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theredofoctober · 11 days

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MANNA- CHAPTER FOURTEEN: TRIPE

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

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, child abuse and more (check the tags)

Read after the cut

By some sense of duty, or else an undug tendril of guilt, Will volunteers himself to oversee your evening routine alone. You allow him this, being in scant possession of what slim tolerance has borne you through Hannibal’s accompaniment thus far.

Will proves himself to be far less involved than the other man would have been in his stead. He leans against a wall with the nonchalance of a prison warden as you shower blood and spend alike down the receiving drain, allows you to pad into your bedroom, towel-wrapped, to select a clean nightdress and sanitary products with his head turned nobly aside.

You cannot determine if his distance from you is through respect for your condition or some lasting dislike of you, neither of which holds entirely true.

More likely it is that he does not see you as his child, yet, nor quite with the equality of a lover.

Still, as you get into bed he cannot help but come to you, uncertain as he his of his purpose.

“Will you give me a goodnight kiss?” you ask, part in bitter jest, and part in annoyance with his indecision.

That a man can fuck and beat you in throes of black delight and still skulk about like a repentant sinner would have confounded you in the days before you became accustomed to such duality. To what end, and upon what strength the latter side subsists is now the greater puzzle, for it is this that drags its heels and restrains Will from his full devilry.

“Well?” you say, brusquely. “What are you waiting for? Dad’s permission?”

Will gives a hard laugh, one hand kneading the back of his neck.

“I admire your commitment to the part, but you don’t have to keep it up so seriously when it’s just you and me.”

“I promised I would,” you remind him. “Why can’t you? You had no issue kissing me in front of Hannibal. I don’t see why it’s a problem now.”

You see Will’s fingers go to the bridge of his nose, wanting the guard of the eyeglasses he’s neglected to wear.

“It’s not genuine,” he says, flatly. “The only reason you’re asking is to manipulate me.”

“So what?” you say. “Scared that it’ll work?”

“Not scared, no.”

“Sure you’re not.”

There is something hysterical in your tone, the cut string of a trapped and weary madness.

Will examines you, aware of the power play you’re attempting over him, intrigued by it, despite himself. Attracted, even.

His gaze is like a stone in the sun, all heat, all black, all blue.

He knows what revulsion you must push past to test him like this, still slightly high from the forced euphoria of fucking, and the drugs. You’re beyond consideration of the consequences, irrational, barely attached to the tongue and teeth that bite at the air in their ire.

Still Will hangs from your words like a pilgrim knelt before an oracle, dependent on your answer.

“Haven’t you had enough of me kissing you tonight?” he asks.

Sniffing, you turn to face his gargoyle shadow on the wall.

“So it’s a no. You’d make a really terrible father.”

“One...”

“Not my name.”

So Will says it, gently, and you roll back towards him, your heart quick and high behind a rail of bone with the thrill of his appeasement.

Your truce, the union of flesh: they’ve altered Will, for as he looks at you a second time his pupils are the chasms between worlds, wild and deep.

Kneeling up on the bed, you make a trellis of both hands through his curls and clutch him to you in an ungainly kiss. Will stumbles in the force of it, his arms spilling about your back so as not to fall upon you with all his weight.

You gasp against his lips with eagerness to take what he has taken, to fallow the rose flesh of his inner mouth, the lathe of your tongue churning. Will is too surprised to kiss you in return, but as you hitch one leg after the other upon his hips you feel the vine of him against your groin, wanting you again, as always.

You think of him fucking you now, pinning your wicked hands with the nail of his fist as he thrusts through a sheen of blood. Though you despise him still, your loins smart with interest in engineering the act rather than merely suffering it as ever before.

At last Will returns your kiss, but briefly, and with a knowing restraint before he lays you back upon the bed again.

You grasp at his face in an attempt to reclaim his lips. He pushes you lightly away.

“Hey,” he grins. “You made your point.”

“Oh?” you say, coolly. “And what is my point?”

“That I like kissing you. That I want to kiss you, whether Hannibal’s here or not.”

“Right,” you say, twisting a corner of your quilt around one finger for something to do with your hands. “But you never would have picked me. Like, if I was in one of your FBI classes. If I was your student. Would you even have noticed me?”

Will laughs again, with a startled unease, as though the notion is foreign to him.

“Starting affairs with students isn’t exactly my style. I turn up, I teach. That’s it. I don’t get personally involved. Or didn’t, till now. Letting people get close is... uncomfortable for me.”

He glances down at the bunch of quilt in your closed knuckles. Unlike the ever-tactile Dr Lecter, he makes no attempt to take it away.

“So how come you got so close to Hannibal?” you ask. “Didn’t you say you had reservations about him?”

“He saw me even when I was making an effort to turn away. He and I have commonalities I can’t ignore, and enough differences to keep me wondering who he really is. There’s a lot even I don’t know about him, and there are times I wonder what I’m doing letting him in.”

You’re on the verge of another question as Will steps sharply back from the bed.

“We can talk more tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll still be here in the morning. But if you want my thoughts about Hannibal then it’s only fair that you tell me a little about you in return. If this is going to work long-term I need to know who you are.”

Then he goes over to the light switch and closes you in behind a shutter of night.

You’re roused from the saccharine heat of your bedcovers the following morning by Will rapping on your bedroom door. His face appears in the crevice between it and the frame as though wary to trespass, the broken spell of your desperation in his eyes.

“It’s so early,” you whine, noting the bare line of sunlight beneath the curtains. “And I feel like death, thanks to you and Dad. Can’t I stay in bed?”

“Hannibal just rushed out to an emergency appointment,” says Will. “One of his patients is having some kind of crisis, so it’ll be just you and me for a while. You want coffee? I was about to make some.”

An apology, you think, something to alleviate the swaddled and perspiring misery of your comedown.

“Sure,” you say, weakly. “Black, please. Sweetener, if there is any. The low calorie version.”

Will’s brows rise.

“You think Hannibal keeps that around?”

Reflecting on the little paper sachets that had been favoured throughout high school you say, “Ha. I guess not.”

Within twenty minutes you’re sitting up against your pillows, one hand gripping a delicate, steaming cup, the other soothing your stomach through which bites the first monthly cramp.

Will takes a nearby chair, eyeing the bars on your window as though assuming your daily view through the glass.

Though you loathe him still in his unpredictable oddities, you’re keen to make closer yet the allyship you’ve struck up with him, watchful though he is of that very attempt. If he will not help you escape, then a friendship at least may fortify the sanity you fear will leave you in this quasi childhood.

Will doesn’t seek your regression quite as Hannibal does— a cantankerous teenager is as young as he perceives you, the sick girl that never grew up. This house, then, is a Neverland in reverse, a sumptuous den of brutal sex.

Closing your eyes against such thoughts, you take in your coffee, each dark mouthful a long-acquired taste. You remember forcing back cup after cup of it, trusting it over plain water in the belief that it would burn calories as you drank.

Suddenly you’re acutely nostalgic for the days spent in your childhood room, scrolling through online threads of ailing young women in a community of mutual suffering.

It occurs to you that you may never feel so entirely comprehended without judgement as you were there again. You understand Will rather more through the thought, his convergence with Hannibal a relief to so lonely a monster.

“Tell me about ‘Dad’,” you say, into the silence. “You said you would, last night. Like, who even is he? Where did he come from?”

Will blinks, stirred up from his own brooding thoughts. In the dreary daylight he has the face of a beautiful invalid, all its angles skirted in shade.

“Hannibal’s from Lithuania, originally,” he says. “He had a younger sister, Mischa. She died a long time ago. I don’t know the finer details of what happened to her. She’s the only family he’s ever talked about, and even then it’s been bare bones.”

You sit up straighter, envisioning a young girl with Hannibal’s eyes, and none of his appetite.

“Huh,” you say. “That makes a lot of sense.”

"Hannibal would disagree. He doesn’t put much stock in the past making him who he is.”

“Seems kind of a weird thing for a therapist to say. He’s always digging into mine.”

Will looks at the floor, as though distinguishing some new pattern from the grains in the carpet.

“Hannibal views himself as... separate from other people. Being that he acts outside of ethics and the law in his own profession, I’d guess that what’s between us isn’t his only secret.”

“I’ve tried to tell you,” you say, tapping your coffee cup with bitten fingertips for emphasis. “I’ve known this for so long. But since you’re going along with his games how can you even judge him for whatever horrible things he’s doing?”

“Without knowing what he has or hasn’t done,” says Will, slowly, “I can’t say that I do.”

He gets up from his seat and paces before the window, his hands gesticulating like pigeons frenzied into startled flight.

“You assume that what I’m trying to learn about Hannibal—the core of who he is—is something ugly. But that isn’t what I’m afraid of. It’s the possibility of him lying to me. I don’t know if I could forgive him for that after the bond we’ve made. After what he encouraged me start with you.”

“You shouldn’t trust him,” you say, urgently. “Don’t. You don’t need him.”

Scoffing, Will says, “Jack seems to think I do. Alana— she’s convinced I’m one nudge away from disappearing so far into a case that I kill someone without even knowing it. Hannibal's the only one that doesn’t think of me as broken.”

You consider informing him of his suspected encephalitis, that Hannibal surely withholds this truth and more so as to keep his favour.

In the end you retain your silence; better that Will discovers the manipulation alone and behold how he has been misled upon this trail of darkness.

“Enough about me,” says Will, abruptly. “I know that someone hurt you, long before Hannibal. Before me. Someone you've never forgotten.”

