#Dr. oobleck | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dilfdemolisher · 3 months ago

Text

PERSEPHONE - CHAPTER FOUR

“Persephone, queen of the underworld. Hades runs Hell, but she’s in charge of punishment.”

Series Summary: A serial killer who works with the police herself has a tumultuous past with Jack Crawford and his new profiler, Will Graham. While trying to rebuild what she once broke, Hannibal Lecter sticks himself in the middle of the few things she cares about - Comments and critiques are encouraged.

Chapter Warnings: Swearing, hallucinations, mentions of rape, drugging, graphic torture and murder

Word Count: 6.3k

The glossy wooden floors of Dr. Lecter’s waiting room gleam so brightly, seeming able to reflect off your eyes; their polish almost unnervingly perfect. No receptionist, no fellow patients, just anticipation. It all feels like a punishment. You should have just accepted his first offer; it would have saved you the embarrassment of having to come anyway after throwing such a fit.

Behind the door, Hannibal sits at his desk, a Manila folder in front of him while he meticulously examines the entirety of you. A copy of your birth certificate, license, and hospital records, all courtesy of Jack.

Rising from his chair, he walks to open the door. “Good afternoon.”

“Hello.” You urgently respond. A pleasant grin covers his face as he steps aside. “Please come in.”

The gleam from the floor catches your eyes again, momentarily distracting you. You shift uncomfortably in your seat, then glance down at your shoes. “Should I take off my shoes?” you ask, your voice barely reaching an acceptable speaking volume.

“Hmm?” Hannibal’s response is nothing more than a hum, his eyebrows lifting ever so slightly. His silence demands you elaborate.

“This is real hardwood, right? I mean, do you want me to take off my shoes? They’re... kind of gross.” You gesture vaguely toward your feet; the contrast between the spotless room and the worn soles of your shoes feels a tad humiliating.

For a moment, there’s no response. His eyes, calm but sharp, flick briefly to your shoes and then back to your face. The silence stretches long enough to make your pulse quicken. Finally, he smiles—polite, perhaps even amused. “The floors are quite resilient. Leave your shoes on.”

His voice, soothing as ever, somehow makes the room feel colder. You nod, your cheeks flushing with a mix of relief and lingering embarrassment.

Hannibal steepled his fingers and leans forward slightly. "It's fascinating, isn't it? The small rituals we perform when faced with uncertainty. The shoes, the apologies." He pauses, watching your reaction carefully. “What else weighs on your mind?”

He’s only segwaying into the conversation, and it already feels too daunting. You feel the pressure mounting, the urge to fill the silence, to say something, anything, that might break through the tension. But you know better. Every word here has consequences.

The tension lingers, thick in the air, hurts as you inhale it, and uncomfortably settles in your lungs like oobleck. You attempt to calm yourself, but Hannibal’s unblinking gaze only heightens your unease. Finally, you break it, your voice softer than you intended. “I just... I just want to make sure everything is understood.”

Hannibal’s expression barely shifts, but the slight tilt of his head indicates his curiosity. “Understood? In what sense?”

You swallow hard, suddenly aware of how cold and sterile the room feels despite its immaculate design. “I mean, I want to make sure we’re on the same page. I didn’t expect to be here.”

A fleeting, almost imperceptible flicker of amusement crosses his face. “Expectations can lead to disappointment. But I assure you, there’s no judgment here.”

Your stomach tightens knowing you can’t evade this meeting forever. “I’m sure you read my file; it...brought me back. My mind went blank; I’ve seen more things than you can conceptualize, worse too. But it was different; there was no professional dissociation that could help me at that moment.”

Hannibal listens intently, his gaze sharpening as your words tumble out, raw and unfiltered. "Your mind went blank," he repeats, his voice smooth and deliberate. "A moment where even the armour of your professional detachment failed you. Why do you think that is?"

Your breath catches in your throat as you realize the gravity of your admission. You didn’t come here to be vulnerable, and yet you’ve laid out more than you intended, so quickly too; it really took nothing to expose a crack in the carefully constructed facade you’re so desperate to maintain.

