#Hannibal lecter x daughter

[rustys-lodge]

Requested by @yourlocalratwriter : Could you please make a Hannibal x daughter reader(platonic) where his daughter has severe anger issues. Maybe like their having a outburst and yelling at him and doesn’t actually mean it? But they got Frustrated so they started yelling?

Warnings : anger issues, yelling by both parties.

A/n : ssso so sorry to answer this late, i finally have the courage to write again and i didnt wanna steal the plot or anythiing but at the same time i wanted to finally write thiiis ❤️

------

Hannibal, has welcomed you into his home. He cooks for you, helps you with your studies and even with your relationships with society and life. He would also like to help you with your room, but that, being your cocoon, is a restricted place for the meticulous Hannibal Lecter. That, until today.

--

You drag your feet through the mansion, tossing your bag on the nearest sofa as you headed for your room.

It had been a long day. A reeeeally long day. And frustration was irritating every part of your brain. Every inch of your body. You were definitely ready to melt into your mattress and fall asleep.

Yanking your bedroom door open, the scent of chemicals and artificial roses slaps your nostrils as you discover an orderly room. Not your room.

Your eyebrows knit together as you scan every inch of the space.

Disgusting. Tidy. Unlivable.

No more piles of clothes. No more stacked up papers. No more of those littles things you placed exactly in the right spot, exactly where you needed them.

Hannibal.

You march out of your room, each step growing louder and louder, fueling your anger. Until you reach the study.

You place your hand on the door handle, a thought comes to your mind.

You are not to come in without knocking on the door, y/n.

But you think again…Fuck him ?

You push the handle down, simultaneously pushing the door forward. There he is.

Your heart skips a beat.

Hannibal almost jolts up. For a split second, he's surprised. But as soon as his eyes land on your face, his body relaxes. And his features go back to being illegible. He watches you, his head slightly tilting to the side, waiting for an answer to a question he didn't need to ask.

"My room." You say.

"Yes ?" The doctor responds in an even simplistic manner. And it shakes sometimes in you.

"I told you not to touch my room." You keep your words to a minimum. As you were far far from calm, anymore anger and words were going to start spurting out of your mouth.

You wanted to avoid that.

"I organized everything accordingly. I d-"

What ?

His voice dies down as rage boils through your body. He's always trying to control everything. He cooks, he tells you what to do. When to do it. He chooses your meals for you. Who you're allowed to go out with. When to come home. Wait-so he read stuff, in order to organize it ?

"You read my stuff ?"

"That's not what i meant i-"

"Why would you do that, Hannibal." Your voice pierces through your own ears. You feel hot and your stomach is knotted up.

"Y/n, calm down."

"DONT TELL ME TO CALM FUCKING DOWN." Your body jolts in response, reaching your end point. "You're always trying to control everything. You fucking control freak" You accusingly point your finger at him. And your father stares in response.

He bites his bottom lip as his eyes rove from your reddened face to your finger, and back to your face. And slowly, he sets his hand on top of your finger, lowering it down forcingly. But you pulled away.

"Don't fucking touch m-"

"That's it." The man snaps, gripping your arm and dragging you over to the sofa, where he pushes you down. His grip is firm, but gentle. And before you have the time to move, he kneels down in front of you. "Now you're going to breat-you're going to breathe and I won't let you go until you do so."

Yours eyes meet his and your heart instantly slows down...But the overwhelming pain in your stomach doesn't die down. It lingers...

"Breathe, darling." Your father nods encouragingly as he awaits for you to obey. But you breathe heavily. Your voice sounded so hoarse and rough. You hated it. You didn't mean the words that just came out of your mouth. You didn't mean them. You just-Not sure-It just felt-

"It's okay, sweetheart, i know."

You shake your head as he nods No...No- He doesn't get it-he doesn't know. No-Y-

"I know you didn't mean what you said...It's okay."

You sniffle, a lump growing in your throat. "I'm sorry." It comes in a whisper.

"It's alright..Just breathe."

-----

Good reading, i hope. ❤❤❤🌹🌹🌹

[ellieslittleburrow]

Summary : your dad, Hannibal. And your brother Sherlock sense something different about you. They bug you about it and later find out that you're being bullied. Needless to say, each one reacts differently. But both are comforting enough to get you to smile again.

Pairings : Alternate Universe : Hannibal Lecter x daughter, Sherlock holmes x sister.

