#Hannibal au? I guess???

[cubikzoa]

I am 97% sure that Hannibal Lecter owns the boba shop I just visited and I am a bit concerned

[velvet-games]

more hannibal au things based on my and @spoondrifts comments on this post hehe

I think I've figured the basics out:

vox is a pop psychiatrist that's saying dumb shit about the new orleans ripper on TV

alastor has a true crime podcast and he invites vox to talk about the ripper as a joke (and plans to kill him)

alastor assumes vox is a dumbass, but the pop psychiatrist shtick is really just for views; vox says some genuinely insightful things about alastor after the show ends

it's reckless, but alastor can't help loving the feeling of being seen, properly admired for his work, so he invites vox back again

hannibal-style psychoanalysis time! alastor and vox talk about various strange murders on the podcast while subtextually talking about their relationship, deeper convos + wine/fancy food (people) ensue after the show

blah blah blah vox knows something is special about alastor, eventually figures it out and admires his shameless enjoyment of violence, blows up his comfy pop psych life to be with him blah blah blah alastor feels so lonely with his secret and finally finds someone who not only understands but is willing to join him blah blah blah it's a metaphor for queerness or something

they kill a guy and make out covered in blood before falling off a cliff together <3 the end.

[authorafterhours]

I want an au where Will corrupts Hannibal. Well, more than he does in canon by making him more human anyway.

Hannibal certainly wouldn't be an innocent maiden to be seduced, but a man so sure of himself and his desires that only causes his fall from grace to be all the longer when he meets him.

He's not sure Will is even a man of flesh and blood.

Will would not be a dainty, doe-eyed young thing set to beguile. The power held in his body, the roughness of his labored hands, the sensation of his beard rubbing against Hannibal's skin, all of it masculine underscored with a beauty that should be immortalized in a museum.

Make it a period piece with Hannibal being plagued by this addiction with a mouth to laugh, a heart to beat, lips to kiss, and with legs Will uses far too often to run away from him.

I've seen Nosferatu today. Can you guys tell?

[sweetlytwilight]

Brazilian Will Graham

[quillkiller]

bellareg marriage au outtakes

because i can’t stop thinking about them…..

x x

[socvinc]

I bring a curse upon these mortal plains. Homestuck au Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham.

[jadevalentine-writes]

Hannibal Fic WIP - Mystery Neighbor AU

Riding the high of completing Wild Hunt, I'm here to thrust another WIP upon ye. Behold, my first Hannibal fic, and despair!

Tagging the muses: @subtlybrilliant, @tindragon09, @prommethium

---

Hannibal noticed something was off the moment he pulled into his driveway. Out of caution, he remained in the Bentley, engine idling, as he studied the exterior of his home in the waning summer light. 

The front doors were closed and the windows he could see looked intact. The back of the townhouse was obscured by the eight foot wooden privacy fence but he didn’t notice any signs of disruption from his point of view. Of course his security system would have alerted him to any unwanted entry, but Hannibal Lecter was nothing if not pragmatic. Any criminal worth their salt could easily disable an alarm, even one as expensive as his. 

Hannibal sighed and turned to his right, looking instead to the long empty townhouse next to his own. A moment’s reprieve was his goal, a negative to his own home’s exterior to make any differences more apparent. 

Then he saw it. 

A for sale sign swung gently in the warm breeze. 

Hannibal smiled and turned off the car. 

The quote “Netherfield Park was let at last” came to mind, though the townhouse to his right held none of the grandeur of the fictitious estate. Hannibal also doubted that a wealthy man in want of a wife would find his way to this particular Baltimore neighborhood anytime soon. And there certainly would not be any grande balls, to his chagrin. 

Hannibal chided his caution as he approached the front door. Although he rarely interacted with his neighbors, the prospect of a new one was still exciting. Perhaps they would have a taste for art and music, like he did, and he would see them at gallery openings and operas, nodding to each other over champagne and rocks glasses but never speaking. Maybe they would appreciate fine dining as he did and he could try new dishes out on them if he was feeling adventurous. 

Or perhaps they would be new to their wealth and rude, and they would feature in a dish themselves.

***

The next evening, Hannibal returned home with dinner on his mind. 

There was a liver he should really use before it was past its prime and he was debating on how to prepare it.  Marinating was best, and it did not bother him to eat late. He was walking towards the door, mentally going through his stock of wine that would pair well with the main course when he heard a creak that made him pause. 