Alarmed by the twist in conversation, you stammer, “I— I already told him some of it. I said I didn’t remember. But I was lying about that. I just don’t know if it was only one, long night, or it happened other times. I don’t know which is worse.”

You pause, slightly breathless. Like a portent from the white lips of some phantom you know that you must tell Will the truth, adhere him to your weeping heart with empathy for you.

“I was just a little kid,” you say. “And he was an adult. Nearly family— I used to call him Uncle Lee. Hannibal probably told you that. Anyway, I got my ‘wrong’ feeling about him way before he did what he did. Like I knew it was coming. Then he came into my room alone one night and... it happened.”

You put down your coffee cup, almost knocking it from the bedside table with the shaking of your hand. Will comes away from the window at once, dragging his chair to your bedside to listen. He neither speaks nor looks into your eyes, aware that you can bear neither without faltering.

“He touched me,” you say, “and the whole time I couldn’t even face him. I don’t even remember what I felt. Maybe I didn’t feel anything at all. Just stared at the ceiling or whatever. He did stuff to me that changed me forever. I felt like a tiny old person in a kid’s body, after that, knowing about things I wasn’t supposed to know.

“And the worst of it was still having to see him after. My parents— I tried to tell them, but I couldn’t get the words out. They just thought I didn’t like him. So he came back to the house, now and then. Never saw any consequences.

“I’ve always wondered if I was the only one, or if there were others. He was a plumber, or something; he could have access to people’s daughters anytime he wanted. Just walk into their room and... you know. I think maybe he did do that, a couple of times. Who knows.”

Your restless fingers pick at the gold embroidery on your bedspread, working it loose from the velvet. One of Will’s hands folds over yours, gently holding them still.

“What I always think about is how he treated me, afterwards,” you say. “I tried avoiding him, but it didn’t always work. One day he cornered me at the top of the stairs— my parents were in the kitchen, so it was just me and him.

“I must have been maybe twelve or so. Not far off thirteen. My body was changing. I was growing up. He said, ‘you’re getting a little chubby, you know. You ought to do something about that before you look like your mother.’

“Then he smiled at me, and just walked into the bathroom like there was nothing wrong with what had just come out of his mouth, or what he’d done to me all those years ago.”

Inhaling an unsteady breath, you try, with dubious success, to smile.

“So now you get why I’m like this. And knowing it wasn’t my fault, that Leland Frost is just a predator... it doesn’t fix anything. Like, where do I go from there?”

“He injured you,” says Will, softly. “And it may never stop hurting. But you can recover. No matter what you believe, it is possible. His shallow cruelty is not your compass. You don’t have to live on the basis of an insult.”

Scowling, you pull away from Will, trapping your hands under your armpits.

“How can I change when I’m reliving what I went through every day? Why does Hannibal think this’ll heal me? Why do you? Oh, yeah. You don’t.”

“I want it to,” says Will.

You snort dismissively.

“Yeah, yeah. Not so long ago you would have punched the air to see the back of me. You don’t want to share Hannibal with anybody.”

Will leans back in his seat, arms folded; it takes a moment for you to register that he is, by some subconscious impulse, copying your posture.

“I’m not sharing Hannibal with you,” says Will. “I’m sharing you with him. And I want to do that. You knew it before I did.”

His gaze snaps to yours, more arresting than his hands on you had been.

“You’re more like me than I cared to admit. Hannibal was right about that. And though everything about you should repulse his sensibilities he finds you adorable. You clearly don’t appreciate it, but there it is.”

You yearn to deny him, to condemn this speech as sophistry, but you are silent, as much a congregant to him as he has been to you.

“Leland Frost tore you down because he saw that you were growing up and away from him,” says Will. “He knew that one day you’d have a life, and achievements, and people that really cared about you. He was going to fade out of your world, and he couldn’t stand not leaving a mark.”

“I just don’t get it,” you whisper. “He loved me. Why did he do it?”

Will shifts his chair even closer to the bed so as to lean into you, his expression tender, tragic, sombre with a father’s sympathy.

“Leland never loved you, and that’s no reflection on you or your worth. It makes him weak, that he could throw away the relationship he had with you over an urge.”

You don’t have the strength to rage against the whited sepulchre in Will, not when he speaks the truth you’ve always yearned to hear from another. Pain winds through your body, throat to gut, great, twisting pulses, as though eviscerated on a blade of past.

What advice would Will give for you to survive what he and Hannibal have done, and will do?

Nothing. Not a word. He knows that the structure of the home, even comfort from those that afflict you has changed you in so short a time. Your desperation to be gone from him he senses, too, and with it your lust to be loved.

Will holds your hand for a long time before he speaks again, on another subject quite as dreary as the last.

“When you said it’d been years since you...”

“Since I last had my period?” you ask, touching your stomach through the sheets. “Yeah. It has been.”

Your body, the betrayer, making a scarlet banner of your betterment through cruelty.

“I never wanted it to come back. Having it again means I’m not as sick anymore, and that’s like... messing up for me.”

Will's head tilts, his face carved up by the shadows thrown from your barred window into a lattice of snow.

“Failing to die is barely a failure at all,” he comments.

You shrug yourself further under your bedcovers.

“It is if what’s happening to you is something worse,”

“Is it always so bad, being here with us?”

Will’s hand rises. Doesn’t quite touch your face. You turn your head away, but not cruelly; he’s not a bad man, you decide, only contorted so utterly from the ways of his fellows that he is some creature other, or from before, the flint-armed hunter of the caves.

And like such a creature, he seeks your answering affection for want of some warmth in the dark beginning of the earth.

You allow him to kiss your forehead, clumsily, inclined towards him as though you were not both aware of the fiction that allows this contact.

He can only guess how far you’d run from this, had you your chance. How readily you’d betray him.

You’re much recovered by the time Dr Lecter returns, having been hydrated and energised by a selection of unnamed supplements Will had you take with lunch; there is a cure for every ailment in the makeshift laboratory of the kitchen, it seems.

Hannibal discovers you at your usual perch of the parlour couch, writing in your journal with a blanket tucked loosely around you against the October cool.

Will stands to greet his companion, setting aside a book you’d offered him from your shelf to peruse, its cover depicting the bloody half-brain of the sun on a desert horizon.

“I didn’t expect our charge to be in such high spirits,” says Hannibal, with unmasked surprise. “Thank you for caring for her this morning, Will. I’m aware that whatever time you can spare for us in the midst of an investigation is very precious.”

Likely aware of your eyes on him, Will says, “I’m glad I stayed. I appreciated the company. How’s the other patient?”

“Suitably quieted. I doubt that I’ll be called away again on her behalf. Still, I made the most of the journey home.”

Hannibal reaches into a shopping bag looped over one arm and produces from it a wrapped package of fresh meat, marbling the paper with blood.

Grimacing, you say, “Ew. What is that? Looks like an organ.”

“It is. I’ll be making trippa alla romana tonight. It’s an Italian dish made from cow stomach. Don’t turn your nose up till you’ve tried it. Have I served anything to you yet that you haven’t enjoyed?”

After dinner, all three of the household recline, full and talking lazily before the fire. Had your company been any other than your abusers you would almost be content, for having been allowed to leave the table after a valiant half plate you are not so guilt-soaked as you’d have been had you finished it all.

You had, in fact, disliked the meal, a first in Hannibal’s house. The thought of the organ, plucked from the rib of a butcher’s shelf, had struck bile to the back of your mouth from the first bite.

A cup of chocolate, warmed to a froth and unadorned with cream is set in your hands instead, which you drink in feline licks to make it last.

Will’s phone shrills abruptly in his pocket. Frowning, he glances at the lighted oblong of its screen and starts at a familiar name.

“It’s Jack,” he says. “I’d better take this.”

He promptly exits the room, speaking with clipped tones into the device.

Alone with Hannibal, you become acutely aware of him looking at you, not quite with suspicion, but not so far from that.

"I see that you and Will are becoming close,” he says, at last. “I’m glad to see it.”

Humming vaguely, you snatch up the journal again and weave your pen about in a pretence of writing.

Hannibal says, "Still, it saddens me that—for all your pretty words of promise—you display a lesser willingness to befriend me.”

You do not answer, pressing your pen so hard against a page that it blots through to the other side.

"Put your journal down a moment, Little One,” says Hannibal. “I’m speaking to you."

Without looking up, you answer, "I don't know what you want me to say."

"You needn't say anything at all. It's your behaviour I wish to change."

In a flounce of irritation you throw the journal upon the floor, its spine creasing.

“I do what you say, and I don't fight you anymore,” you say. “Isn't that daughterly enough?"

"For the purposes of your treatment,” says Hannibal, “it is not. You remain closed to me, parted only by narcotic aid. I'd prefer you to open to me of your own volition. With Will, you prove yourself increasingly capable of that.

“I’ve given you all you’ve asked for, and more, and yet you show little gratitude. I wouldn’t wish to remove these luxuries for you to appreciate my endeavours.”

You look at him, then, this man both jealous and performing jealousy to groom you into his concubine, and in looking see that he will deconstruct your room into the barest cell, should he not have his way.

"I do appreciate what you’ve given me," you hastily protest. "I do, Daddy. You don’t have to take anything away. But I— I just don’t know you the way I know Will.”

“But you do,” says Hannibal, rising to sit beside you, a dangerous proximity. “That’s why you are so afraid of me, is it not?”

