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Assistant: Title: Manna
        Author: thenightsibling thenightsibling 
        Chapter: 6/26 
        Summary: A patient with an eating disorder is kidnapped by Hannibal Lecter in order to play psychological games with her and Will Graham. Slowly she is absorbed into their world...Cis Woman Reader/Hannibal/Will GrahamUpdate: three weeksI post occasional previews on my tumblr theredofoctober
        Contents: Chapter 6: Salt
    

    


  

  
  
    
    Another day begins in the cenotaph of Dr Lecter's house. That he doesn’t immediately speak of your night in Will's bed seems intentional, a tactic to keep you on some treacherous edge.Though you look askance at your abuser across the breakfast table, he speaks only of the day's work ahead of him, and that which he has put to you.“I’d like you to read the book I left in your room,” he says, observing as you dice poached egg into cubes so thin as to be the crystals of a snowflake. “I see that you have not touched it yet. As part of your treatment, I intend you to follow a curriculum that will provoke healthy conversation and—I hope—reflection, afterwards.”You spread a quantity of egg white to the furthest edges of your plate, hoping to create the impression of having eaten more than has, in fact, travelled your oesophagus.“Dostoevsky,” you say, at length. “Isn’t he really depressing?”Hannibal smirks, and reaches across to gently remove the fork from your plate.“That is indeed a perspective of his catalogue, but not a conclusive summary. Fyodor’s life, like his work, was frequently besmirched with misfortune, and yet he proclaimed beauty and worship as his driving forces, endeavouring to appreciate both even at the direst junctions of his existence.”Dr Lecter forks the clandestine shrivels of egg towards your lips, which remain in a steadfast line until you discern the quiet threat in his oaken eyes. While yolk waxes your inner mouth, your fists wrench your skirt, as though you might twist your captor's throat through mortal telekinesis.You think of cartilage closed beneath your fist, of gargled breaths, and quiet, and cringe from the knowing of what would truly come. Dr Lecter’s hand would make a paper crane of your wrist, or else his c@ck would tear you through you like God’s hand rending the rib of Adam to make Eve.With you as his Eve, he means to make an Adam of Will, it seems.You sit, and you eat, and feel the weight of it crawl up your belly on many legs, such vermin.Presently, you ask, “Can’t I choose something else? A different novel? I’m not much of a reader anymore, and it’s pretty long.”Truthfully, when you do attempt to read, it is often the same sentence over and over; your hunger has robbed this from you, also, a nosferatu in its thirst for thought.“If you complete this volume and share your thoughts with me, then you may request a title,” says Hannibal, smoothly; perhaps he has prescribed this book for its preposterous length, as well as its content, an occupation for months to pass. “For now, I would like you to finish The Idiot. There is a character within that I suspect you will come to understand as well as yourself.”You decide that you despise his pretension as much as his torments, the naked self-absorbtion that comes of filtering experience through such narrow tastes and opinions.Still, you cannot challenge his word so soon after promising your obedience, and thus finish your breakfast without further word in order to excuse yourself from the table.Alone in your locked room, you scream against your impotence, knowing well that there is no one to hear or help you. Hannibal has fortified this beautiful room as he might a trove of sapphires to inhibit your escape, and whatever neighbours he has keep their insular distance from it unless invited in.If a passing stranger did glimpse you there, you doubt that they’d be moved to your release. You are but a poor mad girl, shut away to heal in the home of a doctor so esteemed. There is no word to be had against his, even that of the law, which he has cleverly declawed.You pull a chair to the window to read, accepting, in sulking resignation, that there is nothing else to do but pace, or sleep, which you will not do, afraid to lose all sense of reality to repetitious acts. The book is as difficult as anticipated; tracing your finger across each page, you hope to anchor your thoughts to its complex and numerous appellations, shadowboxing the eternal fog of food that eclipses all things, even the rapes.If you accept what has been done to you, and what has been taken, then you must accept the abyss that is to be a slave to circumstance. So, for the following days, you think only of the novel and the view beyond your room, in which the trees weep browning leaves like the blood of a decaying God.You see little of Hannibal, which you are glad of. His work runs long into the evenings, and the brief visits he makes to your room are merely to ascertain that you’ve eaten. The meals remain