Hannibal angled his head towards the door, listening intently for breathing on the other side, when again his gaze landed on the sign in the yard next door. 

Sale Pending the attachment underneath swayed. 

Well, that was fast. 

Hannibal smirked as he let himself into the foyer. Soon, he would have a new neighbor and a new source of entertainment or irritation, at least for a little while.

***

Saturday brought with it slumber and sunshine. 

And multiple dogs barking. 

The last drove Hannibal from the warmth of his bed out of academic curiosity. He rarely heard dogs in his neighborhood, let alone so close to his house. The dogs of the Baltimore elite were small, to be seen, not heard, and toted around in designer bags.

These dogs sounded larger and multiple. 

Hannibal crossed the hall to the guest bedroom which was adjacent to his driveway and looked out. 

His neighbor had arrived, in four-legged, frantic glory. 

[potatowithahat]

A Gift

A hannigram fic

Hannibal decided to get will a small gift for valintines

A Gift- nothing more, nothing less

This was too far. Hannibal had gone too far this time.

        “February 14th, 2014, 8:05 P.M. Will Graham speaking on behalf of the Federal Bureau of investigation. Start tape. Body was found at Sugarloaf Vineyard outside of Winchester, Maryland”

        Jack Crawford gestured for Will to come forward.

        “Another victim of the Chesapeake ripper?” Jack asked, gesturing to the body lying in the makeshift bed of roses Set deep within the thousand rows of grapes.

        The body was that of a young man. He had brown, curly hair that moved ever so slightly in the brease of the Vineyard, swaying as if to a gentle melody.

His hair had been cut short to emulate Will’s, most likely post mortem if the ringlets encircling his head had anything to say of it. There was a crown of thorns on his head, The spines digging into that line Will knew all too well.

        He reached up to touch the almost invisible scar on his own forehead.

        “Most likely” Will said, lifting the tarp to examine the rest of the body.

        He made a mental note to remind the interns not to disturb his crime scene.

        Not that he could certainly see why they had decided to cover it up.

The scene was… gruesome, to say the least. The man was splayed open, much like that of an autopsy cadaver, his guts scooped out and rearranged into a.. Scene?

        His pancreas was laid out like a twisted dinner table in the hollow center of the man. His third and fourth ribs had been carved and propped up to look like tiny people, plated made out of the lungs alveoli set out in front of them. In the center of the ‘table’ lies another bone figure, this time in the shape of a small girl, her ‘Head’ lying on one of the plates. The rest of the organs were laid around like grotesque party decorations. His small intestine was draped over the open carcass like party streamers, swaying in the breeze and making a sickening, squelching noise as it brushed against the other viscera. There were small dove feathers tied together with the man's vocal cords to replace the missing ribs, splattered with the blood dripping out of the surrounding muscles.

        The man's body had been meticulously dissected and rearranged into a macabre display. It was… a work of art, really. Each piece was delicately cut and placed with such precision that it had to have taken hours to cultivate. It was a gift. A gift hand-made and crafted specifically for him.

        “It’s disgusting” Jack chimed in from beside him, snapping Will out of his stupor.

        “...It's ostentatious” Will mumbles as one of the assistants camera flashes, forever immortalizing the scene.

        Hannibal would expect him to come home with a copy of that photo. He knew it.

        “The killer… He's showing off. Trying to impress someone” Will knew he had to tread lightly here.

        “Makes sense to leave it on Valentines then” Beverly chimes in as she leans forward to get some sort of sample

        “Trying to impress someone I'd do it today too. Only if they were another killer though" Jack gives Will a look.

        Will had to have great reticency to stop himself from saying something too revealing then

        “I’m sure” He mumbled, looking at the body once more

        “Hearts missing” Will looks around the group “Anyone find it?”

The silence after his question was practicaly deffining

        Will knew what he'd be having for dinner then.

        Will let out a sigh “How’d he die?”

Beverly looked up from where she was swabbing “Poison” she nodded to the man's face “Staining around the mouth. Classic silver poisoning”

        She stands up fully and points to his neck “There's evidence of strangulation too, but it's innocuous. His windpipe wasn’t crushed, so there was no damage other then the bruising”

        “Someones like Will then” Price chuckled and elbows Will in the side

        “What i do in my own home is none of your concern” Will frowns and walks around to the other side of the corpse “ and you three should know best that me and Hannibal don’t do that stuff” he repudiated “not all gay people are like that”

        Price snorts “I call bullshit. You can’t deny it forever”

        Jack shot Price a look “We’re not here to debate personal lives Jimmy. This is a death investigation, not brunch”

        There's a soft murmuring from the rest of the groop

        “That's what I thought” Jack looks up at Beverly “How long has he been out here?”