Warnings : Hannibal being a cutie pie dad, mentions of bullying, a punch scene, mentions of wanting to off somebody.

A/N: yall know how much we love big boiz and these two are the perfect definition of that!!! Also let's ignore the fact that they're both somehow hoe at the same time like- don't they have no life??? Also i'm sorry if any of yall suffer from bullying ❤️. I really hope this doesn't trigger you. And i hope it comforts yall. I decided to delete it from the other account because i'm trying to get used to this one. Sorry if that confuses anybody lol

------

Home sweet home.

Opening the door to your house, a very distinctive smell of rosemary oil slaps your nose as your pupils suddenly dilate, adjusting to the dim blueish feel of the house. That's what you've always loved about home. It wasn't just a safe space you thought about whenever you were outside, it was a smell, a look, a feel, warmth no matter how cold it was. Inner warmth.

"Little one."

You emerged back to real life.

"Oh" Spinning your head to the side, you catch your brother in act, pinning his head backwards as he sighs dramatically. "I caught her. Finally, i can have her now. She has awoken from her daydreams and she finally has time for us."

Your shoulders slouch as you roll your eyes at him. You're annoyed. And fucking pressured.

Your father and brother have been bugging you about what's been going on. A genius detective and a genius psychiatrist are two of the things you DO NOT want to be surrounded with.

But here you are, living with both-

"There she goes again."

Snapped out, again, of your little world, you huff, even more annoyed now.

"Would you both leave me alone."

The words come out harsher than you expected. You brush past them, taking off your coat before tossing it on the sofa. That upsets your dad. Sherlock too. But one's dangerous. The other one is too. Just..less dangerous.

"Something's different about you...I just can't seem to find what it is."

You smile when they're facing your back. You're honored to know that you're a difficult person to read, as reading is all they do.

As you walk upstairs, Sherlock follows behind. "What's been bugging you?"

"Nothing, Sherlock. Leave it." You mumble, entering your room, not bothering to look back because you know Sherlock to be respectful enough not to force things out of you. He can tell when you're really not in the mood to talk.

------

On your way home, you like to walk past the forest entrance. The forest that's been known, your whole life, for it's eerie feels. The forest that only those YOLO people dare go into. Walking past it always made your blood pump, filled it with such adrenaline that- it made you feel al-

"Hey there, Lecter."

Fuck.

The voice is too close behind. How did you not realize somebody was behind you? If your dad were to hear he'd be so mad.

You slowly pivot around, only to find more than the one girl you expected.

Uh...

"Miller, let's not do this, okay? It's been a very long week and I'm t-"

You're interrupted by a fist that flies towards your face. And it's too quick so all you manage to do is lean back, making contact less painful. You stagger backwards, reaching up for your nose.

This bitch.

"Don't tell me what to do, Lecter. I choose when and what to do."

Miller and her rats walk away, leaving you frozen in place.

When did this become such a normal thing? You achingly take a deep breath in. You'd fight back, but you'd kill her. And that's not something you really want..

As you start walking home again, you think about how you're going to hide your bloody nose from your family...Or maybe..You won't. Too tired to do anything....You just didn't care anymore.

Opening the door, you're welcomed with that sweet sweet smell but...Fuck that and fuck everyth-

"What's that?"

You look up to find your dad hurrying towards you. He hols his hands out, ready to grab your cheeks but you flinch. The shock from earlier not having worn off.

"It's okay. It's just me." He reassures you, examining your nose as he rotates your head up and down. "Who did this to you?"

"It....It doesn't matter." You mutter, pulling away from him before heading for the living room.

"What's g-What's that?" Sherlock almost copies Hannibal but you lean back, holding an arm out to stop him. But he ignores it, grabbing your face to take a better look at your dried up bloody nose.

"Who did th-"

"It doesn't mattteeeeeeer." You groan this time, rolling your eyes as you once again pull yourself away. "It's just somebody from school that dislike me for no fucking reason." Your voice gets lower at the end of your sentence.

There really no reas-

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock frowns. "And you didn't think about telling us about this earlier? We would've hel-"

"How?" You cut Sherlock off, bitterness lacing your voice. You violently swing your coat and toss it on the sofa. "How the fuck would you have been able to help?"

"I know a way." Your dad joins in. You can sense the smirk creeping up on his lips. You can hear it in his voice.