small, suggesting a caution in Dr Lecter not to overextend the limits of your disease.You elect not to tell him how your heart palpitates each time you touch morsel to tongue, how desperately you cram mouthfuls past your teeth, swallowing before you can stop yourself, standing, petrified of your base weakness, which you’ve less and less ability to resist.There is no secondary option to upturn its pale belly to your taking, nothing but the damnation of the men that rewrite your purpose as love letters to one another, or poison pen notes, one and the same.Friends, enemies, paramours, or rivals— what they are, if not one or all of the four you cannot interpret.When Hannibal comes to you on the morning he claims to be Saturday with news of Will Graham’s imminent arrival you are almost pleased, the chance to observe these monsters in repose a thrilling distraction from your sequestered numbness.“I apologise for my neglect,” says Hannibal, glimpsing something of this eagerness in your expression. “My clients have proved themselves to be uniquely demanding, lately. I hope not to face similar struggles in my home.”You are, at this time, in the parlour, looking about you for where to pour away the hot chocolate that Dr Lecter has placed into your shaking hands for you to finish. The mug is charmingly presented, towering in whipped cream and shaken cocoa, its contents thick and sweet as Ethylene; you feel you might equally die from it.Hannibal says your name, and you jump, slopping a little of your drink over the rim.“How do you feel about Will joining us this afternoon?” asks your captor.Shrugging, you rub at the spilled chocolate with the cuff of your sleeve, aware of Dr Lecter’s eyes locking to the stain on your dress. He cannot abide mess, or disorder, another quality he accepts in Will, who is not nearly so put together as his companion, even at his best dressed.“I hate Will,” you say. “That's all I feel.”“Then why did you choose to share a bed with him?” asks Hannibal.He knows, then, and likely set this trap on purpose.“I had a nightmare,” you say. “I needed someone. I still felt... weird. From the meds. I guess it made sense to me, then.”Hannibal appraises you with interest.“You could have come to me.”You cannot restrain your rictus of disgust.“No way. You brought me here. You brought Will to me. Told him what to do. What he did... it was you, doing it through him.”“Certainly not,” says Hannibal, smoothly. “I am the dowsing rod that comes upon water underground. Will’s potential, and taste for violence was already there. Still, there are other yearnings to be mined from that plentiful well. You know this: it is why you went to him for comfort. There is a father in Will Graham, craving to give love to a child.”Again, you grimace, and Dr Lecter releases a sound of soft amusement“And why that look? Because of the intercourse? Not one of the three of us shares blood with any other. Although it was known amongst some ancient kings to wed their daughters.”You set down your mug with a punctuating clink.“You’re not kings.”“If only we were,” says Hannibal, cheerfully. “What palaces we would have built for us. Ah, well. In my mind, at least, they exist.”He picks up your mug and places it back into your hands.“Drink your chocolate. If you finish half of it, I will take it away.”At this, you brighten.“Really?”“Of course,” says Hannibal. “As long as you eat some of the cream.”He loiters until you are finished, never seeming to lose his fascination with your person.“A valiant attempt," he says. "Now, let’s get you out of that dirty dress. Wouldn’t want Will thinking I’m not taking good care of you.”You make as if to go to your room, but Hannibal stands in your way, an immovable wall.“Raise your arms for me, little one.”“I can dress myself,” you insist, and wilt as Hannibal’s goodwill visibly wavers.“Alright, doctor.”After easing the dress up over your head Hannibal stands a moment, considering your nudity before him. One hand frisks you ribcage to breast, taking measure of your form, and you find yourself shifting from foot to foot, appalled by the coal of arousal that simple touch has spurred.“So many pleasures could be yours,” says Dr Lecter, “if you would only embrace them.”You look away, and allow your turned cheek to be your answer.