        “No longer then a day” beverly pokes at the man’s cheek “Though he’s been preserved somehow”

        Will frowns at that “How was he out here so long?”

        Beverly looks around “my guess is the vines obscured the body. And the smell was masked by the grape blossoms.

        Of course it was. His husband always knew what he was doing. Will looks around “He's smart” he steps back from the body as he feels a buzz in his pocket “He knows what he’s doing. Most likely another chesapeake ripper case”

        Will turns away from the groop, much to the chagrin of Jack

         Will sighs as he puts his phone to his ear “Yes hanni?”

        He can practically hear the smile on Hannibals face, his strange accent thicker than ever “Did you like my Gift, ma colombe?”

        Why was this his life?

 “I'll see you at home hannibal” Will lets out a long sigh

“Oh good” Hannibal says quickly “I’m making Shepards pie. Picked up some nice pigs hearts from the butcher earlier”

“Im sure you did" Will sighs

Thank you so much for reading!!!

I am one hundred percent greatfull for every single person who takes the time to read the things I write!

This was actually written for an English assignment! So if some of the wording seems a bit off thats why.

I am also always open for any fic idea's/ requests!!! I absolutely adore getting them and write them as quickly as possible

As always if you enjoyed i have plenty more here on my tumblr and bacon over on my Ao3!

[superlohozavr]

"Not the gods have guided your hand. Only one".

inspired by the moment from one hannigram au fic, but i made them girls (that are remotely look like them) and it kinda don't make sense to me anymore. idk felt like i should tell y'all this IF YOU EVEN CARE!! :^)

[sleepy-stitches]

my brain is so evil. why do i have no energy to clean my room. why does it all go to writing weird fucked up yuri. like why am i sitting here enraptured heart and soul by a piece of writing that was meant to be a fragment at best but i am discovering has three entire parts to it. why is that where we are at. i need to clean my fucking room

[a-pigeons-soliloquy]

One more thing. You know the Burger King Whopper Whopper song? That song but it says Wobster instead of whopper.

-mha

...well I sure didn't until now, but I gave it a listen and now am proud to present to you:

The Wobster Wobster Song (feel free to sing along, kids!)

Wobster, Wobster, Wobster, Wobster

Creepy, furry, nightmare Wobster

Steer clear of this bloodstained trotter

He'll eat your brain

Liver, spleen, intestine, or fat

Doesn't matter, he will eat that

So make sure to avoid the Wobster

Or you'll end up his prey

Watch out, he's coming your way

Too late now, you can't get away

You fool!

[esaari]

if you only love me back

[gatsby-system-folks]

Au where Murdoc runs away as a kid and ends up at the Pots' house.

[hannibals-favourite-meal]

Hello my love could I please request Thor with “Vampires AU” please for your 6k celebration 💗🫶🏼

.⋆｡Blood Bag｡⋆.

Thor x plus size reader

You need a job and the ancient and powerful vampire on the edge of town needs blood, of course nothing could go wrong

Warnings: Vampire!AU, virgin!reader, lots of blood talk, age-gap (obvi), brief mentions of vamp!Loki and a different reader insert, flirting WC: 1.5k

6k Follower Bingo

Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library

Perhaps this wasn’t the best idea, you thought as you looked up at the huge wrought iron gates that separated the old estate from the real world. The job listing had been simple; ‘Blood donations for vamp wanted. Virgin preferred. Guaranteed $5000 per feed.’ At first, you disregarded it, letting your gaze travel to the smattering of other postings on the site. But that number tugged at your mind well into the night, practically haunting your dreams until, in an act of temporary madness, you sprang up at three in the morning and filled out the application, sending it in before you could second guess yourself.

By the time you awoke several hours later, you had a nice fat contract sitting in your inbox and a request for a clean physical from your prospective employer. You hesitated to accept until you saw the upfront money you would receive before your first donation, it would easily cover your rent for the next two months.

