggressive and euphoric. By the time he came up for a semblance of air, you’d coated your boyfriend’s face in a veil of sticky warmth. (Y/N) clawed at his forearm, but to no avail. He’d finally gotten you within his clutches..just as that orgasm drew near. Just as your entrance began to contract around his middle and index fingers whilst they worked inside of you. And just as you were about to release, he’d rise to his feet and hover over you. Burrowing his knees into the couch cushion and positioning himself between those parted legs. With a deviant scowl on his face and in one fell swoop, Ryo tugged at the elastic waistband of his Nike sweats; bringing them to the floor and his stiff cock from their confines. It was seeping..the tip puddling with precum and aching to be nestled balls deep inside of you.

“Look at you..about to pass out. How cute.”

“But I’m not. So fuck me until I do..”

however, rather than being greeted with frail whimpers and pleas for mercy, (y/n) returned that smile with your tongue dangling from your mouth and commands to do his worst! ”You got a lot of fucking mouth, y’know that? Talk that shit with this dick inside of you. I’d love to hear that.”

Those freshly shaven lips were tapped with that pulsating cock head before it found its way between those silky walls.. and quite possibly his kryptonite!..only fitting about three solid inches before he’d begin to buckle. Frustration truly began to set in when he realized your reaction didn’t mirror his own and instead of being met with the sight of hands pawing at his abs, those acrylics rested on your clit and began to trace circles. Your tits sitting upright as you peered down to see how far he’d got in.

��And you really think that’s enough to shut me up? C’mon, baby. You can do better than that.”

it was always him..always him talking and guiding his sexual partners through the sessions. It was always him who was vocal and demanding the next move..but you’d once again flipped all those notions onto their heads! Tightening that force against your throat, Ryo sought to prove himself. Starting out with only a couple slow strokes before drilling into you full fledge. Loud smacking noises from colliding flesh filled the room and with that hulking frame towering over you, he’d try his best to get you to break! Feeding you long, deep and impactful thrusts..interchanging fingers from your throat to your mouth and even pressing into your stomach to feel his own imprint.

Anything to garner dominance..but it was you with the upper hand. Even with that deranged simper stretching from ear to ear, (y/n) still egged him on. Despite tears trickling down your face and that fresh silk press becoming disheveled. Your toes curled midair as they remained on his chiseled pecs..limbs flailing about and your screams added to the chorus of chaotic noises. Your juices began to puddle and a sheath of white leaked from that tight hole. In that moment, he’d glance up to see only the whites of your eyes and thought it was a golden opportunity.

“Yeah..I knew it. Knew you couldn’t handle—“ “Yes, baby! Give it to me..make this pussy come!..make me nut on that fucking dick..” But condition aside, you’d laugh and become joyous at the sight of his roughness. Opening your jaws graciously for slaps and trails of spit. Taking every inch as if it were nothing…even when you’d begin to squirt and dampen those abs. He’d expected you to cower down and eventually tap out, like all the others before you. That he would be the top dog at the end of this little rendezvous. But when he felt that pulsation of his own climax nearing, Ryomen began to panic. Doubling down on his hard strokes, his pace and movements becoming erratic and the onset fear that he’d be coming in a shorter duration than he ever had!..it was too much..and yet again, in another move for control, (y/n) made the final call.

“Pull out..I want it on my face..” too spent and quite frankly, too enamored to fight back, the all mighty Ryomen Sukuna..notorious playboy turned pathetic fuck toy..retracted and allowed you to do as you wished. Leaning up, you’d wrap those nimble hands around his shaft and make jerking motions until that warm splatter of cum rain down on your mouth, tits and pretty features. “G’ahh! F-fuck..I’m coming!—“ “I know, baby. I know..give it all to me. Let me drain you..”

All with a toothy grin and that maniacal cackle as you licked up the remnants. But not before ushering him in for another kiss.

“Thank you, daddy..just what I needed. See, you can follow directions.”

It was at that exact moment that the epiphany crossed his mind. And all Ryo could do was burst into laughter. No more were his days of mindless control and having his way..he was a changed man. Who was fucking with a grown woman!