*By the time Will enters the house, Hannibal has you drawing on a large sketchpad in an armchair— art therapy, you suppose, but you are no fool. Through it, he means to infantilise you further, making you all the more susceptible to the two of them in that, in all things, you are a child. Theirs.You’ve been told to draw whatever your feelings dictate to you, but out of pettiness you scratch down caricatures of your tormentors, taking great satisfaction into making each look particularly mean and unattractive.Will sits at one end of the living room couch, his full mouth in a cantankerous downturn. He doesn’t make even brief eye contact as he greets you; indeed, he pretends to the best of his ability that you are not there as he accepts a glass of wine from his host, a curt, plaid-shirt clad shoulder squared in your direction.The night you spent in his bed embarrassed him, you realise, as though he were your hostage, and not the reverse.Thus, he has chosen to hate you for it, and it is as you scar his pencilled image into a graphite scowl that you decide to goad him, in response.Hannibal—coolly debonair in a pressed rust suit—looks at you throughout his conversation with Will, analysing each haughty exhale and flip of a page in their colourful feeling.Each time Will speaks, you make a point to drop a pencil with a disturbing clatter, or else stare at the back of his head until he surely feels the pressure of your gaze. It is childish game, to be sure, but one that cannot easily be halted in the name of misbehaviour.The young man twitches and stiffens with gratifying agitation, his squared jaw a lance of disgruntled solidity. Hannibal’s eyes bear the shine of withheld mirth, and you comprehend that although this man cannot abide rudeness, he is not above the lowbrow if it is in the name of vengeance.It does strike you as odd, however, that he does not intervene on his ally’s behalf; this, too, you are darkly curious to understand, his passive participation in the prodding of a humming nest.At last Will snaps your name, one fist brought down on the arm of his chair in a cushioned thump.“If you want something from me, then you’d better say it out loud. It’s not as if you’re known for being shy about your feelings.”“You know what I want,” you mutter, drawing your chin up under your knees. “But you’re too chicken to do anything he doesn’t want you to.”This directed at Hannibal, who merely hums neutrally, and leans in at a subtle incline.“You’re right: I’m not taking you home,” says Will. “You’ve barely been here a full week, and your collaboration with Dr Lecter is half-hearted, at best. Don’t expect freedom when you haven’t worked for it.”“And don’t pretend to care about solving crimes when you’re here, committing them,” you retort. “You really put the f@ck@ng b@llsh@t into the FBI.”Will’s eyebrows rise in disbelief, his forehead a graph of harried lines.“Careful,” he grinds out. “I ought to wash your mouth out with soap.”Snorting, you pick the sketchbook back up and shake it open across your lap.Your pulse is ringing with adrenaline, with the fear of where this brattish turn may lead, but with Hannibal silent and quietly interested in one corner, and Will stiff and seething in between, there is causality to your tantrum that you do not care to challenge.“You wouldn’t,” you say. “You’re too scared to touch me without your friend holding your hand the whole time.”Will becomes very still.“That is a very dangerous assumption to make," he says, and suddenly you are almost blind with miserable fury.It makes you quite reckless.“So do it,” you say. “Wash my mouth out. Do it!”“Time to prove that you’re a man of your word, Will,” says Hannibal, from the corner. “A parent that does not reinforce discipline holds no power.”Will stands up quite abruptly, rolling up his shirt sleeves in terse motions.“Alright.”A darkness passes over his eyes, and you realise your mistake.“Wait,” you say. “No. I didn’t mean it.”You shriek as Will tries to take hold of you.“Hold still,” he says. “I don’t want to break your arm. It’d be easy for me.”He drags you into the downstairs bathroom, slamming on the cold faucet with a free arm and holding a cake of soap under its stream.“No! No!”You bring your legs up off the ground and lunge forwards, pitching your attacker into the washbasin.He pivots you in his grip, one shuddering hand squeezing your collarbone. The other cracks your cheek with an impulsive force that steers you back against the sink, just as you threw him, all your righteous attitude let out of you like pulp from a gourd.Will stares at his own hand in abjection, his eyes a harrowed eclipse.His voice stutters, trembles.“Oh, I— did I— I shouldn’t have— what am I doing?’You fold to the floor and crawl away on three limbs like a dying animal, one hand clutched to your cheek. Hannibal emerges from where he has been observing from the doorway, gesturing soundlessly for you to return to the parlour. He doesn’t appear angry; rather, the feeling that inhabits his eyes is so unlike any other you’ve yet perceived that dread turns your innards out of you as surely as one of his knives.You should run, you know, barricade yourself into an unlocked room to wait out the squall.Yet something—a sense, an instinct—compels you to lurk in the hallway beyond the bathroom to eavesdrop on the conversation within.“Will,” says Hannibal— through a crack in the door you see him caress the younger man’s quaking arm with the sensitivity of unbridled love. “You are distressed.”Graham lifts his hand, still flushed red from the blow.“I made a serious mistake,” he says. “Indefensible.”“She was antagonising you,” says Dr Lecter, plainly. “You punished her. That is all.”Will shakes his head, battling to articulate himself.