So here you were, a paper with your clean bill of health in one hand and an overnight bag in the other, staring up at the biggest house you had ever seen in real life, knowing that by this time tomorrow, you would be a few quarts lighter. The gates creaked as they swung open for you and suddenly, you wondered if this was actually the beginning of some horror movie starring you as the gullible first victim.

Yet you stepped forwards anyway, following the long trail of your shadow up the drive. The gravel crunching under your feet quickly grounded you, it was well-known that vamps could literally smell fear and it would do you no good to sour your blood before your first meeting. 

Only a few windows were illuminated as the sun dipped below the horizon, urging you to move faster and get in the house before night truly fell even if what was inside the manor could bring more danger than anything that roamed the grounds under the cover of darkness. 

“You’re early.” Golden eyes gazed down at you from the now open front door. 

“Jesus! Oh shit, sorry I should not have said that. I-“ The man smiled and stepped back from the entryway, gesturing for you to come in.

You stumbled into the huge foyer, the tension locking up your joints slowly loosening as the warmth of the home seeped into your body. “Do not fret, many of the stories you have been told are false. We are not harmed by any mere name so there is nothing to apologise for. Now, may I take your things? I will file away your physical in a lock box in the Master’s office. A room has already been prepared for your stay. I do apologise if the bedding is not to your liking, I fear it has been many centuries since anyone in this house has felt the need for sheets and pillows.”

The man, who you could now carefully observe in the soft light of the chandelier above you both, took your things from you before you could fully digest what he said. “How many people live here?” He danced at you with a soft smile, his lips pressed together so as to not reveal the deadly fangs that all of his kind possessed.

“Only four. We do have several maids that come in every few weeks but they don’t reside on the property. You will only be feeding one person, don’t worry. The Master’s younger brother lives in the West Wing along with his wife who provides the blood he needs.”

“And your Master?” The man’s golden eyes sparkled with something akin to affection as you walked alongside him, your footsteps echoing through the otherwise silent halls.

“You may call him Thor, he is a kind man. It was only at my suggestion that you were brought here, vampires can only live off of animal blood for so long before they need fresh human blood. The Master has spent the last 50 years refusing to harm a human in order to fulfil his baser instinct,” The grand staircase led you to a long hall of doors with intranet tapestries between them, “He has grown weak, he needs to properly feed. And now that humans have accepted vampires as a natural part of society, he was far more open to the idea than before.”

He stopped in front of the second to last door, gracefully pulling out a key to allow you entry. “Here is your room. I’ve left some toiletries and snacks out for you, please eat before and after the feeding but if you forget, I am sure the Master will remind you. If you need anything else, you can ring that bell,” he gestured to the pull cord in the corner of the room, “Or simply call my name and I will come.”

You nodded but as he turned to leave, you spat out, “Sorry, I didn’t ask your name.”

“Heimdall, miss.” The door clicked shut, leaving you alone once more. 

Indeed there were snacks on the desk below the call bell, although it looked more like they were bought by an 8 year old who was just let loose in a candy shop with their parent’s credit card than anything else. But you supposed that ancient vampires didn’t really know how to food shop for humans. You picked out a packet of Twizzlers as you wandered further in, taking in the ornate bedroom that looked like it was pulled directly out of Pride and Prejudice. An ensuite connected to the room revealed a huge clawfoot tub (that you were shamelessly fantasising about using after meeting the man of the hour) and a large vanity with some fancy soaps by the sink.

“I hope you are pleased with your room?” A deep voice rumbled from somewhere behind you.

You whipped around in a panic only to be met with the sight of the most handsome man you had seen in your life. He stood well over six feet tall but the bulging muscles of his arms and legs made him look even bigger. His blond hair was cropped short, immediately drawing your gaze to the eyepatch over his right eye, though you quickly looked away, not wanting to seem rude to the man. He tutted and gently guided you back to face him with a hooked finger under your soft chin.

“You are more beautiful than I thought you would be.” You faltered, and his blue eye shone.

“Oh um thank you.” The floorboards creaked under his weight as he stepped closer, letting his touch trail down from your jaw, stopping briefly on your neck before travelling down to your collarbone, his large thumb fitting perfectly in the divot of your throat. Your pulse grew stronger as you caught a flat of his fangs. 

“You’re frightened, aren’t you little one?”

“No.” His plump lips curled up in a prideful smirk.