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theredofoctober · 25 days ago

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MANNA- CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE: STEAK

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon/rape, abuse, Daddy kink, cannibalism mentions, death mentions, Stockholm Syndrome, nonconsensual choking

Read after the cut

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Will forces the stiff brooch of your fingers to open, uncovering the flattened clot of meat and the grease sodden note within. The ink is still clear against the page despite your efforts to ball it up in your palm.

Will reads it, his eye line cutting zigzags across your questionable calligraphy.

“One,” he says, and you take a fumbling step towards the stairwell in want of sanctuary from that solitary word.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask, throttling the bannister in your grip. “This is a good idea, right? This is how you prove to Jack that there’s human meat in the house. This is how you prove for sure that Hannibal’s the Copycat and the Ripper.”

You believe the doctor is wise enough to have cleared the basement of evidence in readiness for his guests’ arrival, and know not to bank on it to buy your way out of your imprisonment.

“I told you not to act without me,” says Will. “I should have known you’d disregard me at the first opening.”

His words are like a robber’s knife, going in and in with spiteful jerks.

“But I didn’t do it in the end,” you protest. “I changed my mind. I turned around. Jack doesn’t know anything.”

“It doesn’t matter. Go upstairs and wait for me in Hannibal’s room.”

Your chest constricts at the command.

“Why his room and not my own?”

Will’s lip draws back from closed white teeth, and the threat of him is ozone in the air.

“You know why. Go. And if you disobey me this time not even Hannibal will hold me back from what I’ll do, so don’t bother hiding under his skirts. Move.”

Made pathetic by despair you say, “Don’t do this. You love me, Daddy.”

"And you threw that right in my face. What's the matter with you?"

There is no trace of understanding in the boil of his gaze, nothing of the alliance you’d been so close to cementing behind Hannibal’s back. Whatever that was in its brevity has run from him like liquor from a shattered glass. You cannot pick up the shards, either of you. All that would come of it would be blood.

"You're crazy," you whisper, and Will lunges as though to snatch you up by your neck.

With a squeak you clear the stairs three at a time, crawling the top ones on your gut like a toddler, unable to walk.

You lock yourself into Hannibal's ensuite bathroom and stand heaving chlorinated air, your hands compressing your stomach. Through the freakish eye of your disorder your reflection in the mirror above the sink is a sweating gourd, grossly rotund.

You are surely no good for eating; perhaps that is the reason you will survive this new stupidity of yours, and no other.

Gripped by an awful tension you listen to the ambiguous noises of the occupants on the floors below, chuntering what prayers you remember to what Gods have died in place of the new.

Already you know the motions at work beneath you, how Will must lean into the ear of his friend to whisper of your duplicity, how together they will devise some way to have Jack take a premature leave of the house.

You’d known even as you'd thought to place the paper kiss of Judas in his pocket that you’d be whipped for it by means literal or otherwise. Yet you think you’d rather take leather to the back than be humiliated by sex, so personal and eroding an attack as you take it to be.

They wash you of yourself through such intimacy, your jailers, intend to complete your transformation into their loyal bride until, so wed, you lose the ability to hate them.

Suddenly you miss your parents with an acuteness that brings you to tears. Yet you'd been so scarcely consoled by either mother or father even as an infant that you realise with a choke of horror that it is your abusers you would go to for such love.

You sink down against the shower door, taking comfort in the pain of your spine taking the glass, a kind of penance.

An hour scrapes by, a second, a third. Footfalls rise under you, and doors clap open and shut in their frames.

Voices start up outside the locked bathroom with a suddenness that drives your teeth into your lip against the scream that would otherwise bring you to further shame. Silence is courage of a kind your impulsive nature rarely allows you to keep; it would not be so bad a time to hold it now, you think.

"She's hiding from us," says Hannibal on the other side of the door.

"From you," Will corrects. "Like a child afraid of nightmares.”

“The child she is. I'm surprised we haven’t found her under the bed."

Their mocking you is only the prelude to a harm of brutal extremity, yet you put your hands across your face until tears roll through your closed fingers.

A polite knock strikes the door above your head.

"Come out, Little One. If I must break in to get you out then I'll be far angrier with you then I am presently."

Hannibal’s voice is soft, almost humorous, and for this reason you doubt his rage could be greater if you’d spat in his eye with an oath.