You begin to object, trailing off at the sound of approaching footfalls as the younger of your captors returns, listing in the churning swell of stress.

“It's the investigation,” says Will. “Another doll’s been found. Savannah Belmont. It’s too soon to be the Lover’s kill. He has a cool off point between each abduction.”

Hannibal straightens in his seat, rapidly alert.

“A copycat, then.”

Will nods, his throat tightening. His eyes touch your face briefly, and you offer him a small, close-lipped smile, an extension of comfort from across the room. His shoulders drop from their rigid line, and when he speaks again the frantic note in his voice is tempered slightly.

“Definitely a copycat,” he says. “The Lover disposes of the dolls by throwing them into rivers like garbage. No attempt to lay them to rest. Savannah was put on display, placed in a chair on a dirt bank as though she was waiting to be found.

“Both killers meant to degrade their victims, but only the copycat’s is implied to understand and accept that humiliation. Savannah Belmont died aware of her inferiority in the eyes of her murderer.”

You find yourself sitting on your hands to prevent them from betraying your agitation with their unsteadiness. Your leg, however, you cannot control, the right foot gyring an inch above the floor.

Hannibal eyes it without speaking, folding your reaction into the lengthy tome of his mind.

“The victim’s stomach was missing,” says Will, turning to pluck a bottle of whiskey from a nearby cabinet like some bronze fruit. “That’s new. The Lover’s mutilations are all with the purpose of fitting the bodies of his victims inside their silicone casings. He has no surgical skills.

“This new killer obviously has expertise. Savannah’s stomach was cut precisely from her body with the clear intent of taking it as a trophy.”

“Her stomach?” you repeat.

You feel the heaviness of meat within you and are chilled by the coincidence.

Hannibal could not have known what the copycat would take to reference it, could not have known of his existence to begin with, and yet as you glance at him under your lashes you don’t quite trust the seriousness of his expression, his eyes gleaming dimly as tarmac in the rain.

“You mustn’t worry, Little One,” says Hannibal, turning to lift you up onto his lap. “The Lover can’t hurt you. We will protect you, always.”

He settles your head against his chest, which resounds with the slow beat of his heart and the machinery of organs digesting his own rich meal.

The monster knows of your renewed distrust and is unthreatened by it, declawed and tooth-filed as you are by his influence over you and all the passageways of the world you’d otherwise cross in your escape.

“Thank you for taking care of me, Daddy,” you mutter, against his shirt, and the warmth of Hannibal’s palm cups your buttocks with a tormenting friction, both threat and tease at once.

While you hate him—are in terror of him, always—your form is increasingly enamoured by his touch as though it knows that it must be so, or die.

“No need to thank me for performing my duty to you, Little One,” says Hannibal, into your ear. “For you belong to me, and to Will, and you must never forget it.”

#manna fic #hannibal fic #tw noncon #tw csa #tw abuse #tw drugs #tw captivity #dead dove do not eat #hannibal lecter x reader #will graham x reader #hannibal lecter x reader x will graham #darkfic

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rarepears · 3 months

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Lan Qiren had a foreigner lover AU:

You know what? Hannibal Lecter been Lan Qiren's foreigner lover is not a bad Idea! X)

Or maybe the foreigner guy's personnality could be similar to Hannibal Lecter's or V's, from V for Vendetta, personnality?

Like maybe the Guy could be from England during the English Renaissance and one of the foreigner's methods he used to seduce Lan Qiren back when they were younger was by sharing with him poems, novels and other culture knowledge from England?

Maybe the foreigner would even send Lan Qiren love poems in their letter correspondances? (^///^)

The good news for Lan Qiren is that he's a vegetarian and Hannibal will still respect that. It's terribly rude to trick someone into unknowingly betraying their religious beliefs. He's disappointed of course, but he hates being rude more.

[#lan qiren has a foriegn lover AU]

#lan qiren has a foriegn lover AU #hannibal #mdzs #mao dao zu shi #mxtx #lan qiren

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lakesbian · 8 months

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lrb makes me want a ghost alec comedy au wherein he's inexplicably wearing his endbringer victims bitch too much shirt and just floating around following the undersiders constantly commentating on their misadventures. he selectively picks to haunt brian first because it's a funny prank to make him question his sanity during one of the most difficult periods of his life thus far. brian opens a container of strawberry yogurt (pink) (feminine wrapper) and alec (ghost) calls him gay. wgat if you, boy with 100 internalized complexes about gender, got turned into an alive hannibal artpiece (terrible), your girlfriend abandonmented you to go be a cop (bad), and your faggoty teammate & little sister's best friend died badly (really not good) and then you started having repeated visions of him in a ridiculous outfit accusing you of being unmasculine. what then.

#worm spoilers #scarf don't look

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avegetariancannibal · 2 years

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Will Flowerham: “Did you just smell me?!”

Hannibee Bumbler: “Difficult to avoid. I’m ass deep in your pollen.”

#hannibal #hannigram #hannibal crack #terrible hannibal au

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tyrantonutx · 2 months

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Looking for RP Partner(s)!

Hey, hi, how's it goin'?

I'm Tyrant, 30+ s/they, and this is a Take Two attempt at finding like-minded folx, so if you happen to see a similar looking post floating around (unlikely but possible), I am in fact one and the same Tyrant, I'm just too damn impatient to wait on tumblr to fix my original blog.

ANYWAY.

I'm hoping to find some partner(s) interested in Discord RP, because I am in fact a tumblr Baby (despite the original blog being...several years old...) and the formatting on tumblr rp blogs makes me Nervous.

I've been roleplaying in various capacities on forums, discord, and chat (throwback to AOL Instant Messenger amirite?) for approximately two decades and some change. I tend to write in a casual cadence as one might suspect, and I like to adapt my replies to the thread (anywhere from several sentences to a few paragraphs is my norm). I generally prefer CANON x CANON ships, at least starting out, to get a feel for how we come at characterization and plot together before we dip into OC territory. I'm involved in a few fandoms that may in fact be wastelands but, hey, you miss every shot you don't take, so here I am!

What follows is a list of fandos, characters, and ships I'm ACTIVELY looking for, the things that make my brain buzz in all the good ways. I'm down for hearing out any plots you might have in your lovely beating hearts (or shriveled little black ones, no judgment here!) or working out plots together based on all the good things that come from two rambling fans throwing head canons and "OK BUT WHAT IF"s at each other til something sticks.

If any of these strike you as fun, or if you just think I'm gosh darn neat and wanna chat me up for the thrills, please like this post, message me here on tumblr, or send me a friend request on discord (@tyrantonut)! I'm shy af and terrible at reaching out first, thank you hereditary anxiety and Burnt Out Gifted Kid syndrome, so sometimes I need that lil nudge.

...right! The fandoms! (Please note that while I have listed characters for me vs. for you, I'm actually pretty flexible on these! I just think I write some sides better than others.)

FANDOMS

The Boys (AU preferred)

Butchie -- Billy Butcher x Hughie Campbell

Stephen King's It (Muschietti AU preferred)

Reddie -- Richie Tozier x Eddie Kaspbrak

Stranger Things (Aged up AU preferred)

Byler -- Mike Wheeler x Will Byers

Harringrove -- Billy Hargrove x Steve Harrington

Steddie -- Steve Harrington x Eddie Munson

Hannibal (NBC)

Hannigram -- Hannibal Lecter x Will Graham

Spider-Man (Comics & Movieverse)

Spideypool -- Wade Wilson x Peter Parker (Andrew Garfield)

Spiderprowl -- Aaron Davis x Peter B. Parker

Mysterio/Spiderman -- Quentin Beck x Peter Parker (Tom Holland, preferably aged up)

Hazbin Hotel / Helluva Boss Universe

Huskerdust -- Angel Dust x Husk (Overlord Husk AU has given me brain rot)

Chaggie -- Charlie Magne x Vaggie

RadioApple -- Alastor x Lucifer

Stolitz -- Blitzo x Stolas

Fizzarozzie -- Fizzarolli x Asmodeus

Glee

Puckurt -- Noah 'Puck' Puckerman x Kurt Hummel

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janesurlife · 3 months

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So because I watched blood and chocolate I have this terrible idea of B&C- Hannibal crossover AU where everything is the same but in place of Gabriel it's Hannibal and when he sees Aiden he decides to ditch the idea to mate with Vivian (Alana) and takes Aiden. So can someone write this.... please 🥺🥺 op

#hannibal x rewatch #hannibal lecter #hannigram #Hannibal #will graham #hugh dancy #mads mikkelsen

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dulcewrites · 11 months

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Acquired Taste (modern au)

Pairing: Aegon ii Targaryen x oc, Jacaerys Velaryon x oc (wc: 4k)

Summary: Sometimes the hungry grows too strong. Edith and Aegon know that all too well.

Warnings: allusions to cannibalism, obsessive tendencies, slight unreliable narrator/purposely ambiguity. Aegon and oc are weird I fear :/

A/N: I wrote this on a total whim 💀💀. Slightly inspired by hannibal, Hope y’all enjoy, and if y’all want to chat, my inbox is always open 🫶🏽

The first tug comes at a family dinner.

At first, Edith was able to chalk it up to nerves. She’s eating expensive lobster and was sure the hand soap she used in the bathroom cost more than the several disgustingly overpriced books she had to purchase for university.

Jace’s family situation is tense. But then again, most blended families probably were.

He had told her he had nothing to worry about, that everyone would be far more focused on celebrating his aunt entering her PhD program. And yet, the attention made her feel claustrophobic. Throat tightening, palm sweating, stomach churning; it must be the nerves, right?