“Good girl.” Your chest seized. “Now, I believe we need to discuss your limits before you provide me with a meal.” Thor released his hold upon you but your skin still burned with his touch, urging you to chase the feeling once more yet you remained glued to the spot. 

He turned to look at the pile of sweets that were left for you. “I wonder how sweet these will make you.” He muttered almost to himself.

“Do you want me to shower before you feed?” He hummed. 

“I would prefer you not, strong scents tend to sour the blood.” 

“And, do you um do you want to drink directly from me?” That earned you a deep rumbling groan from the man, his eyelid fluttering. 

He seemed to lose himself for just a moment before his broad chest inflated and he faced you fully once more. “Only if you allow me to. If not, Heimdall has already prepared an IV.” Bashfully, you clasped your hands together.

“I’m scared of needles so I think directly would be fine.” He chuckled and gestured towards the huge bed in the centre of the room that had far too many pillows on it.

“Then shall we get started?” Your shoes skittered along the hardwood floor as you kicked them off before shedding your oversized sweater, revealing the very low-cut top you had picked out for today. Thor’s gaze burned into you as he hungrily traced your curves. “I seem to find it hard to believe that you are a virgin. You are ethereal, little one.”

Your lips parted but the only thing that escaped them was a squeak of surprise. “Oh I liked that sound, I think I need you to make it more often.” You ducked your head and climbed onto the mattress, Thor following closely behind. He knocked off a majority of the pillows, leaving only a couple on the left side of the bed. You kneeled next to him, your knees barely brushing his hip.

“Come closer, I cannot feed when you are so far away.” His hands grabbed your wide hips and pulled you onto his lap without so much as a breath of exertion. Your soft legs parted, allowing for his body to slip between them as he sat back upon the headboard, a dangerously pleased expression colouring his features. “There we go. Now, we stop whenever you feel uncomfortable.”

Your hands fell to his expansive shoulders, giving the muscles a soft squeeze. “Yes sir.” You answered in a daze.

Using his right hand, Thor tilted your head, exposing the delicate vein along your jugular. “Good girl.”

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[thistooisphanyuri]

and as we’re falling down, and in this pool of blood

and as we’re touching hands, and as we’re falling down

and in this pool of blood, I’ll meet your eyes

i mean this, forever

- demolition lovers, my chemical romance

Demolition lovers dnpc!phan who may or may not be cannibals (they are) RAMBLING BELOW

This is ofc inspired by all the AMAZING art everyone is doing, like omfg you’re all so talented , by the two demo lovers albums and by nbc Hannibal <3

Seeing people make lyric connections with mcr songs and the demolition lovers spoke to me SM because if there’s something I love more than mcr then it’s mcr dnp, so naturally I needed to art about it

I don’t even know but I guess,, this is technically kind of an au? Because I have decided they’re cannibals and that’s wonderful (Phil’s heart is in the background on a plate btw) (and dans mouth is bloody :>! )

I was attempting to give the poses / expressions a classic paining vibe and I think it worked ok?

I told two moots I was making either demo lovers or phannigram dnpc content so @dapg-otmebytheballs and @yonpote special shout-out to y’all 🫡

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER NINETEEN: DUCK

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

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, Daddy kink, cannibalism mentions, murder mentions

Read after the cut

---

“Family,” says Hannibal. “Let’s return to that subject today.”

You occupy the living room, each in a velvet armchair tilted with intent to replicate the layout of his office, the clever dressing of a theatre set. Attempts to put off this particular session had proved inefficacious, the coercion of your attendance rendering you curt and snappish in demeanor.

Truthfully you’ve been so since this morning, having rolled, coughing and vaguely feverish, from dreams of bodies hung rattling like so many clothes hangers in some subterrestrial den.

Hannibal, as expected, had still seen fit to persist with his agenda, weathering your complaints with a brisk good humour.

Will had made himself scarce sometime before you’d awoken, and has left word that you’re not to expect his return for many days. You yearn for him in all his brittle ferocity, a gabion against his friend’s subtle erosion of your mind as you know it. The early hour, the assault of unwanted conversation: such sly methods of torture will damn you to madness as quick as the murkiest secret.

“I’ve told you about my family,” you say to Hannibal, fingering a loose tuft of angora on your sweater. “Besides, you won’t even let me talk to them.”

“I don’t think that it would be to your benefit for me to do so,” he answers, and makes a gracious pretence of examining his pen.