Continuing in that same amiable tone he says, "I know you didn’t go through with your betrayal, which Will and I have taken into account. But you must come out to face us both. You’re adult enough for that."

You answer in a strained, percussive whisper.

"I can't."

“By force or by your own decision you must leave that room,” says Hannibal patiently. “It would degrade both yourself and us if you insist upon the former.”

Will remains silent, his disgust so loud as to speak on his behalf.

There is little aim in examining your options, being that both end with you under a man.

Exhausted, you accept that it was your very foot that tipped the bucket beneath the gallows and, in defeat, open the door.

You see Hannibal peering down at you with the visage of a cemetary angel before Will seizes hold of you, setting you roughly on your back upon the bed. He leans across you, making a lock of your arms in his own, and the stench of him—fish dinner, wood smoke, snow-soaked dog hair, and drink—buries you so densely that you feel like the same animal he is.

He presses his leering face to yours and there is still love in it, that of the autumn killing dream.

“Fight me if you want to,” he says. “Haven’t you figured out that’s what we want by now?”

“I see you’ve reverted to your previous role,” Hannibal comments as you rigidify in Will’s arrest.

“I never really gave it up,” Will answers. “Did you expect me to?”

“I did not, but I’m interested to know why you returned to it so soon. Were you so compelled by her suffering that you couldn’t restrain the urge to correct her mistakes, or were you grasping for a dominance you feared you’d lose through neglect of that power over her?”

Will’s eyebrows start a yard up his forehead.

“We’re both her fathers. That implies an equal standing, unless you’re feeling a particular impulse to submit.”

Hannibal’s gaze pours over Will like resin—searching—hoping for confirmation of an erotic inference.

“Can’t say that I am,” he says at last. “It’s never served me to yield. In the interest of my professional and personal endeavours I find myself needing to be in full control of all variables.”

"And yet she still slipped through your hands, or almost did. She would have sold both of us to Jack, and it's on you for trusting her to wander away from the table without making sure she stayed in her room. Are you losing your head, Dr Lecter?"

"No more than you are. You too left her alone long enough to form dangerous ideas and to act upon them, or near enough. We both hoped that she would develop loyalty to the family by now, and we've each found that hope shattered."

"You hoped," says Will, and he twists the cord of your arms for emphasis. "I doubted. But our problem isn't with her lacking the right emotions. It's that she still thinks she can cut us off like a teenage runaway whenever she feels like it. She's a brat. We haven't purged that trait, and if we haven't succeeded at this stage I doubt we ever will."

"Nevertheless we should persevere with our attempts to tame it, somewhat," says Hannibal dryly. "I believe it’s high time we begin."

Upon that verbal cue Will pulls a thick roll of packing tape from his pocket, brought with him from his home with the clear intent to use should such an event as this arise; he’d already been in doubt of your demure turn in behaviour and had kept his ears pricked for its merest change. That same knowing is in his eyes as he leans on you to tie your wrists together, near winding you with the force of his weight.

As soon as it lifts again you suck in a litre of air and begin to plead with them both.

"I know I shouldn't have done it, I know, I know, it was really bad, but I turned back, right? I did, I—"

"I should tape your mouth, too," Will says. "But Dr Lecter thinks that's a bad idea."

“Her airways must be clear,” says Hannibal with evident regret. “We can experiment with that notion in the near future.”

Thinking of his expensive toys you shudder deeply. A gag or bit between your teeth, the straps cutting the membrane of skin at your lips’ outer corners—

“No,” you say. “Please. Hannibal— Daddy—"

Will drags your head upright, and Hannibal stoops down so close that he could kiss you on the mouth if he were so inclined.

Instead he only says, “Through us you’ll receive absolution. You’d respect us far less if we withheld this from you.”

Then he touches your neck the way he did the day he’d asked how you would kill him, pressing gently down on either side of it until you thrash, light-headed, in the grace of his hand.

The flat gems of Will’s eyes watch, intent, and one of his arms twitches as if restraining the urge to pull the other man away from you, or else to him.

“Grasp her like this,” says Hannibal. “A slight pressure is all that’s needed.”