He shifts, almost imperceptibly, drawing your attention back to him. “You’ve seen things worse than most. Perhaps worse than I can ‘conceptualize’”—his'” lips curl faintly, a suggestion of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth, “And yet, here you are.”

The silence that follows is thick and stifling. His words, like hooks, digging into the wound you're trying to ignore, pulling it open for examination.

“There’s a difference between what you’ve witnessed and what you’ve felt, isn’t there?” His tone is still gentle, but there’s an undercurrent of menace. “The dissociation you speak of—the professional distance—it failed because this time, it was personal. You felt it.”

Your heart beats faster, louder in the silence. He’s right. You weren’t just a witness this time; you were part of it, consumed by the reality of what happened. The memories flood back in vivid detail, and you feel the weight of them pressing on your chest, trying to push your honesty out.

Hannibal watches you closely, his eyes gleaming with something that feels too much like satisfaction. “And that,” he continues, “is why you’re here.”

It’s as if he’s lecturing you; you feel like you're in trouble. You need to prove your innocence. “My father committed an attempted murder-suicide when I was a teenager, semi-successful, I suppose.”

The room seems to contract around you as the words leave your mouth. Hannibal’s gaze remains unwavering, steady, and dissecting. His response is immediate, clinical in its precision: "You survived; they did not."

There’s no judgment in his tone, no sympathy either. It’s as though he’s stating a fact, as simple and inevitable as the laws of nature. But the truth of his words stings all the same.

You shift in your seat, fighting the urge to shrink under his gaze. “Yes,” you murmur, struggling to maintain control of your voice. "It was... messy. I—" You pause, realizing how absurdly inadequate the words feel. There is no simple way to describe what happened, no phrase that can neatly encapsulate the violence, the trauma, the loss.

Hannibal’s face remains impassive, his dark eyes absorbing every detail without a flicker of emotion. You wonder if he’s mentally cataloguing your story, filing it away among countless other tragic accounts, each one a puzzle piece for his own perception of the human condition.

“Yet, you're still here.” His fingers laced together as he leans back, studying you with that same unnerving calm. “Survivor’s guilt, no doubt. The inescapable burden of living when others do not.”

His words hang there, clinical and cutting. He’s dissecting your trauma, reducing it to its most basic parts. And yet, there’s a strange comfort in his detachment.

You inhale sharply, trying to steady yourself. “I’ve dealt with it," you say, but the hollow ring of the words betrays you.

Hannibal’s brow arches ever so slightly, his voice smooth and probing. “Have you? Or have you simply buried it, hoping time would do the rest?”

His ability to continuously deconstruct your carefully constructed walls punches your ego like nothing else. His violence is incredibly subtle.

“I didn’t bury it,” you finally manage without your voice betraying you. “I tried to move on. Isn’t that what people do? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?” You condescendingly ask.

Hannibal leans forward slightly, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes the room feel smaller. “People often mistake avoidance for healing. Moving on, as you say, is merely survival. But survival isn’t resolution.”

His statement lands heavy, and you can’t help but feel the truth in it. You’ve been surviving, going through the motions, convincing yourself that time alone would heal the deep scars left behind by that day. Ones that tore open the moment they were clawed at over a decade later.

If only he knew the bloodshed that has rained since.

“The whole time I was in shock from all the blood.” Your not even sure which account you're referencing.

A flicker of something—interest, perhaps—crosses Hannibal’s face as you recount the memory. He leans in, but his movements are slow and controlled, as if savouring every detail you reveal.

"The whole time," you continue, your voice wavering slightly as you relive the moment, "I was in shock, not from the pain, but from the blood. There was so much of it. Pouring out of me, soaking everything. I kept waiting for it to stop—for the stream to weaken. But it didn’t."

You pause, taking a shaky breath. “I was visiting during the summer; it was hot outside when he shot his girlfriend before turning the gun on me. I don’t remember her name. He shot himself after, and his brain was decorating everything.”

He had to taint his environment one last time.

“I was thinking about how my life force was slipping out of me; his was on the floor. His memories are what made him who he was. It was the same brain that decided to shove lead in itself. And now it's splattered on my cheek.”