Had you not extended a hand to Amy there would indeed have been a second call, this you’re clearly meant to understand. Hannibal is not above such trivial warfare, as he makes a continuing point to prove; you might be entertained by so comic a flaw were you not in such dire opposition.

“Maybe it’d be good for me to talk to my family,” you say, smartly. “And how can you know that it wouldn’t be when you barely know anything about them?”

Hannibal smirks, pleased to have cast such irresistible bait.

“Enlighten me, then. Begin with your mother, if you like. A predictable start, but in that simplicity rather less challenging than other avenues.”

You glance about the room as though seeking inspiration from it and find it wanting. Only the window at which the dying autumn presses its face wets the brush of conversation again, that symbol of fleeing dark brick to beyond a reminder that you must play on.

“We fight a lot,” you say. “My mom and me. She always has to be right about everything all the time. Never made a mistake in her life. Never apologises for anything. And if you criticise her— well, just don’t. Plus, she used to hit me when I was little. Nothing crazy, but still. She hit me.

“Then one day I slapped her right back and she never did it again.”

Pausing, you tug the hem of your sweater to your knees, an instinct to cover skin that today is not an inch bare.

“It’s funny,” you say. “She acts like she doesn’t remember any of it now.”

“Those in denial of their misdeeds often excise those shameful moments from the past,” says Hannibal. “It may not even be a conscious decision on her part.”

“It’d almost be better if it was. Then maybe she could own up to it, some day.”

Hannibal’s pen mars a fresh page in his notebook; even were it not upside down you suspect you’d fail to untangle his complicated hand.

“Has your mother’s behaviour caused friction surrounding your anorexia?” he asks.

“God, yeah,” you say, half laughing. “She used to yell at me. Tried to bully me into eating. Now she cries a lot and kind of makes it all about her. She loves me, but not in the ways you want in a mother. She pays for stuff. Drives me to places. Ticks all those boxes, you know? But she’s never been kind or comforting, really.

“It’s not all her fault. I guess she just doesn’t know how.”

A leaf falls against a windowpane like the hand of a dead, withered child, and you find yourself drawing back in your seat, wishing you’d the strength to push the chair against the wall.

“Why do you think your mother is unable to fulfil her role as you would like?” asks Hannibal.

“I guess my grandparents treated her the same way she treats me. They were always kind of cold with me when I knew them.”

“Generational cruelty is an infection one must wittingly sterilise. A pity so few are self-aware enough to administer that treatment. Was your father sufficiently conscious?”

Odd, this invocation of the paternal when Hannibal and Will have worked so diligently to embody it in place of your genetic relative.

Now, in a shirt the colour of thatch rolled pristinely back from the jewel of his wristwatch, the doctor could well be the wealthy father of a girl your age, the type to pour upon you his thousands, to walk you down the aisle in a venue of his choosing to marry an approved match of your class.

But you will never wed now that Hannibal has claimed you. He speaks of your family from a wreckage of his making, at ease with his distance from it.

“I love my dad the most,” you say. “But he’s a weird guy. Quiet. Never opens up about his feelings. He’ll talk about movies, or the news, but real stuff? Nope. So I've never felt all that comfortable around him. I mean, with good reason after... after everything.”

“More than good,” says Hannibal, firmly. “That you aren’t angrier with both parents for their abandonment in your time of need surprises me.”

“I don’t really blame them. Uncle Lee has this way about him. He can make people believe pretty much anything he says.”

Inevitable that you should mention Leland, who—though of other blood—is still an incestuous growth on the vine.

“What is this way of his?” asks Hannibal. “You’ve previously spoken of a power to sash the eyes of loved ones against what you perceive to be an obvious darkness. How does that ability present in him?”

You bring your legs up onto the chair, crossing them under you for comfort.

“He moved from Louisiana in his twenties,” you say, “so he still has the accent and everything. He even speaks French sometimes. Then there’s this way of holding himself he has. Kind of cocky, but funny, though. From the second he moved in on our street my parents just loved him, apparently. They never saw what I saw.”

“He’d donned the rubber mask.”

You look up at Hannibal almost shyly.

“Yeah. You remember.”

“Yes. And did you love him, in spite of what seemed to you an obvious guise?”

“I did. In some sick way I still do. So I get why my Mom and Dad believed him over me, but sometimes I think maybe part of them knows the truth, but they just shove it down deep like something dead.”