For an instant you are rendered unconscious, in a state of calm and terrible bliss. How they frighten you with the helplessness of falling into that space of not quite sleep, extending their control over not only your body but your wakefulness, as well.

You can’t deny you would have asked for this in more consensual circumstances. In your old life you’d watched a specific clip over and over you’d found of a pretty actress taken roughly in some false dungeon and had placed your own fingers around your throat until you came.

But in that video the performers had been subtly attentive to each other with gestures and murmured check-ins. Rather gentle, in retrospect.

It’s doubtful these men will ever ask for your agreement. They plunder and consume and have killed with the same irreverence; to ask if you’ll allow your own rape is illogical, a black sort of joke.

Hannibal removes his hand from your throat, then, and without hesitation Will’s takes its place, squeezing far tighter than is necessary to replicate the desired effect.

You go limp within seconds of this, your gaze roaming over the light feature above you as your body jerks with the spasms of an inexistent electrocution.

Without a hint of his previous trepidation Will slaps your cheek to wake you. You rouse slowly, unwillingly; it’s easier to be out than aware of him in his anger with you.

“No more,” you whimper. “I don’t like it, I don’t like it—”

“If you did I’d start again with something else,” says Will bluntly. “I’m tired of you pissing on every rule we set for you.”

Again he chokes you in and out of that cursed quarter sleep.

Observing, Hannibal says, “Penetrate her.”

"Gladly," Will replies, and with a nasty smile on his lips he lets himself free of his clothes.

You kick at him weakly, not daring to strike the groin or his belly lest you enrage him all the more. He throws your legs apart with ease and snaps the elastic of your undergarments, uncaring of the expense, which is vast.

Then with his hand a gorget around your gasping throat he perforates your resistance, his lean form a weapon of adrenaline. You flail in the maelstrom of him, buffeted by the strike of his palm dredging you out from each choking attack.

For him to have almost lost access to your body, to have been deprived of what is already rationed by his work— he’d love to core your innards with his knife and teach you through death what a bitch you’ve been to scorn him.

But then again perhaps it wouldn’t be a blade he’d employ; from the feel of him you think he’d use his hands.

His beautiful face is pale with a yearning for slaughter as he licks your skin of its taste. Weak from his fucking and the rounds of suffocation you sprawl, a boneless corpse hung upon his cock. Your cunt is a channel of aching.

Hannibal only watches this go on; you're vaguely surprised that he does not touch himself, nor does he say a word throughout the rape.

Only his eyes communicate their want— not for you, but for the man that takes you like a conquering soldier, wishful that he were the one to endure his power.

Will ends the act while you're passed out upon him, slowing to an idle stir of his hips as he fills you with white warmth. When your eyes are too slow to open he catches you by the chin and shakes you about.

"Why do you have to make us so ashamed of you?"

You should laugh in his face, call him a killer again, but you only cry limply, stung by the coarseness of his voice.

As Will stands Hannibal makes as if to have his turn.

"Don't touch her," snaps Will.

The older man stops at once.

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want you to."

Nonplussed, Hannibal turns his head aside as though the angle will assist him to understand.

"May I ask the reason?"

Working up his zipper, Will says, "We aren't where we were with our friendship. The time erased from memory— I'll never get it back. You stole it from me, health and reason, too. I resent how little any of it’s affected you. You’ve lost nothing, and I think maybe you should.”

"I'd like us to begin anew," says Hannibal, and it occurs to you that he is pleading; he may as well be on his knees. "To progress from my misjudgement we can only advance and establish a new way of being."

Will’s mouth warps in a grim smirk.

"It's not that simple. You benefit from my presence here with you, and with her. You've orchestrated every moment of this relationship and feasted upon it like an emperor. For once I want to see you go hungry."

Astonished by the development of this conversation you glance at Hannibal, picking apart each mite gesture of stress in his composure.

"Very well,” he says. “I starved profoundly, as a boy."

Sympathy brushes Will's expression, buried quickly under hard disinterest.

"Then you'll survive."

He swivels to leave, ignoring the trembling heap of you on the bed, the piteous hand extended like the paw of a menagerie animal through the bars.

"You're going?" asks Hannibal.

"The dogs miss me. Winston keeps running away. Can’t let it happen again.”