Hannibal’s silence is palpable, a vacuum in which every word, every breath feels amplified. His attention is unnerving; there’s no flicker of surprise or horror—just pure, analytical interest. You’ve bared something dark, something deeply personal, but to him, it’s another thread to pull, another layer to dissect.

“You’ve given considerable thought to this, haven’t you? The juxtaposition between life’s fragility and the finality of death.”

You nod, not trusting your voice in the moment. The memories are too raw, too close, and the way he phrases it—so clinical, so detached—makes you feel exposed. It feels like he knows—the fixation on the blood, on the brain splatter—the primality of it all. It’s not just the gore, but what's representative of it. To watch the essence of a person—first your father—become... nothing. In a moment, a man was reduced from a thinking, breathing entity to a collection of tissue and neurons, discarded on the floor.

You swallow, your throat tight. “It’s my job; that's all I think about.”

Hannibal’s gaze sharpens at your words, his interest palpable. He leans forward ever so slightly, hands still delicately folded in front of him. "Is it really just your job?" His voice is low, as if coaxing something out of you that you’re not quite ready to share. “Or is it more? It sounds as though you’ve personalized this, made it part of yourself, rather than a mere professional analysis.”

You feel a familiar tension rising in your chest—the instinct to shut down, to deflect. He’s pushing you into a space you don’t want to enter. “How deep is this psychological evaluation meant to get? I’m an impolite person, but I’m not impertinent so if Jack insists I'm here, then so be it; I can be compliant when necessary. I’m impolite and impatient and would prefer for this to be dealt with quickly.

“I see,” Hannibal says blankly. “Then tell me about The Shepherd.”

TWO YEARS EARLIER

The Shepherd of Sins Commits another Act of ‘Justice’

The newly notorious serial killer known as "The Shepherd of Sins" has claimed another victim, leaving behind a scene in what authorities believe is the latest in a string of murders symbolizing the Seven Deadly Sins. This time, the killer appears to have chosen "Pride" as the target.

The victim, identified as Gregory Williamstan, 52, was the CEO of one of the city’s largest financial firms. Williamston was found dead late last night in his luxury office. Inside sources say Langston’s body was posed sitting upright on a throne-like chair, surrounded by mirrors reflecting his lifeless form.

A page torn from the Bible reads, "Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall," a direct reference to Proverbs 16:18. The unsettling message-

Unable to bear Freddie Lounds' article, you snapped the laptop shut with a force that rattled your office desk, books in your desk drawer shaking from the force. You’ve been devouring scripture, parsing through passages of sin, wrath, and divine punishment; the religious text your eyes have ingested over the last few is more than any philosopher could ever bear. Your mind has been stripping itself of its sanity over the last few weeks as you’ve clawed every lead and suspicion you’ve glued together.

You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve told yourself, “It's not my job.”

And it's not; it’s Jack's, Dr. Bloom's, and every other investigative FBI personnel’s duty to conjure a conclusion of this case. But their consistent failure leaves a frustrating ache from their uselessness.

Jack's words are about staying in line, doing your own job, and only intersecting with others when necessary. His mind won’t change and his lips will stay sealed shut; you may be able to loosen Bloom’s, though.

It's funny, you think, for as much distaste as you have for Lounds, you share a humorously large amount of traits with her.

Fifteen minutes later, you knock before Alana Bloom opens the door into her private office. It smells of fresh coffee and something soothing—maybe lavender.

She's wordless as she opens her door wider for you to enter, a soft smile curving her lips. She walks till she's seated in a plush chair, her eyes warm but watchful, always assessing. “You look like you need to talk,” she says gently, gesturing to the seat across from her.

You settle into the chair, shifting uncomfortably. You’re not sure how to begin, but Alana waits, giving you space to find your words.

“I’ve been... keeping up with the case,” you say, your voice sounding too small for the room.

Alana nods, her expression carefully neutral. “I assumed you would be; Jack told me about you.”