She was most anxious to meet his mother. Jace gushed and raved about his mother in the way all mama’s boys do. It was not that Rhaenyra was cold or even mean, quite the opposite. She was polite, almost farcically so.

Edith was hoping to see Baela and Rhaena. The only reason she knows Jace is because of her connection to their mother, Laena. But their absence, along with their parents, was notable. It leads to Edith having to make polite, but awkward small talk with those wanting to strike one. Which is a short list; the other side of Rhaenyra’s of family looking entirely bored of the whole thing.

The tugging in her stomach and burning in her throat continues through dinner. Even the wine and after four glasses of water she chugs down.

Edith blinks, a bit shocked when she feels Jace’s hand on her thigh, sliding up further and further. She must fight back a sigh. She doesn’t know what is worse: him doing this while his mother is asking her about her degree, or the cumbersome way he fiddles with her underwear.

She wonders if this is a terrible attempt at spicing things up. But she indulges and indulges in the way she always does with Jace. It’s hard not to giggle a bit at the earnest nature in which Jace does things, even in his spontaneity, but she would take it over the other traits her exes have exhibited.

Cold fingers slipping her lacy panties to the side, gently rubbing. As conversations and clink of silver ware droned on, her eyes fluttered up towards the giant chandelier handing above them. For a moment, she wonders what would happen if it just fell and shattered all over them.

She would die being fingered, surrounded by strangers. There are worst ways to go she supposed.

When her eyes fluttered down from the lights to the table, they catch on big blue ones.

While Jace has nothing but praise for his aunt Helaena, he had silence and shrugs in response when Edith mentioned his uncles. Jace’s two middle fingers are ring deep when Edith makes eye contact with Aegon. Her breath quickens, and she finally reaches a hand to slow Jace down. Edith does that a lot, slows him down. Molds him and sculpts him a bit.

Jacaerys is malleable in the way she thinks all men should be.

All she can do is smile weakly at Aegon in hopes he doesn’t notice. He just tilts his head in the way dogs do when they are confused, but then a slow smile spreads across his face. Edith doesn’t know what it means but it makes her quickly turn her attention back the conversation between Rhaenyra and Alicent.

Cold fingers, sparky chandeliers, and unwritten meanings.

The tug eventually turns into an urge.

Edith can’t put her finger on when or why, but the burning in her throat moves to her belly. Deep and wanting.

She tries not to focus on it during girl’s night, but it lingers. This time, she tries to blame it on her lack of contact with Jace. By the fourth time she checks her phone, Dana snatches her phone out of her hand.

“Girl, give it a rest,” she sighs. “He’s probably just busy.”

Asha snorts from the purple sofa chair in their apartment. “Or maybe he’s ignoring her text for a reason.”

Dana glares over at her. “We don’t know that,” she turns to Edith sympathetically. “You don’t know that.”

Asha never liked Jace, but to be fair, she never liked any of their boyfriends.

“This is why you don’t give the guy you have to coach or work to like a chance, even if he’s rich,” Dana shrugs. Edith rolls her eyes, stuffing popcorn into her mouth.

“I’m not with him because he has money. I’m with him because he’s nice to me, and a good guy.”

“Hmmm, even the nice ones fuck up.”

Edith blinks, being transported back to the dinner that happened two and half weeks ago.

“Sometimes, it’s better to date the ones that will be assholes out loud.”

She had told Jace she had to use the bathroom before they left. Taking a left instead of a right, she gets a bit lost. Wandering around the mansion, staring a bit too keenly at the old, expensive decor. By the time she makes it to one of the many bathrooms in the house, the door to it is swinging open.

“Ah, the girlfriend,” the edge in Aegon’s tone doesn’t match his face. Soft features that remind Edith of the hand drawn cherubs on the wall of her church back home. Big eyes now blurrier than before as he sniffles softly.

“The uncle.”

She tries to smile but the copious amounts of liquids she had during dinner has made her focus strictly on getting to the bathroom.

But Aegon doesn’t budge from his place blocking her. Just looks at her with that same curious look. She feels like the frogs her science class when she was 13. Dissected and open to see. It was a feeling that grew throughout the night.

“We are all so surprised when Jace said he was bringing someone home,” he leans against the doorway.

Edith wants to ask what is so surprising about it. Instead, she opts for something more diplomatic, possibly even too sickly sweet.

“I’m glad he did. It was lovely meeting where Jace gets all his best traits from.”

Aegon hums in response, clearly not impressed. “Hmm, best traits.”

He finally moved out of the way. As he walks away, their arms brush. The material of his shirt against her bare skin.

“Have a good rest of your night,” his voice floats and flutters in the hall casually.

Still slightly dazed by the usual nature of the conversation, and Aegon himself, Edith forgoes reciprocating the salutations.

Even then, she felt like there was something she was missing. That Aegon was holding the key to a chest of secrets that she will never be privy to. The curious look, blank smile, and the white residue she found on the bathroom counter, the only things sticking in her mind from that night.

“You’re right,” Edith flashes Dana a fake smile. “He’s probably just busy.”

She leans her head back against the sofa as Asha restarts the movie. Trying to focus on her breathing and not the how she acutely feels the blood rushing through her body. From the top of her head to the tip of her toes. Dana reaches over gives her arm a soft, reassuring squeeze. Edith focuses in the warmth of tawny fingers gliding across her arm.

Her tongue starts out over her mouth. Blood red, flowing and staining the mouth.

Aegon wakes to a call from Alicent that he instantly sends to ignore. Then a string of text from Aemond and Helaena. He doesn’t know what they say but he sees the notifications one after the other.

It is not till he gets a call from Rhaenyra that he knows something is wrong. Rhaenyra makes it a happen to do most her communication with her siblings through Alicent.

“Have you seen Jacaerys,” the normally cool, almost annoying melancholy tone that his older sister usually has was replaced by something more panic stricken.

“Why would I have seen him,” he looks over the window in his bedroom. The sun has barely begun to rise.

“I’m serious Aegon,” Rhaenyra’s voice grows more anxious. “I - I haven’t spoken to him in over a week. He always calls me on Sundays, especially if we don’t talk during the week. I called Edith and she hasn’t seen him either. I have a bad feeling.”

The annoyance he felt titters into guilt. For all the Rhaenyra’s faults, and Aegon tended to think she had many of them, she was a good mom to her group of brats. Sometimes a bit too doting; often never believing the boys she gave birth to were anything less than perfect angels.

She had a mother’s intuition. Aegon always felt Alicent had one too. He remembers her calling randomly, only moments after the first time he did ecstasy. As if she could tell he was about to do something bad.

But that was when he was 16. A couple more escasty pills, and a light coke habit (he can quit whenever he wants), and a white lie that he was at the mall ago. He is a case study for how a concerned mother doesn’t lead to less trouble. Hell, it may lead to more.

“I can go over there,” as soon as Aegon offers, his mouth twist as if he’s tasted something sour. He is not the one that should be offering. He barely cares about Jace, but the tremor in Rhaenyra’s voice is headache inducing. “See if he’s around or not.”

The sooner he confirms it’s just Jace not hiding under his mother’s skirts anymore, the sooner he can be done with it. He is closer to Jace’s place than anyone else.

Rhaenyra is silent for a moment before sighing. “I’d really appreciate that Aegon. Thank you.”

Aegon grunts in reply before hanging up.

He wonders how much bigger of a monstrosity he must have been in a previous life to have the family he does. Or better yet, to be settled in the body he is in now.

— — —

The apartment is clean… and empty.

After knocking for the umpteenth time, Aegon eventually gets a superintendent to let him in the apartment. It is how he expects any apartment owned by a kid in his 20s. An organized chaos of books, clothes, and little knickknacks.

There should be nothing out of the ordinary, but soon as he stepped in the one bedroom left something just felt off.

Aegon slowly looked at each nook and cranny. Eyes lingering on the photos Jace had on his wall in his room. Mainly ones of him and his immediate family. One from Joffrey graduating middle school. Another of him sitting next to Rhaenyra on a hospital bed holding Joffrey. That next to one of him and Harwin at a baseball game.

It would all be touching if Aegon gave a shit.

The picture that stands out is what he assumes is the newest one on the wall.

Edith’s pretty face standout amongst the various images of family and friends. A big smile on her face, dimple indenting in her left cheek. Jace’s arms thrown around her shoulder as he kisses her right cheek.

Once again, it would all be so sickly sweet if a deep level of resentment didn’t settle in his chest.

He supposed that it just how families worked, or at the very least how his family worked. A fucked-up mix mash of being perpetually over them while still longing for them. Or really what they have.

Breaking his gaze away from the pictures, he tries to think of a way to tell Rhaenyra that Jace is not here. And based by his made bed, and the eerie neatness of the apartment, has not been for some days. As he goes to to call her, something shiny laying on the floor catches his eye.

A dainty gold and white gold elephant hanging from a thin gold chain.

Aegon recognizes well. He remembers being taken by the way it sat perfectly between the swell of Edith’s breast at dinner. He also took note of true meaning. An elephant symbolizing luck and good fortune to come.

She armed herself coming to meet his family… cute.

But now it lies limp on the floor of Jace’s bedroom. As he ticks the necklace into his pocket, Aegon can’t help but wonder if Edith’s luck has run out.

Jacaerys’ body is washes up days later. At least the remains of it.