"And when will you return to us?"

The rapidity of Hannibal’s questions, though spoken entirely without emotion, gives away his distress at being left so abruptly and in obvious discord.

"I'll be by in a couple of days," says Will. "Whenever Jack's squeezed me dry of all I’m worth."

He lets himself out of the house alone, coolly satisfied with his retribution.

In silence Hannibal approaches the bed to untie you and smooth your dress back down over your bare legs again. That he doesn't assault you even after Will has left and is unable to see the act fills you with an inappropriate hilarity. Of the two almost lovers Hannibal— the eater of flesh—is so serious in his submission to the other's desires that he enacts his will like a ritual, private, but nevertheless in hope of it being recognised.

He has you follow him to your own room and bids you to sit as he takes away each of your books and records to lock up in a cabinet along the hallway.

"You'll consume only what I decide for you until I see proof that you’ve learned from this evening," he says. "I think we’ll also return to regular therapy."

You don't argue, merely sit upon your mattress, a doleful waxwork, too stunned by what's occurred to offer a response.

"I read your journal," says Hannibal, suddenly. "There were some interesting ideas covered in even those short entries. I'd like you to continue penning your thoughts."

Stirring, you say numbly, "What's the point? My writing is awful. Even though it's just supposed to be a diary I can't stand hearing my own voice. I wish I was good at it, you know? Poetic, I guess."

It is odd to hold such a dialogue with the doctor after he conducted such sadism upon you through his friend. You are used to it, however, this domestic order of evil.

"Artistic skill comes with practice," says Hannibal. "A worthy exercise is to study a piece of work you admire and attempt to replicate it. For instance, you could take any sentence you like and rewrite it in the style of Nabokov or Dostoevsky to better understand their methods."

You pull a face.

"I don't want to be a mimic, though. I want my own way of writing."

"By breaking down the construction of literature and the patterns within it you'll begin to see how you can apply similar—though not identical—practices to your own work. All the greats have done so with those they admire."

Something of this conversation leads your mind on another track, one connected through the canon of a more vicious form of art.

"Dad," you say. "I'm the Lover's second muse, aren't I? That’s why you’ve involved yourself in the case. It's so obvious. I'm not just a distraction to the killer; he’s been interested in me long before you or Will ever met me. That's why the second wave of girls look like me, and it’s part of the reason why you agreed to accept me for treatment.

“The minute you saw my case and realised who I was you took me from the Lover right from under his nose just because you could. You didn’t want him to kill me before he finished creating enough dolls for him to show Will who he is. You knew I was the perfect gift for him."

Hannibal makes a militantly neat pile of the last of your books and brushes down their spines with his hand.

"Yes," he says. "I did."

Part of you had known it always, had sought out what detail of you raised you beyond the tossing out of the class of Rude to which you belong.

"Jack and Will know, don't they?" you ask. "They know who I am to the Lover."

"They've suspected for some time. Having looked at all the Lover killings anew it's become clearer still. Will chose to conceal this information believing you were not mature enough to bear so sinister a burden. I imagined you'd guess but preferred to allow that thought to develop without my interference and so cause you less harm.”

Your pulse is a drunken rhythm in your temporal membrane; you put your hands to your ears, uncertain how to be rid of a noise inside your own head.

“That’s why you weren’t afraid to speak so openly about the killer in front of me,” you say. “You were never lying about your theories, exactly; you were testing out alternatives to be sure the one you had was right.”

“Just so. Two of the Lover’s past victims were old classmates of yours; it was only missed because both girls had switched schools many times. One of them changed her name when she and her mother fled from domestic violence in her teens.

“The other you knew when you were so young I doubt you remember her, and besides, you were a lonely child and wouldn’t have thought of her as a particular friend. Most of the girls who have been killed are strangers to you. The Lover wasn’t such a fool as to play his hand too openly.”

Dazed, you spill back upon the bed, drawing the sheets over your eyes.

"All this time you've tried to make out you took me because you thought you could help me, but really it's because you liked the idea of me being yours and not his.”

Your tone—brash, accusatory—is met with unsettling calm.

"That's only one reason. The others remain to be true."