There’s no judgment in her tone, but you still feel the weight of your own guilt pressing down. “I know I’m not supposed to,” you admit, frustration seeping into your words. “But it’s—this case—it’s like it’s crawling under my skin. I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t just sit back and do nothing.”

Alana leans forward slightly, her gaze intent. “You saw something you shouldn't have seen, and you’re feeling powerless.”

You nod. That’s exactly it. Powerless. Useless. Watching this play unfold, knowing how it ends but unable to stop the final act.

“There’s something else, too,” you add, quieter this time. “I keep going back to the religious themes. The Bible verses. The symbolism... it’s starting to get to me. I’ve been reading so much scripture lately, trying to understand the killer’s mindset. It feels like I’m losing myself in it.”

Alana’s eyes narrow, a flicker of concern passing over her face. “That’s dangerous territory. You know that, right?”

“Of course I know,” you snap, more harshly than you intended. “But I can’t help it. The more I read, the more I see the connections. The Shepherd is playing God. He thinks he’s some kind of divine judge, executing sinners.”

Alana stays silent for a moment, absorbing your words. Then she asks, “And what do you think about that?”

The question catches you off guard. You’d been expecting advice, not introspection. You hesitate before answering; your voice quieter now. “I think... I think he’s getting off on it. On the power. The control.”

Alana nods, her gaze never leaving yours. “And what about you? You feel powerless, but what do you want?”

What do you want? The question sinks deep into your bones. You’ve spent so much time chasing after leads, obsessing over the case, but you haven’t stopped to think about why.

“I want the same power as him, I suppose, just inverted,” you say finally.

Alana’s voice softens. “And is that something you can do? Or is it something you feel you should do?”

Maybe it’s about proving something to yourself. Proving you’re not powerless. That you matter. That you can make a difference.

Alana leans back in her chair, her expression thoughtful. “It’s not unusual to feel drawn to this after what you experienced, especially when it’s so tied to morality and punishment. But you need to ask yourself—are you chasing this because you want to help, or because you need to feel in control?”

The room feels smaller suddenly, as if her words are closing in on you. You don’t answer right away because you’re not sure you know.

“I just want to do something,” you murmur after a long pause.

Alana gives you a small, understanding smile. “You’re doing something right now. You’re recognizing how it’s affecting you. That’s important.”

You nod, feeling the weight of the conversation settle in your chest. It’s not the conclusion you wanted, but maybe it’s the one you needed.

As you rise to leave, Alana stops you with one last question. “And if you can’t stop him—what will you do then?”

You left her office shortly after that; her question still rings in her head. You dismissed yourself, saying it’s late; you have to head back home. Something you knew she wouldn't disagree with. Though your feet carried you to your car and then back to your office.

Files lay in your hands, worn, edges fraying from the constant flipping, constant searching. Your return is pointless; you’ve mesmerized the details—the crime scenes, the victims. And yet, you return to the pages again and again, as if staring at the blood-soaked photos long enough will somehow change anything.

It's past midnight, and the building is too quiet; silence presses you from all sides. You feel claustrophobic. You try to tune it out, to focus, but the words you reread blur together.

You shut the folder with a snap, the sound unnaturally loud in the stillness. Leaning back into your chair, you rub your temples, feeling the strain building behind your eyes. You should sleep; you’re aware you should, but the thought of closing your eyes, knowing the nightmares that sit behind your lids, keeps you tethered to this case.

The precision, the symbolism—it’s more than just murder. It’s a message. The Shepherd doesn’t just want to kill; he wants to cleanse, to purify brutally.

With a deep breath, you push yourself from your desk, pacing the length of your small office tucked in the corner of the floor. Stillness makes you restless; the air feels too thin and it exits your lungs to fast for you to function.

Needing something, anything, to momentarily break the cycle of obsession, you pick up your phone. Thumb hovering over the contact list as you stare at the four-letter name.

Will.

He’s the only person in your life willing to silently listen. He understands what its like to feel powerless in the face of something bigger than yourself. He won’t tell you to stop.

I should call him. Maybe talking to him would clear out the fog in your head, but then what would you say?