After Rhaenyra had formally made a missing person report. The officer comes to the family home. The one Rhaenyra grew up in; Aegon, Helaena, Aemond, and Daeron following suit years later.

Aegon is sure he has not heard a noise like the one Rhaenyra makes before. A mix between a wail and groan. Her knees buckling briefly.

Because how does one take news of their child, their firstborn, being dead?

How does one live with that hole in their chest; what can you do but to give into grief. To wail, and to let your body get weak with pain. Aegon watches as Alicent tries to comfort her, and he thinks about how she would react if he wound up dead somewhere. Lips purple, and life drained from his face.

He has thought about it more than he thinks is healthy.

Years ago, it was Aemond, freshly 16 and off a freakish growth spurt, that drove him hospital to get his stomach pumped. His brother had put on his best Alicent like glare afterwards and reprimanded him.

“I refuse to be the one the tell mom you’re dead because you got yourself fucked up.”

In hindsight, it probably was a bad idea to ask his teenage brother to drive him as he came off a bender.

But it did make him think of Alicent. Aegon thinks of his mother more than he thinks people give him credit for. It is probably his behavior that makes people assume he has little regard for Alicent. But it is quite the opposite; he has so many feelings for his mother. Taking in the inadequacies of motherhood to the shining moment of empathy plastered onto all her kids in different ways.

Alicent wore her heart on her sleeve, and sometimes Aegon hated her for it.

He hated when he could tell how disappointing she found him as a son. How with each fuck up, a new worry line would magically appear on her face. The face she gave him.

But most of all, he hated that it didn’t make her love him any less.

Outside of Rhaenyra, Harwin, and Luke, the other person in near hysterics was Edith. Big wet tears falling from her eyes like diamonds. When she walked through the door with her hair pulled back, no makeup, and in a matching sweat set, the necklace that he put in his wallet felt like it was burning a hole through his pocket.

She played the distraught girlfriend well. Her pale-yellow crew neck becoming stained with tears as Helaena rubbed her back soothingly.

Aegon knows he has no reason not to believe she is genuinely upset. It could be the small pull in his chest that seeks out the fuck up nature in others to make him feel a bit better about his own tendencies. Despite the big doe eyes and meek disposition, Jace’s pretty girlfriend not the lamb in the middle of the slaughterhouse but the weapon herself.

Now that send a chill down his spine and blood to his groin.

Aegon does a poor job eavesdropping as the officer whispers with the family.

missing body parts, fentanyl found in the body.

Nothing about it makes sense, and it sends Rhaenyra into even more of a spiral.

The rest of the night is spent placating her until it is time for them to go to ID the body. Edith shakes her head, staunchly, chin wobbling when asked if she wanted to come to with. A batch of tears welling in her eyes. Rhaenyra hugs her tightly as Edith’s eyes flutter shut. When they open, they land on Aegon.

The wound and the blade.

— — —

Edith sits in her car, staring at her fuzzy steering wheel.

Lips feeling puffy and swollen from the crying. She needs to drive. Put the car in reverse, and drive. But there is a paralyzing anxiousness in her running through her body. She could barely make eye contact with the officer when they came to the house. She knew going to the hospital would just make things worse for her.

Luckily, caught in her own grief, Rhaenyra bought it when Edith said she could not stomach it.

But now she sits in the driveway, stuck.

A knock on her window makes her yelp and jump.

Aegon’s knuckles tap against the window of her car casually, as he leans down. Despite her better judgment, she rolls her window down. The sun is setting behind him, highlighting the golden tones in his hair.

“I wanted to see if you were ok to drive.”

Edith nods, hands going to the steering wheel. “Yes, I just needed a moment.”

Aegon mouth twists. There’s that look again, he knows something.

“Understandable,” he says before a faux look of surprise covers his face. “But I am glad I caught you before you left. I wanted to give you this.”

He digs into his pocket, then pulls out a necklace. Her necklace. Edith feels her lunch starting to work its way up her throat.

“I thought you would want it back.”

Aegon dangles it within the car, while she just stares for a moment.

“Where - where did you find it,” she whispers.

“In Jace’s room,” this time a smile comes onto his face. Not at all one you think a uncle would have after hearing news of his nephew being dead. Edith reaches out to grab it, and their fingers brush.

Long, slender, riddled with rings. Edith swallows hard.

“Thank you, I must have left it there the last time I slept over,” the metal is cold against her hand. “I should get going.”

Aegon nods breezily, stepping back from the car.

“Take care of yourself, Edith.”

The funeral is held on a rainy Friday. Under a black tent before the wake at home. Aegon blew air out of his mouth rather loudly during the funeral leading to Alicent pinching him softly.

Behave.

Next to Lucerys, Baela, and Rhaena stood Edith. Face partially covered by a thin veil. She reminded him of those old Hollywood actresses in a horror movie. Tragic and beautiful and hopeless.

The time after Jace’s body was found, Aegon found himself slipping into a bit of… a habit.

Checking her Instagram, TikTok, and LinkedIn. He knows she can see the last one, it only makes him look more. A morning routine he does over coffee the way others read the newspaper or check emails. Scrolling through the same pictures and videos. The same picture-perfect curation burned into his retina. None have been updated recently but the lurking becomes self-soother. He even liked a photo, a deep want for her to know he’s watching compelling him.

Then there was the drive-by past her apartment but that was a two-time thing. He had to cross reference the pictures in her apartment for that.

There is an itch he needs to scratch.

The need leads to him following her during the wake. Her heels clinking against the hallway. He knows she can hear the heavy footsteps of his dress shoes; it makes her steps faster.

He picks up his speed to till he is right behind her, wrapping his hand around her arm. He yanks her into the first room he can find. One of the bottom guest bedrooms.

Edith tries to yank her arm back but he pushes against the door after he closes it.

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” she hisses, her hat askew and eyes a bit wild.

“You did something to him, didn’t you,” Aegon whispers. “But you’re putting on quite a show.”

“I loved him,” her bottom lip trembles. Aegon lets out a bark of laughter. “Fine, I didn’t love him but I - I cared about him.”

Cared.

“Cared about him. You and the other girl he was seeing?”

The slap he receives is stinging. Only rivaled by the ones his mother gave him in his youth. Must like Alicent, as soon as she does it, her face falls with guilt. “I’m sorry, I shou-“

Aegon cuts her off by pushing his lips onto hers. Edith makes a surprised noise in the back her throat. Her arms go push him away. Her teeth sink into his bottom lip hard as an attempt to get him to stop, but as soon as she breaks skin and his blood graces her tongue, a submissive moan comes out.

The taste of metal dampening both of their lips. Her tongue swiping against the blood.

Bloodied lips travel from lips to her neck.

“We can’t do this here Aegon,” she says breathlessly.

Is that confirmation she’d do it someplace else?

But the way his name rolls off her tongue only makes him reciprocate, nipping at her neck. He always wondered what she smelled like, under underneath the sweet-smelling perfume. He wonders what all lies underneath the faux sweetness.

She finally uses all her strength to push him off.

“Leave me alone,” she points at him.

Aegon wishes he felt guilty about the tears welling in her eyes, but all he can do is focus on his blood smeared on her lips. He doesn’t know what he wants to do more, crawl out of his own skin, or burrow himself into hers.

He tries to reach out, and she all but lets the door swallow her. “I mean it.”

She gives lets out a shaky breath before turning to open the door, making sure to slam it in his face before he can follow her out. He leans his forehead against the door, running a palm over the slight erection in his pants. Shuddering, he fiddles with his belt.

Even in death Jace has gotten more than him. What a pity.

Edith comes home to an empty, dark apartment.

Both Dana and Asha asked her if they needed to be with her for the night, both having predesignated plans. Sleepovers are a normal occurrence between the three of them.

But she wanted the place to herself tonight. Hunger biting at her stomach.

She only kicks off her heels and rips off her hat before going to the kitchen. Mouth curling to the side as she tries to decide what to have for dinner. Fingers traveling over the different meat cuts in different containers.

Finally settling on what to fix, she grabs a pan from under the stove and pulling out ingredients she needs.

A flurry of notification makes her phone dig. Edith must fight back a sigh, already having a feeling as to what it is. Since Jace’s death was made public, she had received a plethora of well wishes. Most were in good faith but being reminded of it did nothing to actually help.

Her mother even went as far as to insist she would come down the week after the funeral.

Poor, poor Edith.

But when she checked her phone, it was not someone reaching out to send their condolences, it was Instagram notifications. All from a familiar person.

He just won’t get the hint.

[what part of leave me alone don’t you understand]

She messages him, after self-indulgently scrolling through his page. Aegon answers embarrassingly fast.

You said “not there” first

[you’re a weirdo.. snooping on your dead nephew’s girlfriend]

*ex. He would’ve broken up with you anyway

….right?

Edith rolls her eyes. Fucking cunt.

Her eyes survey the two slabs of meat in front of her.

[do you want to have dinner]

She watches the dots appear, then disappear, then reappear.

What?

[you’re clearly not gonna leave me alone so do you want dinner]

More reappear and disappearing dots. For a moment, she thinks she overplayed her hand.

Fine. Where

[at my place]

[you already know the address. btw if you’re going to stalk someone maybe don’t drive around in the gold Porsche. It’s obvious and tacky]

He hearts the message. Freak.

And here I thought you were trying to be normal

Edith stares at the last message for a while.

Normal.. what a funny idea. Maybe her version of normal is just a bit different, the way she is sure Aegon’s version of it is different.