"You've put such a target on my back. The Lover knows exactly where I am at all times. What's stopping him from just walking in and taking me? Did you ask him to back off or something?"

"He is unaware that I appreciate the full extent of your importance to him. I left him under the impression that I was an admirer that enjoyed the notion of him toying with the FBI through you. But even if he concludes why we have housed you here the presence of Will and I here will discourage him from descending upon you.

“He knows that I would defend you, and how easily I could reveal him. Jack has offered us police surveillance, but I assured him that wouldn't be necessary. The likelihood of being observed is enough for the Lover to keep his distance for now."

Sniffling, you say, "You just don't want to make things harder for yourself."

"It wouldn't matter either way. The Lover will be apprehended soon, and my pursuits will continue as before."

You peer out from under the sheets with a bleak interest, unable to guess whether Hannibal still means to wait for Will to unveil the Lover's identity or if there is some other reason he resists excising the Lover's presence from his life.

A man as jealous as Hannibal surely cannot stand that this third party hungers so openly to take you to his bed and to the grave. You cannot quite work it out.

"Why aren't you more angry with me, anyway?" you ask him. "You're talking about everything but what I did, and you should be furious. You should want to give me away to the Lover. I don't get why you're so—"

"Your naughty behaviour is unfortunately an expected routine. Besides, you thought the better of your escape: while I'm displeased you even considered such an act I have forgiven Will far greater without reprimand."

Starting, you say, "Will? What do you mean?"

"I know that he suspects me as both the Copycat and the Chesapeake Ripper, and that he has already hinted at his suspicions to Jack. They were dismissed due to Will’s claims that they were caused by his recent illness."

Registering your alarm, Hannibal adds, "You needn't appear surprised. No doubt you've discussed my killings with him."

There is a gentle barb to this last statement that challenges you to lie.

"I didn't know he'd talked to Jack," you say carefully. "I never thought he would. Are you sure about this? What are you going to do?"

"I suspect a conversation will be had with Will when the time is right."

Though too polite to shrug there is something of the gesture in Hannibal's response.

"You're not going to stop seeing each other, are you?" you ask, getting down from the bed with a wince at the throbbing wound of your misused cunt. "You both hurt each other. You're not going to... break up over this, right?"

Hannibal turns from you, carrying your books off into the cupboard which he locks up with a silver key.

"It's in your best interest that we remain together," he says. "But you’ve already come to this conclusion, have you not?"

In the days that chase out that the shadow of that night you are disconsolate in the face of a third punishment: the withdrawal of all affection from Hannibal, who becomes as dry and distant a caretaker as your mother had likely hoped of him.

He turns his face from kisses, removes the tangle of you from his body should you attempt an embrace. Sensuality will not win him back after such hurt inflicted on the heart, this he means you to grasp.

Once you would have jigged for joy at the difference, but instead you find yourself feeling lonely and displaced, beginning to doubt that you are as invincible as you'd believed.

Yet you’re still allowed your incredible room, still given access to your designer clothing rather than made to go nude or in rags, yet you find you've become jaded by all this excellence, or else seek it in a more esoteric format.

To your humiliation you find yourself begging for the kindness you've lost one night you cannot eat a steak you know is surely human; something in the taste convinces, something in the colour of blood that flees the hunt of your knife.

"I'll vomit," you say. "Sorry, but I will. I can taste it in my throat. Please, I promise I'll eat dessert, I’ll lick the plate—"

"There is no dessert," says Hannibal icily, and he takes the dish away with a swipe of the hand so sharp as to almost break his code of elegance.

Shortly after, still hungry and secretly proud of your resistance to eating, you're summoned into the living room, stopping short at the sight of Hannibal with a red rope like a serpent coiled through his closed hand.

You recognise instantly the purpose in his stance, the meaning of the table carried to the chancel of the room, its surface polished so severely that you see your master in it upside down, his every detail there preserved.

"Undress," he says, "and lie down. Don't attempt to argue with me. I don't want to raise my hand to you today."

He means to bind you for sex, the rope entwined like bindwood around your naked torso, the lengths cutting obscenely into the flesh, this detail a torture of a uniquely psychological nature.

This has little do with dinner, you realise, but with your previous mistake, one so close to calamity that you may never cease to pay for having made it.