“Hey Will, I think I’m losing it. Remember that body I found? Well I can’t stop thinking about the case connected to it. I’m starting to dream about it, too. The bodies, the blood, the hysterical families—they’re everywhere. I think…I’m starting to empathize with why he does it, how grounding it must feel. Anyway, how did Busters vet checkup go?”

You shudder, locking your phone before tossing it back onto your desk. You’re not ready to have that conversation, not yet.

Instead, you walk to the window in an attempt to ground yourself, to remember there's so much more than what's running on repeat in your head. The lights are scattered and distant, the closest thing you get to stars in a city filled by light pollution.

How lovely it must be to float up there as a violent ball of gas. What a beautiful death it would be to slowly suffocate in the abyss. Cold and alone with nothing but the silence of the void. Time loses meaning and the weight of existence is trivial.

What if you could escape? What if you could drift away, leaving behind the cacophony of thoughts that claw at your mind? The idea is intoxicating—one you shouldn’t devote more time to too; you know you want it, and that's that.

But just as the thought begins to take root, there's a soft, almost imperceptible knock at the door.

You turn, instinctively bracing yourself against the window frame. Who could it be at this hour? Jack? Bev? Or someone else entirely, someone who knows too much?

“Come in,” you call, your voice steadier than you feel. The knob doesn’t twist, the door doesn’t open, and everything stays still. You hold your breath, eliminating any possible sound you could create for complete clarity. But still, nothing comes—not a single creak of the floorboards or the wind outside smacking into an open window. Absolutely nothing.

The knock on the door came once again, clearer than before.

Your throat feels dry, but your palms are dampening with cold sweat as you defensively straighten your spine. “Hello?”

Slowly, you walk towards the door, steps gentle as your hand engulfs the cold metal of the knob as you twist. Carefully, you press your hand against the solid wood, and you push the door open. Taking a cautious step back as the door creeks open—

You’re alone.

Outside the door was just the hallway, the dim yellow light casting a long, distorted shadow of your frame across the floor. No other sign of life but yourself.

You jerk back into the room and close the door, feeling a wave of nausea and vertigo rush up from deep within you. Leaning against the door, you press your forehead against the chilly plank in an attempt to ground yourself to stop your short, shrivelled breathing that's making your lungs ache.

God fucking dammit, you need to properly spend normal time with a person in which the conversation doesn't revolve around dead bodies. You need a day to be human.

PRESENT DAY

Dust visibly floats around in Garret Jacob Hobbs cabin. The suffocating scent of rot and mildew clings to everything. The locked door and caulk-sealed windows cemented the smell of the rotting deer into the crevices of the pine walls.

“Where's Graham?” Jack's grating voice cuts through the quiet murmuring of those around you.

“How would I know? I don’t have an AirTag on him.”

You do know where he is; he should be pulling onto the site in a few minutes. Leaving the hotel room you shared at the same time and arriving could pull unwanted suspicions. And that's the last thing you need right now.

You don’t need someone posing the question about what you two are right now; you're not even sure yourself. It's blissfully domestic; you two fuck, then have giggly pillow talk, then make each other breakfast in the morning. The silent agreement you have with each other feels like walking a tightrope; you're already struggling with it; you don’t need something to push you over.

Twigs snapping and leaves shifting announce Will's arrival outside before he emerges through the creaky door into the cabin.

Jack doesn’t miss a beat, his attention snapping towards Will. “It’s about time,” he grumbles through his thinly veiled frustration.

“Traffic.” He says while meeting his eyes for a moment before quickly shifting his discomforting gaze elsewhere. You follow him with your own eyes, watching the way he carries himself—like he’s already burdened himself with the weight of what’s inside.

He ascends the staircase, each step shrieking under the weight of his body; the wooden planks beneath your feet join the protest. Shadows stretch and contort around the walls; it takes a moment to decipher the jutting protrusions breaking from the walls until Will steadily shines his flashlight forwards towards the chaotic patterns.

The light beam slices through the dark, landing on the sources of the shapes—rows upon rows of antlers, their jagged points hungrily crowding every inch of the quaint room like teeth of a predator. They loom above you, chewing you up as their sharp edges gleam in the artificial light.