[bring wine]

It’s the last message she sends before rolling up her sleeves, fingers massaging over the meat as she seasons it. Extra care given to the tender parts of it. Herbs and spices marinating in the fleshy parts.

Bloody and soft, like Aegon’s lips at the funeral.

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k1ngl30n · 2 months

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Hannibal dragon AU, up and ready for business!!

Uh yes please attempt to enjoy. I haven't been writing for quite some time so some parts are inevitably going to sound quite bad -- I'm completely open to constructive criticism though! Also looking for a beta (I think that's how you say lmfao)

ok I CANNOT find the original post where I was talking about this and there were two people that wanted to be tagged when this came out but I can only remember one. I am terribly sorry ( @rainy-sel heii guess what's out muahahaha)

#Hannibal #NBC Hannibal #hannibal fanfiction #Please tell me if the link doesn't work because I don't really link things on here lmfao

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hannigramficrecs · 2 years

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Hello! I was looking through your index to find this specifically and couldn’t so thought I’d ask. Do you have any fic recs that involve love at first sight or a whirlwind romance where the two fall in love quite quickly? Tysm!

Every Day a Dying Day by lovetincture [words: 8,210]

Will Graham is a professional mourner. He attends strangers’ funerals and grieves their loss, for a fee. Hannibal is a serial killer. He visits the funerals of people he’s killed. They notice each other immediately. Like recognizes like, and neither of them truly belong at the funerals they attend. Hannibal is fascinated by Will’s terrible empathy, and Will knows immediately that Hannibal is a serial killer. None of that stops them from wanting to get closer.

And Why The Sea is Boiling Hot by LydiaFearing [words: 12,034]

Hannibal is having a bad morning so he tries to cheer himself up with shopping at the farmers’ market and ends up meeting an intriguing fisherman who is bad at eye contact.

Fruitful by Everett_Harte [words: 11,629]

An AU where they both meet several years before the show, start dating, and get married. And bang, a lot.

A Hollow Ache by gleamingandwholeanddeadly (something_safe) [words: 41,097]

AU where Will is a civilian on vacation who meets Hannibal while he’s on the run in Florence. Of course Hannibal is incapable of keeping a low profile, so he immediately offers to play tour guide. They fall in love.

I Am Not A Morning Person by stratumgermanitivum [words: 14,852]

I Am Not A Morning Person opened at 4:30 AM. Usually. Their menu was obscene and ever changing, and they offered shots of tequila in their coffee to anyone with an ID. Hannibal fell in love with their grouchy baker anyway.

A Fortunate Wound by starkaryen [words: 83,312]

Will Graham, a police officer in Baltimore, is shot while he’s on duty. The surgeon on call in the ER is Hannibal Lecter.

Titan Arum by ProxyOne [words: 64,614]

Will is a botanist, working in the greenhouse of the local Botanical Gardens. He is getting his life back on track after his divorce, but he can’t help but notice someone who keeps coming back to his greenhouse to draw, day after day. A man who seems to have been paying very close attention to him…

Rescues by drinkbloodlikewine and whiskeyandspite [words: 99,552]

Mischa is living with PTSD, and Hannibal seeks out a service animal to help her. He meets Will, trainer of therapy dogs - cue puppies, adorable interactions and lots of dogs. And smut. Of course.

Separately to a Wood by emungere [words: 13,891]

AU where Hannibal just proposes to Will that morning in the motel room #and for some reason Will says 'yes'

Provenance by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite [words: 62,735]

A delightful AU about a rare book dealer, an owner of a high-end coffee shop, and murder. This does involve Hannibal Lecter, after all.

The Number You Have Dialled Is Not Available by xyrilyn [words: 4,056]

Will dials the wrong number and somehow Hannibal ends up on the other end of the conversation.

Your Beck and Call by CarnivalMirai [words: 6,343]

Hannibal is naturally like that. Flirty, that is. With everyone. So it’s nothing special when he flirts with Will too, but god, does he know how to make his heart gallop and his face fluster. Will hates how Hannibal has this effect on him without even realizing it. Most people flirt back. But not Will. Will doesn’t want to be one of those people.

Ship of Dreams by StratsWrites, whiskeyandspite [words: 20,134]

Will had no one to wave to. He had no one to see him off. Even so opulently dressed, he had nothing at all to his name but his ability to bear children when the time came. It didn’t feel like the ship of dreams to him, even with Margot shoulder to shoulder with him, smiling wide in the afternoon sunshine. To Will it was a ship carrying him off to the rest of his miserable life.

Until I Met You by Dormchi [words: 33,990]

Detective Will Graham needs an expert and Fire Lieutenant Hannibal Lecter happens to be available. Basically this is just arson, murder, coffee, and fluff.

Thistle and Wildflower by snapdragonpop007 [words: 4,570]

For quite possibly the first time in his life he understood just what Morticia meant when she told Will over his mother's casket you'll know when you see them.

Picture Imperfect by shiphitsthefan [words: 13,654]

He's just walked into a photo shoot with concert harpsichordist Hannibal Lecter. He's about to ruin everything.

Patterson Park by KareliaSweet [words: 2,564]

A Hannigram recreation of the classic meet-cute from 101 Dalmatians, featuring Marlana Dalmatians. That's it.

I’ve Been Building Black Ships by cloudsarefluffy [words: 8,116]

Alpha Hannibal moves to the States with his sister Mischa after being overtly done with the fancy life of a count, and his blind omega neighbor gives him an insight into love that he never quite expected.

By Fire, By Thunder by HotMolasses [words: 13,442]

Hannibal and Will are both sent to the same camp for the summer, where they meet and romance blossoms. Then it turns serious. Then they share something much deeper and darker than normal teenagers, and it leads them into the storm that is each other.

Ball Toss by raiast [words: 22,307]

The carnival AU no one asked for. Hannibal accompanies Alana to a carnival and meets one Will Graham, whose game booth is less than above board. Hannibal does not approve.

#hannibal #hannigram #replies

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teejaystumbles · 1 year

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BARKING A LOT AT THE IDEA OF A HANNIBAL AU!!! Absolutely no pressure to continue writing it I’m just PSYCHED someone thought of putting the two together. Something something Cannibalism can be something Incredibly Personal something something What is More Divine than the Consumption of What You Love Something Something YOU KNOW??? I’m not good at literary analysis or psychology unfortunately but I do adore themes and the ideas of Devotion from Hob that can be used and/or how it can develop into a continual chase for Dream and the twisted mindset of a Dream that came out from Burgress manor with the “all things must change” mindset but also with the “if all things must change I’m going to direct what that change is to fulfill my own needs and wants, and those needs and wants are about more than just protection of the self but also the destruction of those who have hurt me”. I’m rambling a lot sorry just, YEAH!!! LOVE your mind and creativity!!!!

I love your rambling, please do go on! I love all these points and possibilites and am still thinking about all of it!

The thing is, Dream is still unable to kill humans, because of the rules, right? But death is too kind a fate anyway for those who would harm the King of Dreams or his closest companions, his family. And Dream can be. Creative. Like he says to Death, he is the far more terrible of the two of them. But if he wants, needs someone dead, there is always Hob, who is not bound by any rules. So having him at his side is the ultimate goal for ensuring his and the Dreaming's future safety.

Combine that with centuries worth of longing and lust and loneliness and you have a nearly feral Nightmare who most of the time barely manages to refrain from simply devouring Hob whole. Which is a thing that makes my mind go BRRRRRRRR It would be a bit like the nightmare Hob is having in my short fic Spiritstalker... maybe I could use these ideas to create something additional for that, mmmmh.

#asks #yes hannibal au no one stop me #I need more dark Dream in a less dom way but more feral and blood-thirsty

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theredofoctober · 3 months

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MANNA- CHAPTER TEN: RABBIT

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

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, implied child abuse, self harm, fatphobia, body dysmorphia

This is chronologically the tenth chapter in the series.

Read beneath the cut...

Napalm is the slow fire of waking from a terrible dream, blind, gasping, burnt. The pain, though delusive, is made actual by the action of nerves.

Only a hand at your shoulder, vigorous in its attentions, hauls you up from the putrescence of slumber into the light-dark of four in the morning. You find Hannibal's shape through lashes gummed with sleep's adhesive.

His face is as impassive as a star, but his hair, ever coiffed, is displaced from the friction of his pillow.

“You were screaming,” he says, as you sit, stunned, in his arms. “What were you dreaming about? Do you remember?”

“No,” you say, although the scenes remain briefly in your vision, doubling like silk screen prints upon the walls.

Hannibal fills up a glass with fresh water and bids you to drink, his eyes pensive, unconvinced.

Only the notion that he may suggest you share his bed or else intrude upon yours impels you to honesty.

“I dreamt that I was trapped in one of the Silicone Lover’s dolls. That he was trying to squeeze me inside, and I wouldn’t fit. He said, ‘You’ve gotten so big since I last saw you. I’d better do something about that.’

“Then he started cutting me up with kitchen scissors, and I couldn’t stop him.”

You pause, choking on a breath, a verbal stagger.

Dr Lecter offers you the water again, which you take in both hands and drain to its end.

“Take your time,” says Hannibal. “When you’re ready, go on.”

Lying will fail you before the all-seeing eye, so it is with a flat honesty that you say, “It wasn’t what the Lover did in my dream that scared me. It was what he said to me. Because he was right.”

You reach down to pull the quilt up across your stomach, which Hannibal, with a subtle gesture, prevents.