“No. No. I reacted. It was... inelegant.”“I agree the soap was perhaps too literal,” says Hannibal, reaching across to turn off the faucet and set the soap bar straight in its dish. “It was a little gauche.”“Gauche,” Will repeats. “Yeah. Sounds about right.”He laughs shakily, relaxing under Hannibal’s consolation.“A musician might be expected to produce many flawed pieces in his early career,” says Dr Lecter. “In this case, however, there is a fault in the instrument.”Drying himself on a hand towel, Will appears pensive, unconvinced.“And you think it can still be played, this instrument?”“You have demonstrated it just now. While your first motion was unsophisticated, the second was a symphony. A bullet, a palm; each you have delivered to adversaries with the same instinctive force, and certain beauty.”“I shouldn’t have hit her in the face,” Will insists. “Too dangerous. I could have deafened her. Given her concussion.”“Then next time you must put her across your lap,” says Hannibal, smoothly. “That way there is no chance of serious injury.”A charge conjoins the two of them like a lightning bolt, marrying the earth to the sky.“Right,” says Will, at last. “So, what do I do with her now?”You scuttle into the living from before either man realises you’ve been listening and throw yourself down on the couch, your body going into little spasms of terror at the many possibilities of what fate your ire has earned you.Shortly after, Will passes through the door, inspecting your prone form with a fragile caution. He sits gingerly beside you on the couch and clears his throat.“Well,” he says. “You wanted my attention. Now you’ve got it.”You neglect to answer.Sighing, Will takes hold of the quiet."You have a bone to pick with me today. Bigger than usual.""I could say the same to you," you mutter, and Will's lips tighten into an unpleasant smile."You’re upset because I didn’t want to talk to you when I came in. I don’t know what you were expecting from me. When I found you in bed next to me the other night, I knew exactly what you were doing. Didn't Hannibal tell you about my acute empathy?”Sitting up on both elbows, you shake your head."No. What does that even mean?""It means I know how insecure you're feeling,” says Will. “And what you think you'll achieve in breaking me down. But you won’t. I don't appreciate being used, One."He spits the latter half of Dr Lecter's nickname for you as though it's rather beneath him to employ it, and this egotism alone reignites the desperation in you to best him, to raise yourself from the dirt-ground bottom of a pyramid of three points.Ignoring your repulsion, and the throbbing welt of his handprint on your cheek, you struggle up onto Will's lap and kiss him, your fingers a bow at the nape of his neck.For an instant he kisses you back, his cheeks in bloom, all gasping and piteous desire. Then he pushes you down onto the floor by the shoulders, his expression drawn, and severe."One," says Will. "No. You know the rules."You stare into the sullen lakes of his eyes until they skitter aside."No," you say. "No, I don't, Will. Dr Lecter hasn't explained anything. First I'm a patient, then I'm your daughter, then I'm— I'm something you can just hurt? I don't understand what I am to you people, or what I'm supposed to do.""You can start by not kissing me," says Will, and he wipes his lower face with one coarse hand as though drying himself of sudden rain."Why?” you ask, and the young man leers with distaste."You don't even want to. You're manipulating me. Trying to, at least.""Like you've been doing to me? You want me here. Otherwise, you'd take me away.”Your voice dries into in a plaintive croak. Your fingers clutch and cleave to him."Prove me wrong, Will. Take me to a real hospital. Please, Daddy, take me away from here."You almost feel him waver, under the spell of your weakness, its call to him. Then he jerks his chin in stubborn resistance, twitching your hands from the fabric of his trousers."I'm not going to disrupt your treatment. I have to trust that Hannibal will get through to you. Can't help thinking he's wasting his time.""Your rules don't make sense," you say, rudely changing the subject back to its previous line. "How come you get to touch me when I can't touch you?""Because you'll use it like a shovel to dig your way out of here," says Will. "Or to drive a wedge between me and Hannibal.""What if I just want someone? I'm alone, here. I can't be alone. I can't cope."You reach out to Will, forcing a passion for him that is not there. He feels your cold, and flinches back, the genuine emotion you'd felt extend towards you snapped like a pine needle under a hunter's boot."Don't do that," he says. "I won't be twisted around your little finger. If you want me on your side, then you can apologise for disrespecting me, and you can use your mouth to do it."His meaning beats you in, a bruising horror."You don't mean that," you say. "Do you?"Will smiles again, this time with a chilling irony."I think I do."