Scrubbing your face angrily with the sleeve of your sweater you snub, without noticing it, the omnipresent box of tissues on the nearby table top. Hannibal makes no remark on your unclean habit, only pours you a cup of green tea which you accept for the sake of avoiding an argument.

“To truly love someone you mustn’t bury their evils,” says Hannibal. “You must find acceptance of them in whatever form you can. Your parents do not care for this friend so much as fear the upheaval of the known. A suburban life, a sullied idyll— by sending you to me they are attempting to reverse its disunion from their image of it in memory.”

“They’re selfish,” you say. “I know. What’s new there?”

You look at the bottom of your teacup, hunting an impossible pattern in the pale ceramic.

“I don’t want to talk about my family anymore. What about yours? You had a sister, didn’t you?”

Hannibal’s eyes change like the blackening of dusk.

“Will told you this,” he says.

“Does it matter?” you ask, shrilly. “I want to know who you are, Daddy, and this is where I want to start. What happened to Mischa? What did she die of?”

It’s frightening how the man before you alters in only light adjustments: the quiet crossing of a limb, the rhomboid slant of shoulders under his jacket, each a signifier of the restless potentiality for truculence in him.

His face is not so beautiful in moments such as this. The flaws in it stand out to you: flesh racked over halberds of bone, something amphibious in the mouth, of some alien taxon. A killer’s physiognomy, little though you care for such sciences as would define it so.

“My sister was murdered when she was a little girl,” says Hannibal. “I interrupted the culprit in the midst of defiling her body, but it was too late. She was lost to me.”

The moon opal of a tear tips loose of an eyelash, its passage a kinetic artistry. What you’d taken for anger is another emotion: a raw and ancient loss.

“Oh my god,” you say. “That’s awful. Do you know who killed her?”

“A man who remains imprisoned to this day,” says Hannibal. “That is his penance for taking Mischa from me.”

You are in too great a terror and disgust of this man to embrace him, as would feel apt for a moment such as this.

“I’m sorry,” you say, weakly.

Hannibal closes the notebook in his lap and asks, almost blandly, “Are you?”

His bald disbelief flusters you.

“Yes. Of course. She was just a little girl. In fact, I feel like I get it, now. All of this. Me and you. It makes sense why you want me. Why you are what you are. It’s because of her.”

Forcing a smile, you reach over and touch a hand to Hannibal’s cheek.

He turns his face gently away from the caress.

“You’re mistaken, Little One. Whereas you were moulded by your circumstances, I was liberated by mine.”

You stare at him, endeavouring to bone his words for their meaning.

“What are you saying?”

“My philosophies and desires pre-existed Mischa’s death. My love for her restrained me, for while she lived I was never free to act as I yearned to in fear that she would be harmed. In some ways I resented that restraint, but in passing Mischa offered me the opportunity to forgive her.”

A cloud snuffs out the sun, and you sit in the dark of it, aghast.

“Forgive her for what?” you ask, in a near whisper. “Helping you? Hannibal, I—”

“We are still at an impasse, I see,” he says, coolly. “We must rectify this. Would you like to know how she received her absolution?”

You shake your head.

“But you must,” says Hannibal. “You’re a curious girl. Mischa’s remains now lie in a grave in my home country. Before I buried them there, I ate part of her. That is how I reconciled my feelings for my sister with what I am.”

Shock throttles your body in its tremor, and the empty teacup drops from your hand, prevented from breaking only by the carpet underfoot. You had, with all the delicate senses of a medium, deciphered the presage of his appetite, and still you feel the plates of the earth shudder with the magnitude of his confession.

Hannibal gets up from his seat, places the cup back into its saucer, and takes your hand in his.

“Let’s end the session there,” he says. “I’d like to involve you in preparing today’s meal, since that’s a new interest of yours.”

With a fear-stricken servility you walk with him to the kitchen, expecting him to have something—someone—preserved in the glossy coffin of the refrigerator.

Instead Hannibal kneels to unlatch an ingenious door in the floorboards, revealing a neat little staircase which runs down into a basement room. From it emanates a rolling field of cold, biting at you through your clothes.

You take a step back, near tumbling in your eagerness to escape it.

“What is that?”

“It’s an expansion of the freezer,” says Hannibal. “With all the dinner parties I host it’s natural that I found myself in need of more storage space. This is my answer to that problem. I’d like you to go down and choose a cut of meat for dinner.”