Jack steps behind you both, gaze fixed on the acicular display. “This could be an installation in your Evil Minds museum.” Will mutters, his tone wry.

Jack doesn’t reply immediately, his focus shifting from the antlers to the larger picture. “Hobbs will help us catch the next Garret Jacob Hobbs,” he says, his voice steady. “There are still seven bodies unaccounted for.”

“Because he ate them,” Will interjects, his voice sharper now.

Jack’s jaw tightens. “Had to be parts he didn’t eat.”

Will shakes his head, his mind moving quicker than his words. “Not necessarily.”

A silence falls over the three of you, heavy and stifling, before Jack speaks again, his tone thoughtful and grim.““What if Hobbs wasn’t eating alone? It’s a lot of work—disappearing these girls, butchering them, and doing even worse. All without leaving a trace. All without leaving a shred of anything outside of this room.”

Will narrows his eyes, considering the possibility, before his shoulders sag slightly. “Someone he hunted with?” he suggests, almost reluctantly.

“Or someone he trusted enough to share it with.” Jack’s voice drops, his words measured and deliberate. “Or someone in a coma. Who happens to also be someone he hunted with.” His words hang in the air, the antlers above seeming to lean in closer, hungrier.

“I think that's an idea we should further examine once your suspect wakes up.” You say in an attempt to moderate the conversation.

“Abagail Hobbs is a suspect?” Will questions with a clenched jaw.

“We've been conducting house-to-house interviews around the Hobbs residence and this property.”

You bite your tongue when Will questions further; you’ve watched the way his stomach plummets at the mention of the Hobbs family over the last few days, but you’ve watched his soul drain from his flesh the moment the girl is mentioned.

Jack, though, is quick to give answers to his inquiries. “Hobbs and his daughter spent a lot of time together. They spent a lot of time together here. She would be the ideal bait, wouldn't she?”

Will's eyes stay studying the floor as he speaks definitively, “Hobbs killed alone.” He doesn't give time for a response as he darts to where his eyes are fixed. Pulling a pair of tweezers from his pocket. He delicately picks up and places a long, singular strand of red, curly hair. “Someone else was here.”

You don’t get days like this often, so you make sure to savour them.

Today, you get off early.

Too often, you prioritize work over sleep—but tonight will be different. No overtime, no distractions. Just time for planning and precision. A good night for you is a bad night for Glenn Rodgers. He’s spent the last decade as a free man, wasting his nights drinking, sleeping, socializing, or working cases.

Cruel people have a way of gravitating toward power, and law enforcement is a prime example. As much as you’d like to see yourself as a tortured martyr—misunderstood until long after your time—self-awareness reminds you that’s not quite true. Not entirely.

An isolated room, a working outlet, and plastic wrap—that’s all you really need for your kind of cruelty. It’s more than most have. But you? You’re prepared. You’re justified.

You don’t drug a girl at a college party, rape her in a bathroom, and then call yourself a good man just because you’ll soon wear a badge.

You’re different.

Your savagery is sharpened. Earned. Warranted.

And here you are, bathed in the amber haze of the same dimly lit bar, on the same forgettable Friday night.

He stumbles out of the bathroom just as you drift into his path, a perfectly clumsy collision. Apologies spill softly from your lips, hesitant and bashful, as he waves them off with a slurred kindness. "Happens to the best of us," he says, voice roughened by liquor. A pause and a glance over your frame, then a question. "What's your name?"

“Lilly.” You offer it like a gift, shaking his unwashed hand, feeling the dry callouses that wrap around it. You let him talk—about the academy, about the job, about the weight of a badge as if it sanctifies the man who wears it. You weave your own narrative, a woman with gentle ambitions, tracing the lines of your fabricated life in cosmetology school.

Your fingers slip into your purse, curling around your phone as you feign surprise, your eyes widening just so as you stare at the screen.

“I should really get going.” A sigh, wistful, reluctant. “It’s late, and I have an early appointment.”

“Me too,” he replies, as though that makes you the same. “How are you getting home?”