“To agree with such a statement there must be some basis of comparison for you,” he says. “You knew the person standing in as the Lover in your dream. Can you name him?”

Hannibal could guess it, from the little you’ve told him of your unclean past, but if memory conjures the name from the gully of silence he does not say so.

Instead, he comments, “I think it’s unwise for you to sleep again until your mind is settled. Perhaps we may take advantage of the hour to continue your therapy, in an informal fashion.”

He sits in a chair by your bed, producing a notepad and pen from a pocket of his dressing gown.

You see that he will not move.

"What if I don’t talk?” you ask, softly. “What if I say I'd rather take the punishment?"

Hannibal's slender lips upturn.

"I wouldn't be inclined to take such a claim seriously.”

In sullen defeat you flounce back against the pillows.

Dr Lecter takes his cue.

“I’m curious about the friendships you’ve formed throughout your life. Have there been any notable examples?”

“Not many,” you answer, looking at the raw edges of your fingernails. “I was kind of the weird kid. It was like looking through a dusty museum window at everybody passing by, not really knowing how to get out there and talk to people. Like I was too old and too young at the same time.

“I got bullied, kind of. Nothing worth talking about. Just dumb kid stuff.”

“Even persecution of a childish nature bears painful resonance in later life,” Hannibal comments. “Moreover, isolation from one's peers may disrupt development in those vital years.”

You think of dolorous hours patrolling a fallow playground alone, three hundred children staring through you with adult hostility.

“I did make one friend,” you say. “First year of high school. Amy Glass. She was a weird kid, too.”

Hannibal scratches deftly on his notepad.

"Describe how you met."

Closing your eyes, you find your way back through the forests of the past to a corridor whose tiled floor squeaks under your shoes. You smell textbook paper and saccharine body spray. The sweat of young bodies, and the stale cafeteria fare you’d never tasted throughout your time there.

“Between classes Amy would sit in a window listening to music, or reading,” you say. “Stephen King, usually. Sometimes Ann Rice. She seemed to be up there all the time. I don’t think she was getting shit from the other kids or anything; she just preferred hanging out on her own.

“I wished I was like that, not caring. I wished I was her, period.”

“In what way?” asks Dr Lecter, and in the hallway of your mind a slender figure appears, brown of skin and eyes, blue hair cut roughly to the chin, its roots seeping in atop it like a stain.

Amy.

“A lot of ways,” you say. “Before I really knew her, it was about how she looked. She had piercings— ears, lip, nose, eyebrow. Teachers would tell her to take them out, then the second she was out of their eye-line she’d put them right back in. And even back then she had these awful stick and poke tattoos of bats and crosses she covered up with band aids for classes.

“She did all of them herself with a safety pin. God knows how she didn’t get an infection or anything.

“Then there was the fact I knew we liked some of the same music because of the patches on her bag, and her t-shirts and stuff. Nothing you’d approve of,” you add, as interest touches the face of your listener. “Jesus, I can’t even imagine playing stuff like that in this house. Anyway, I didn’t want to just be like, ‘hey, you like that band, too’. It would have been too weird. Stalkery, maybe?”

“Music isn’t such a terrible way to form a connection,” says Hannibal, amused. “I was once approached in friendship through a shared taste in cheese.”

Picturing his restrained derision you cannot help but laugh.

“Oh, god,” you say. “What were they thinking?”

“It was a naive assumption of commonalities. Besides, my commitment to professionalism would never have allowed us to be as close as he would have hoped.”

You give a little start of affront.

“You’ve made friends with other clients.”

Dr Lecter’s smile remains.

“Only with those whom I feel my presence benefits.”

“Benefits you, you mean,” you say, pettishly. “Whoever it was, you just didn’t like him that much. That’s why you turned him down. Or maybe he was too like you.”

Without appearing offended, Hannibal turns a page in his notebook.

“I'm unconcerned with debating my personal relationships, little one. Let’s return to Amy. Who initiated the friendship between you?”

“Amy,” you say. “It was after this councillor was trying to get something out of me, and I didn’t want to talk. I walked out that room feeling so... heavy, and grimy, and embarrassed. Then there was Amy, heading to the same office I just walked out of. She looked at me, scrunched her face up, and said, ‘Wish me luck.’ Next time I saw her I made the same face back and asked, ‘how was it?’

“‘The worst, just like always,’ she said. ‘Where’d she get her certificate, anyway? Clown school?’

“I burst out laughing. ‘She’s so bad, right?’

“And that was it. Friends. We went everywhere together. Amy really liked me. I don’t know why. I think maybe she thought I was sort of mysterious and interesting rather than just depressed, probably because I didn’t want to talk about what was going on with me.

“She told me everything about her. How her dad didn’t believe in mental health issues even though he was just like she was, and how her mom just ignored everything, hoping it’d just... go away. But I didn’t tell Amy even one little thing about me, really. Not one.”

Guilt you’ve never truly confronted falls like a petal from a late summer bloom, cloying the dark with its flavour.

“Did Amy ever indicate that she’d recognised your particular illness?” prompts Hannibal, and you shrug glumly.

“A couple of times. I ignored every hint. Changed the subject. Acted like it wasn’t a thing when it obviously was. I knew that she knew. That was the dynamic. She was softer, around me. She got it. She got me.”

Suddenly your breath feels very high in your chest, catching on a rib.

“I can’t help but notice your use of the past tense,” says Dr Lecter. “Might I assume that you are no longer friends?”

“We grew apart after school,” you mutter. “I think she would have liked it if I stayed in touch, but then sometimes I wonder if that’s just wishful thinking, and maybe she didn’t care all that much when we drifted apart and stopping talking.

“I have her on Facebook. That’s all, really. She was never a social media person anyway, but still. I could have tried harder. I don’t know why I didn’t.”

Hannibal allows the silence between you to ferment before he speaks again.

“Looking back, what do you think prevented you from maintaining contact?”

“I felt like after school was over she’d find other friends, and I’d just end up being left behind. So I got out of there before I had to see it happen.”

"You abandoned a friendship on the basis of a prophecy that might never have come to fruition."

"It would have,” you insist. “All my life I've had senses about things. Like, if I get a feeling something will or won't happen, I'm always right. Like I was right about you."

Swanlike, Dr Lecter’s hands move across his notebook, tactfully punctuating a note.

"It's common for sufferers of complex post-traumatic stress disorder to misinterpret their hypervigilance as psychic premonition. A heightened awareness of your surroundings and the behaviours of people in your vicinity develops in order to predict danger before it occurs. Pattern recognition is more mathematical than clairvoyant."

"What about my dreams?" you ask, sharply. “Are they math, too?”

"You've had other nightmares?” asks Hannibal, and leans forward, poised to digest you answer.

Canny, you hoard the matter like a serpent its glittering lair.

Hannibal accepts his defeat with grace.

Gathering up his notebook and the empty glass, he says, "That's enough therapy for now, particularly so early in the morning. I'll make you some tea, and you may return to sleep. Peacefully, this time, I hope."

Later, there is a meal that sits, sinking in a bath of bronze on Dr Lecter’s dining table, so much of it that you’re gorged merely from the arithmetic of its makeup.

“Arroz de Cabidela,” says Hannibal, as he pulls out his own chair. “A Portuguese dish made with rice, chicken, or rabbit cooked in its own blood. Today I’ve chosen rabbit. Have you ever eaten it before?”

It occurs to you that he expects you to be disturbed by the notion, but you are not. Meat is meat, all of it equally cruel. That life must end for the furthering of your existence has driven you to veganism many a time.

Little chance of sustaining such a diet now that you sleep in the devil’s slaughterhouse.

“No,” you say. “I’ve never tried rabbit. I heard it’s really... gamey.”

Your palate is scarcely educated enough to comprehend the statement. Still, it is apparently accurate, for Hannibal makes a low hum of agreement.

“It has similarities to poultry, in flavour, though it’s rather lean and dry. The blood stew adds a richness you’ll find complimentary, however.”

The scent is certainly inviting, but you are so committed to rejecting whatever is served to you that you feel lightheaded, succumbing to the altitude of starving heights.

“Couldn’t you have given me a smaller portion?” you ask, piteously. “I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s so... much.”

Hannibal glances from your plate to his own, his visage neutral.

“I’ve served you a great deal less than I’ve given myself,” he says. “That said, I’m sure we can settle our differences. I’m not unyielding, if I can see some effort is being made.”

You look him in the eye, hoping you appear more bold than frightened.

“Dr Lecter, you make me all these courses, and they’re crazy even for a normal person. I feel like you do it on purpose. And afterwards my stomach hurts.”

“That’s normal, after a period of fasting. Your body will adjust. Now, please eat.”

You don’t. The cut on your plate makes you think of the Lover’s dolls, how even at your slightest you wouldn’t have fit into such a shell. How, changed as you must be through Hannibal’s cooking, you would ooze over every edge.

“I could use the feeding tube, if you’re unwilling,” says Dr Lecter, rising from his chair to stand at your back. “It would be relatively easy for me to administer. But I’d hate to sour an otherwise pleasant meal with brute force.”

He cups your throat in his smooth hand, and you envision how lovingly he’d coil about you in restraint, guiding the pipe down through you as you choked and flinched in his grasp.

“I’ll eat a quarter,” you say. “That’s it. Then... then nothing else until tomorrow. I won’t sneak out of bed, and I won’t do anything that breaks the rules. Please, Dr Lecter. Uh... Daddy?”