Dizzy with fear you pick off your clothes garment by garment, and lie down on the table on your belly, your chin against the mirror of its face.

"No," says Hannibal. "On your back. I intend you to be seen."

But he turns you himself, his hands under your loins and breasts, the rope already quick at work between them. You sob as he wraps you in a net of his creation, a beautiful fretwork designed to portion up your body in a mosaic of skin and string.

Will steps into the room sometime during the operation, his face like a cyclamen above the upright collar of his dark jacket, lovely and cold.

"What's this, a peace offering?" he comments as Hannibal steps aside to allow him a better view. "You can't regift something I haven't even returned, especially when I've been using it so freely. Try again, doctor."

You strain your neck to get a look at Hannibal's expression, which in a contained fashion seems determined.

"You begrudge me for pushing you towards your transformation," he says, "and yet you indulge in it with such delight. This anger only serves to deepen the fracture in this household; had we remained united as we were before she might never have felt compelled to leave. Your antagonism makes her feel unstable."

Will scoffs at the turning of blame upon him, ripping off his jacket in testy jolts.

"She asked me to tell her I love her. You know that she would never have willingly let that go if she didn't find herself so nauseated by another truth she had to swallow."

"Yet you've known that truth far longer than she," says Hannibal sharply, "and yet you chose to remain. Why did you dissuade Jack from investigating me in the end? Was it for her sake alone or was there something else that you stood to lose?"

The men—Will pacing, almost prowling, Hannibal rigid by the table—come so close that they could easily touch. At least one of them wants to.

"You think I'm still a porcelain trinket," says Will. "That I'd crack at the first length of distance between us."

"I know that you are not, but nor are you a solitary animal. Certainly you could hunt without me, but you'd think of those hours we claimed together and know the pleasure of it could never be recaptured alone. It would be a shallow play, a grasping imitation of what came before."

Will stares into Hannibal's eyes with such spite and fascination that you've never been more glad to be ignored.

"Your arrogance is in bad taste. You haven't even asked me to forgive you."

"Because I don't expect you to, and because you've not asked for forgiveness from me. I've killed for less than you have done, but all I ask is that you remain."

Hannibal reaches out and touches Will's face so lightly that only your proximity to the two men reveals that his fingers make contact. To your amazement Will allows this without turning away, even shifts his proud cheek slightly in Hannibal’s direction.

"So you miss me that much.”

"Yes,” says Hannibal simply. “I began this for you, Will. Never forget it."

Will smiles without teeth.

"You began this for yourself."

"I've never denied the selfishness of my desire. Can you own that of yours?"

The younger man sobers to ponder this.

"When I'm stranded inside the Lover's thoughts you're always what brings me out of it. You reveal him to be so weak. There's nothing beautiful in what he creates, only a desperation to be loved by those that never can. But in what you've done— I see the art. I saw it before I wanted to. I see it now with her."

He lays a hand on one of your trussed breasts, and a stone of pleasure rolls down the path of your imprisoned form. You regret that you cannot hate him so purely any longer, this beast that now knows what he is.

"I want to see you with her,” says Will suddenly. “When you're alone with her I know you can be brutal. I want to witness how you hurt her, and how you make her so devoted to you afterwards."

Hannibal steps in against you, his covered arousal against your despair.

“Join me," he says, but Will shakes his head.

"Not this time."

"Then tell me in plain words what it is you want."

Will stands by your head, looking across you into Hannibal's eyes.

With a foreign silkiness he says, "I want you to fuck her, Hannibal. Please."

A purely sexual thrill runs through the other man, and as you lie speechless in the fog of their joint sickness Will bends to murmur in your ear.

"I love you," he says. “Remember that the next time you try to run away.”

Then Hannibal slides you down the shear of his cock, plying your body under him like mud in a bully's fist, and all the while Will watches the act it’s not you he sees, but him.

#manna fic #hannibal fic #hannibal lecter #hannibal lecter x reader #hannibal lecter x reader x will graham #yandere will graham #yandere hannibal lecter #will graham x reader #tw rape #tw noncon #tw nonconsensual choking #tw death mention #tw abuse #cw stockholm syndrome

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