“Just a taxi. My friend will pick me up from my car after work—she lives close by.”

“Well, why don’t I take you?” The words slither out. “I haven’t had much to drink. Don’t want anything happening to you; it’s late.” His lips peel apart in a smile, broad and careless, revealing his teeth—his stained, imperfect teeth, and the speck of something taupe wedged between them, unnoticed and unbothered.

You return his smile and nod. He lingers, leaning against the wall, slow to register your acceptance. Only when you pull your sleeve over your hand to open the door does he finally stir, shaking himself back to attention, trailing after you into the cold.

He keeps his jacket on as you both walk further from bar. The cold licks at your skin, curling around your limbs like a ghost, like Will. You cross your arms, shivering.

“My car’s right there.” A nod toward the street ahead.

To your right, the alley gapes like a mouth, darkness spilling onto the sidewalk. You pause, tilting your head. “Aw, did you see that?” The words slip from your lips like idle curiosity.

Behind you, he doesn’t stop, doesn’t look. “See what?”

You take a step toward the alley. Then another.

“What are you doing?” His voice is edged with impatience now, the kind that comes when alcohol dulls judgment but sharpens irritation.

“I saw a cat.”

His footsteps grow louder as he follows, each one careless, oblivious. “You didn’t see shit. It’s pitch black. Let’s go.” He grips your arm, tugs you toward the street, his face twisting in disgust at the sour stench of rot lingering in the alley’s throat.

Laughing, you slip from his grasp, your voice soft, coaxing. “No, no, come here, please. If it’s here, I don’t ‘wanna leave it out all night.” You pout, just enough to disarm.

He stares you down for a handful of seconds; only when he sees his intimidation doesn't have you back down does he relent. Taking a few steps forward in his clunky boots, he whines, “I don’t see anything!”

He watches you for a beat, suspicion flickering but never catching flame. Then, with a sigh, he relents. Boots scuff against the pavement as he trudges forward, his body swaying, unworried. “I don’t see anything.”

You rummage through your purse, fingers brushing against cold metal. “I think it’s hiding behind the dumpster—can’t you see its paws?”

“How would I see its pa—”

His words are cut short by the sharp kiss of steel against his neck. His hands twitch, grasping for purchase—your face, your hair, anything to anchor him to waking—but the weight of him is unbearable, bones turning to lead. You step aside as he crumbles, limp and soundless.

The rubber of your gloves glides over the ridges of his badge as he stirs. Muffled screams echo through the skeletal remains of the unfinished building. “You’re awake.” You smile, tilting your head. “Thought I knocked you too good. But not all of us can be masters at bringing someone to unconsciousness, can we?”

You step toward his naked, restrained body, the plastic wrap around him taut.He thrashes weakly, wrists biting against the zip ties. Reaching down, you grasp the slobber-drenched cloth between his teeth and pull it free.

“You know better than to scream.” The scalpel in your hand catches the light as you drag the blade along his trembling lips. “Don’t bother.”

His head jerks up as much as his confinement allows, neck straining against the thick layer of plastic binding him to the table. With a growl, he slams his skull back down, sending a sharp clang through the empty space. “I didn’t do anything!” he spits, voice raw.

You hum in amusement, pressing a gloved hand over his chest, feeling the frantic drum of his heartbeat. “Straight to your defence—that’s fine.”

His breath stutters when you reach into your pocket. He doesn’t recognize the photo at first, just a worn, creased class picture of a young girl.

“The name Lilly doesn’t ring a bell?”

His lips part, but no words come.

“No?” You lean in, tilting the photo toward the dim construction light. “Lilly Campbell? Never met her?”

Beads of sweat collect beneath the plastic as his chest heaves. His eyes glisten now, fixed on the unfinished beams above, refusing to meet yours.

“I have no idea who you’re talking about,” he rasps. “I’ve never met a Lilly Campbell.”

Filthy. Disgusting. Pig of a man.

“You sure don’t remember anything, not this Lilly?’You push the photo closer, watching his pupils dart, his breath stammer. “Not Lilly Campbell? Never met her?”

“Look at her,” you whisper.