Your confusion between roles endears you to him, as does your breathless, eager willingness to beg.

“Should I allow you to barter?” Hannibal muses, still caressing the wand of your stiff neck. “It’s a symptom of your illness, after all.”

“Just let me choose how much and I’ll try anything you offer me.”

Dr Lecter releases a small breath of laughter.

“I wouldn’t like you to eat your words, little one.”

Gnashing your teeth, you say, “I won’t. I can do it. Please let me. You’re supposed to dote on me, aren’t you?”

You feel Hannibal’s lips against your hair in a kiss of paternal indulgence.

“Always so spirited,” he says. “Very well. I cannot deny my little beauty her request.”

What beauty does he refer to? You’ve only recognised it in the mine shafts of furthest hunger, mistaking a shadow for some precious stone.

Yet clearly you are not so low quality as you believe if both men have fucked you so freely over other women, whom they could conceivably draw into the net of the house.

Then again, there is no accounting for the tastes of madmen, and mad they both are, even Hannibal in his gelid divinity.

From the topiary of his language and flippant games you are beginning to see that you interest him in your very opposition to his being. Were you to succumb completely you would not be so worthy: all men bow to Hannibal, after all, seduced and deceived until they’d lick his fingers like lambs for the milk of his approval.

You, like Will, resist and evade enough of his passes to set yourself apart from the flock.

You may yet throw a halter over the head of the horned man, if only in as much as he allows himself to be reigned.

Quartering your meal as neatly as you're able, you glance up at Dr Lecter, afraid that, by some caprice, he’ll break his code and force you to eat down to the bare plate. But he merely stands by, retaining his honour, and as you look at him you picture his mild hands breaking the neck of the rabbit to drain as though for a ritual of blood.

Frequently through your days with Hannibal he immerses himself in hobbies and work about the house, cultivating a necessary solitude after the long hours of ingesting others’ anxious thoughts.

He reads, or writes music, sketches, telephones his friends and past lovers—of whom there are many—or else sets his pen to journals, having seen you safe to your locked room, where he need not prepare for misdemeanour.

In this way your residence in Hannibal’s home does not impede upon his individual pursuits, but rather compliments them, an accent of his sempiturnal glamour.

You are, after all, but one of his many pastimes. It is indulgence, then, when he insists on attending your evening bath.

As he kneels beside the tub to dampen a washcloth his intentions surface, another infringement upon the flesh.

“I don’t need you to help me,” you mumble, arms taut across your chest. “I’m not your baby.”

“Your inner child wails for the tenderness your illness has long obstructed,” says Hannibal, calmly. “Your independence would have you die like an infant abandoned to the forest. Let me carry you, at least in this small act of service.”

You look at him with eyes as dull as old blades and picture the futility of your struggle, his lithe arms holding you, kicking and airless, beneath the foam.

“Don’t you have your own daughter you can do all this with?” you ask; you’ve not yet needled him on his familial relations, and feel yourself more than entitled to know.

Hannibal begins to work the flannel over your naked form, paying no heed to your twitching affront.

“Abigail would have served the role admirably,” he says. “But it wasn’t to be. As for my own children, I have none.”

The revelation passes you without surprise. It’s only possible to imagine him having elegant, adult offspring, absent of the soiling indignities of rearing an infant.

“So you took me away for you and Will to raise,” you say. “Guessing he doesn’t have kids, either.”

The washcloth folds beneath the water, and you gaze studiously at the opposite wall so as not to think about the hand behind the fabric, how it has touched you in other ways, pleasantly, horridly.

“Will is also childless,” says Dr Lecter. “He has never known family, as you have. His mother left him when he was only an infant, and his father was a distant figure, though present. Now it seems that they’re estranged from one another. One can only imagine the loneliness Will has known in his life. Perhaps, with your assistance, this will change.”

Cloth, skin, hands, touch. Gentle and beguiling their trap, to distract from the permanence of this suggested triptych as fingers play against you underwater.

Unsteadily, you ask, “Is Will your boyfriend?”

Hannibal turns you an indecipherable look.

“Do you perceive our relationship to be romantic?”

A strange question, considering the violation with which you were inducted to their company. But not once did either man kiss or grasp the other— a technicality, certainly, yet one, it seems, that holds weight.

“Yes,” you say. “For you, anyway. I don’t know about Will. I know he thinks highly of you. He just sees me as something that’s in the way.”

You kick a foot testily, splashing water over the rim of the bath.

“What are you in the way of?” asks Hannibal, as he begins to lather your hair.

“Not sure. Your friendship, I guess.”

“Do you believe him when he implies that you're only an obstacle to him?”

Water pours over your head, and you close your eyes, enduring the sensation.

“He told me I’m unwanted,” you say.

“When you attempted to kill him?”

Fear bowls over you with a black suddenness.

“He told you?”

“I came to my own conclusions. You weren't quiet, either of you, that night."

You look at Hannibal, at the stag man of your dreams, and taste something like dirt, something like blood, at the back of your mouth.

“Had you seriously injured him or succeeded in your bid to end his life I would have been forced to conclude our treatment,” he says. “But you did not. I’m thankful to have been provided with a truth I hadn’t yet drawn from you: I know that you are not a killer, at least not at this present moment.”

In a strengthless whisper, you ask, “What do you mean?”

Hannibal draws a comb through your hair, unmoved by the conversation.

“As time changes the continents, people come apart through circumstance into new being. That shift may one day lead to the birth of murder’s country.”

A thought stings you like the cold: Will and Hannibal want you to be capable of killing, if not of them, then someone of lesser consequence, the hereditary illness emerging in the child.

That is the secret under this house, the whisper in the walls, its present haunting.

“I hope that never happens,” you mumble. “Never. No matter what you do.

“And yet the whetting of your blood thirst didn’t begin with Will and I,” says Dr Lecter, mildly. “Until you admit your liking of its flavour you will remain unsatisfied, little one.”

You do not ask how he knows you’ve thought of killing, once before, which you yourself had forgotten; having been in your home, the chill sanctum of your childhood bedroom, he may have learned, of you, a myriad, his interrogation merely a practice in contextualising his findings.

“I’d rather starve,” you say, at last, and sink your chin beneath the water.

Dr Lecter takes a razor from a nearby cabinet and begins to shave you with slow precision. He does not ask if you wish for it, only glides the razor across your underarms, groin, and each leg until you run silken beneath his hands.

That done, Hannibal rises, brushing unseen dust from his knees.

“I’ll bring you some fresh clothes,” he says, and leaves the room, a ghost departing the stage.

You look at the razor, entrapped in its plastic guard on the rim of the bath.

Had you a pair of scissors you might have cut the metal free to make a weapon, or else an escape into realms unknown to the living. Though its edge is still wickedness manifest, it would take a great deal of pressure to pursue death by this angle, though it would not be impossible.

It is not death you want to meet, however, but another, nameless coward.

You take the blade to your arm, and the pain is like eating, a sin that sates the freak of misery.

The bathwater turns like a devil’s baptism, and though they are but shallow cuts you feel suddenly faint. Lying back, you lay your arm against the porcelain, thinking murky thoughts of your mistake.

Hannibal returns carrying a muted lilac dress and pale stockings, stilling at the sight of you, of the water, red as autumn mud.

He sets down the clothing and kneels beside you again.

“Let me see.”

You let him take your arm and touch the crude little gashes softly.

“Shower, quickly. Then I’ll treat your wounds. Fortunately, they aren’t so deep.”

How gentle he is with you, this beast dressed as a man in his pressed shirt and waistcoat, guiding your numb form about with a soothing authority. You’d once yearned to be handled like this, to be absolved and set free of any and all expectation. That it comes from him is like being spit in the eye by the Fates, one after the other.

Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos: what have you done to so offend them?

It’s only after having bandaged your forearm and settled you, dummy-like, upon his bed, that Hannibal speaks again.

“What motivated you to do this?”

“You know.”

“Elaborate.”

You lie, face down, in the pillows. The cotton smells like him.

“To feel better,” you say. “Amy said it helped her, sometimes. Cleared her head.”

The mattress tilts slightly as Dr Lecter sits down beside you.

“You mirror her pain to feel closer to love lost. Has it helped you?”

“No. I feel stupid. I feel—”

Restless, you turn onto your side and feel a tear, compelled by gravity, mark your jaw.

“I feel like a kid,” you say. “It’s humiliating. I hate that I always feel this way. Don’t make me live like this.”

Dr Lecter presses a tissue into your hand, as much to save his bedclothes as to comfort you.

“Fighting the expression of necessary emotions will only stunt them further, little one. Will and I would dearly like to see you flourish. Amy would surely wish that for you, too.”

Cradling your wounded arm to your chest, you flick the used tissue to the floor with the other.

“Screw you,” you say. “Both of you. That’s what Amy would tell me to say to you, Dad.”

Hannibal stares at the tissue, and you sense the inward twitch of his irritation as he bends to pick it up from the ground.

“Your parents called again, this afternoon,” he says, offhandedly. “I informed them that you were struggling with your treatment. I advised that we continue your residence here a month longer than previously agreed.”

He casts you a pitying look, and you’re reminded of the futility of going to war with Hannibal Lecter.

“It seems that I made the prudent choice,” he says. “Don’t you agree?”

#hannibal lecter #hannibal lecter x reader #hannibal fic #yandere hannibal lecter #manna fic #tw eating disorders #tw fatphobia #tw self harm #dead dove do not eat #darkfic #hannibal darkfic

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