“Why?” you ask, again. “Because he told you it was a good idea?”With slow purpose Will leans forward, wearing his darkness like a helm, a power, till now, unseen.“Because you need to learn that I’m not the soft target you think I am. I feel for you, and I want to help you, but not nearly as much as Hannibal does. I lack his patience. The harder you push me, the further I’ll close against you, and the last thing you need is another locked door in this house. Do you hear what I’m saying to you?”It is the threat of an echoing night, a decade forgotten underground, as in your dream.“Yes,” you say, unsteadily, and you see Will warming to his role in a subtle tightening of his posture.“Then you know what to do.”You look at his trouser button, gleaming like the tusk of a boar charging unavoidably through some murky underbrush.“Can we do... something else?” you ask, in a whisper.“Why?” asks Will, sharply. “Afraid of the calories? Considering Dr Lecter’s been lenient with you today, I think you can afford the addition.”The cruelty of this takes you aback; you cannot yet determine its cause.“Why do you hate me, Will?” you ask. “I’m just some girl. You don’t even know me. I never hurt anyone on purpose before I got here. Why am I the bad guy to you?”He says your name with a dangerous finality.“You’re stalling. Look, I can walk away and leave your punishment to Hannibal, but I can’t guarantee that he won’t be harder on you than I am.”“What would he do?” you mumble.Will pauses, and you get the sense that he’s editing his answer.“What he believes I’d like him to do.”“Worse than this?”You regret the question as Will unbuttons his pants and sits back, all moody arrogance.“What do you think?”You envisage yourself running from the room, throwing a screaming fit, or making your attempts at violence upon this delicate man, anything but set your mouth to task, as he desires.But you have sensed the devil in Hannibal Lecter, have dreamt of it; its spectre is the hand on the back of your neck as you reach into Will’s open trousers and lure out his arousal in your grudging fist.His girth rises from a thicket of curls, already straining against your touch, as it had been the night he watched Dr Lecter ravage you on the table top. Three strokes and Will is sucking his breath through his teeth, his hands scratching at the sofa, his eyes raised to the ceiling as your mouth closes over the head of his c@ck.He grasps the back of your skull and coaxes you clumsily down upon his heated desperation, needing, thirsting, a street mutt brought in to eat.The first taste of salt upon your tongue has you straining back against him; Will is right in that you fear the numeric value of his excitement, as though the very flavour of him alone might deconstruct your physical being like a wound in space, eating stars and worlds with similar appetite.The young man is too strong for you; he keeps your mouth, your throat upon him until you give in, fearing he may snap your neck entirely by accident in his ferocity.He says nothing, only breathes harshly above you, quite beautiful, still, an angel in his ecstasy, his sculpted features catching the soft light of the room, burnished to their most perfect state— you loathe him for that same symmetry, hate that you must hold his thighs in the b@st@rd sibling of an embrace to steady yourself, or else fall upon his lap in bowed debasement.The noise of the act—wet coughs and rasps, the rattle of saliva sieved through your teeth—takes on the rhythm of a waulking song, all repetition. Your eyes lose their vision to your tears, perceiving nothing but light, and Will’s gloomy outline above you.His inhales shorten, a sawing in, in, in, of saccharine air, and both palms close upon your cheeks as his small hips rise, and your mouth is full of him, like the crest of some foaming wave.You tumble back, and turn to spit just as Hannibal’s voice cuts through the room.“Swallow it. Though my floor is clean, I suspect that it is not quite spotless enough to eat off, which you would have to, should you deposit what you have in your mouth there.”You glance at Will, closing his trousers with a rather sheepish air about him; no help to you, little though you would have expected him to be. With a nauseous gulp, you drink down his liquor, made ashamed by your absence of valour, a coward to grovel so swiftly to command.“How far you’ve come,” says Hannibal. “Both of you.”Will meets your miserable look, and this time there is no guilt in his eyes.“Is Jack Crawford still invited to dinner?” he enquires, quite casually, as though your tongue was not still thick with him.Brows arched, Hannibal says, “He is. Why do you ask?”They both look at you, their thoughts a chevron formation of psychic understanding.Will says, “She’s not ready for that.”You shrink away as Hannibal approaches, pressed against the foot of an armchair like a beaten courtier to some mad king.“She will have to be,” says Dr Lecter. “For I insist on her attendance.”'
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