The saran wrap around his forehead starts to formulate droplets of perspiration at the same time his eyes start to leak. “I have no idea who your talking about. I’ve never met a Lilly Campbell.” He weeps as his eyes stay fixed on the unfinished boards of a ceiling.

“Well, you can’t know if you don’t look.” Your words are useless; the big, strong man cop was reduced to a manchild when faced with confrontation of his own sins.

“I don’t—I don’t know, bitch—I swear to—” His words crumble into a sob, catching on his own phlegm as he coughs and sputters.

“Look at her!” The photo hovers inches above his face, and this time, he does. He sees. He remembers. When he sees the young, naked, violated soul he made her. His whole body recoils as if struck. He remembers. He knows.

“Fuck you!” He roars, struggling so violently the plastic strains against his skin, the table beneath him groaning under his weight.

You sigh, shaking your head, a quiet scoff slipping past your lips. “I guess you didn’t ask for her name before you raped her, huh? Or was her torment such a small, insignificant blip in your life that you don’t even remember?”

“You’re crazy! Who the fuck are you? Why are you doing—AH!”

He yelps as the scalpel carves a thin, precise line along his cheek, the fresh wound blooming red in its wake. Grabbing your dropper, you collect the oozing wound and seal it between two small glass plates.

“If you’re so insistent on maintaining your innocence,” you murmur, “we can do this the long way.”

He thrashes again, but it’s useless. The plastic is a second skin. Placing your scalpel into his shoulder, you drag it in a diagonal line towards the centre of his chest. Forced confessions are never ideal. They rob you of the moment—the precise, sacred instant where clarity overtakes fear, where they weep and beg for forgiveness, desperate to believe absolution is within reach.

But historically? Forced confessions have never mattered. Just used to end hopefully and they’re suffering more quickly, not mattering if their claimed degeneracy is truthful. But when you're assured of someone's culpability, that's never an issue.

“Stop—stop!” His voice cracks. “I fucked up, okay? It was an awful mistake—I regret it every day.”

You press your lips together in mock sympathy. “I wish that was true as much as you do right now.” Your fingers curl around the hilt of your knife, drawing it from your hip. “But I’d rather believe in something tangible.”

Justice.

With one swift, fluid motion, you drive the blade into his chest.

His breath catches, eyes widening, hands flexing once, twice—then slackening. Blood seeps from the wound in thick rivulets, spilling over his skin, collecting in the plastic beneath him like rainwater. You exhale, your own pulse steady, your own heart full.

Quick, effective, beautiful. Pulling out your blade, his blood falls out of him, cascading on his chest more hastily. For a moment, you allow yourself stillness. To savour the raw, natural brutality of murder.

The sweet hum of bliss is soon replaced by the loud buzz of a bone saw eager for work. One last time, you take a deep breath, closing your eyes, smelling and tasting the metallic aroma enveloping you.

So often, your chest feels like an empty cavern, incapable of giving or receiving. But now, as adrenaline courses through your veins, as death spills its warmth into the hollow spaces of your being, you remember—

This is what makes life what it is.

There is so much life within death.

Morning finds you in Dr. Lecter’s office again. The polished wooden floors gleam beneath the soft light once more. Phone in your hand, you send Will a good morning text, asking how he slept last night. The closest thing you’ll get to companionship, to normalcy.

The FBI estimates there are less than 50 serial killers active in the United States today. You don’t get together at conventions, share trade secrets, or exchange Christmas cards. But sometimes you can’t remember what it’s like for the others.

But today, it doesn’t matter. Not now. Your appetite has been sated.

Finally the wooden door opens, revealing the man you've been waiting for. “Good morning, Dr. Lecter.” A smile tugs at your lips; you feel a tad childish with how awfully uncharacteristically cheery you’ve been today.

He greets you back with a measured, deliberate smile of his own. “Hello, Miss.

#hannibal #hannibal nbc #nbc hannibal #mads mikkelsen #hannibal lecter #will graham #hannibal lecter x reader #hannibal fanfiction #will graham x reader #hannibal x reader

66 notes · View notes