There’s no threat in the statement; he speaks, in fact, quite casually, meaning to impress upon you the mundanity of his diet in his eyes. To make supper of his sister, to dine upon lamb: there is no separation for him, being that all of it is meat.

You squeeze your eyes shut, cannot face the oblong of shadow beyond the steps which you’ve dreamt of, unknowing,

“Please don’t make me go down there, Daddy.”

“There’s nothing to be frightened of. Open your eyes, Little One.”

“No. No. I don’t want to.”

You try to turn away, but Hannibal arrests you by the arms, holding you as a farmer would a wriggling hare.

“I’m not going to eat you,” he says. “If that’s what you think.”

“I know!” you wail. “But it doesn’t matter. If I go down there and... see, everything’ll change forever. Because I’ll know for sure, and I’ll be part of it. And I can’t be part of it. I’ll go crazy.”

You jerk passionately in Hannibal’s grip, but his greater strength prevails.

“Wait,” you say. “When you talked about Leland—bringing him to me—you meant that I should kill him to eat.”

“Yes,” says Hannibal, simply. “I did.”

There is a softness in his eyes you recognise as hope. He is a man desperate to create others like him, for all that he believes that they are born.

“But you said with Mischa that eating her was forgiveness,” you say. “But you don’t want me to forgive Uncle Lee. So what would it mean to eat him?”

“Look to why trophy hunters keep mementos of their sport. Some as markers of achievement and dominance over the animal, and others in a subconscious humiliation of the predator they’ve slain. Man gloats to bring a tiger to kneel; a girl, having conquered man, might do the same.”

Thinking of Hannibal’s recorded killings, some of them young women, you say, “Most animals don’t deserve humiliation.”

“That’s all a matter of perspective, my dear. A seasoned hunter develops rather a discerning eye for flaws in his quarry.”

Hannibal smooths a lock of hair behind your ear, his rancid touch queerly soothing.

“What did Savannah Belmont do to deserve humiliation?” you ask, sulkily. “She wasn’t a bad person. She was just a girl, like me.”

“A cursory reading of obituaries and odes to Miss Belmont’s life denote her brief career at a rare bookshop,” says Hannibal, “for which position her personal tastes suggest she was underqualified to take. It wouldn’t be so unrealistic to assume that she left customers unhappy with her inadequate ability to serve them.”

Horror breaks over you like the falling of a chandelier. This, too, you had foreseen: no serious cause to kill was ever required for Hannibal, and that you are fucked rather than murdered by him is but a flourish of fate.

Peering into your eyes, Hannibal comes to a rapid decision and bends to close the trapdoor again.

“Duck, tonight, then,” he says. “That will suffice.”

*

Through terror you cling to Hannibal long into the afternoon, lurking at his elbow, a thumb in your mouth, as he prepares for the day’s appointments.

If he is he here, with you, he cannot kill, you reason, not while he thinks only of the invitation of tear-salt on your lips, the liquor of your nether mouth around him. Again and again you’ll die upon his cock as tribute, for though cold in your disorder you are not so callous as to allow others to, if you can help it.

“I’ll be gone for just a few hours, sweet girl,” he says, pausing to rock you in his lap. “No more of this. I’ve left a new book for you in your room. Please begin reading it for me. And there is the recording of an opera I’d like you to watch. That should keep you occupied until I’m home to you.”

It’s only after he’s driven away in the hearse of his car that you succumb to the awfulness of all you've heard. As in those primordial days of captivity you grasp the bars of your window and scream into the burnished day, beating your fists upon the iron until they burst across the bone.

Only a volley of coughing halts you in this fit, sending you to your bed alarmed by the weakness come over you. You lie shivering for hours, wondering if this is the nervous exhaustion you’ve read about in novels that ends in heroines consigned to the madhouse, sunny climes, or else the grave, none of which you might expect to be released to.

When Hannibal returns he feels your forehead and listens to your coughs with a mildly furrowed brow.

“Hospital,” you croak, but he only laughs and strokes your head.

“There’s no need for that. You have a chest infection. Your immune system is very poor. Nevertheless, you’ll be well again soon.”

He perfumes your damp neck with a kiss and sits down in a chair beside you.

“Perhaps it’s for the best that Will is occupied with work,” he comments, at length. “I wouldn’t like his condition to worsen again.”