"Is it a boy, or a girl?" Sherlock asks and before you get to reply, your dad does.

"It doesn't matter to me." Your dad jerks his knife playfully.. Although...the darkness in his eyes doesn't look so playful.

"What are their names, honey?" The doctor's voice is hauntingly blank. Just filled with nothingness. Like the person inside of him suddenly disappeared. And Sherlock senses it too.

"Father...Calm down...Please. I'll...." Sherlock's fatigued sigh stabs you in the heart. "I'll take care of it." He shoots his father a glare before grabbing your hand, gently. "I'll show you how to defend yourself."

You follow behind, turning when your dad speaks from a distance.

"I don't care what moves you're going to teach her, Sherlock. I'll make sure those kids never touch her again."

Your heart skips a beat. You don't want to ask. Don't want to know. You'd really rather not. But you ignore that...fear anyways. Why would you care. At least you had them to take care of you.

-----

wtf was this, am i right? I don't even how i managed to write it. Anyways, i hope yall enjoyed it. ❤❤❤🥀🥀🥀

[ilikethecolorredsstuff]

Someone should lock hannibal and will in different rooms and make them whatch the show.

It will end horriblly ofc but they'll also be very horny about it.

[murderhusbands4life]

Okay so I've been meaning to do this for ever but here we are decided to make this so I can start writing oneshots for Hannigram!

So you can request ideas, I will only be doing Hannibal x child / teen readers no Romance only platonic oneshots.

[curiositysavesthecat]

*This poll was submitted to us and we simply posted it so people could vote and discuss their opinions on the matter. If you’d like for us to ask the internet a question for you, feel free to drop the poll of your choice in our inbox and we’ll post them anonymously (for more info, please check our pinned post).

[snax-writes]

snax' master list

snax writes mcu. [bucky barnes]

snax writes suits. [harvey specter]

snax writes criminal minds. [derek morgan, aaron hotchner, david rossi, alex blake]

snax writes hannibal. [inesa lecter [OC]]

snax writes grey's anatomy. [derek shepherd]

snax writes asoiaf/got/hotd. [ned stark, rhaenys targaryen]

if you prefer ao3, here is snaxwrites on ao3 // who do i take requests for.

my everything blog: @poseidons-lovechild

[mikeynf]

my dad used to play “enjoy the silence” by Depeche Mode and sing it to me all the time but now that he like isn’t around a lot i can now only thing of an older man like Hannibal Lecter or Lawrence Gordon loving me because i miss the way my dad loved me like i think about them in ways that are low-key pedophilic and would probably end someone up in jail because i have like severe Daddy Issues also notice how they’re both doctors of some sort i think that’s kind of funny knowing that my dad wanted to be a doctor before he dropped out of high school

[thevamplelio]

Hey google, how did it take me this long to wander far enough into this hellsite to discover Hannibal (all media) and Hannibal NBC? Cause like…

Same energy, different font.

Also, Abigail/Will and Louis/Claudia have the same energy, neither of which is healthy, or straight, and I’m here… at least for Abigail/Will.

Oops?

The Queer appeal of toxic love.

Vampire Reviews: IWTV 1994.

[littlemomonga1234]

[ FIC Hannibal series ] MISCHA

I don’t plan to write in English— but I will try soon

:

Mischa Hobbs 12 year-old-girl who is the younger sister in Hobbs house, think her life like a roller coaster. Go to high and down with thousands mile per hour

round one , go high when found the secret ‘hunt’ of her sister and father

and down when he kill his wife— her mother , sister and try to kill Mischa too

and now , in time when her eye and Dr.Lecter’s eye meet. Mischa found her life will move to high again—and it faster then last time

Mischa don’t sure that strange feeling in her tummy is fear or—excited

[slaymaxuwu]

Ok guys I've listened to ethel cain but I just can't watch hannibal I just can't justify watching it I know the earth would fall down around me

I know nothing about her but to me Ethel cain is like lana del rey for girls who watched hannibal (?)

[rustys-lodge]

It is but a little cold

Request by : @xpsidedownn​ :  Please more Hannibal x daughter reader! I love your stories sm. I have a request, if that’s okay? Maybe reader gets sick and stays home from school (if they go) and Hannibal takes care of her? If you feel uncomfortable in any way pls don’t do this! Thank you 

A/N : I’m so so so sorry, darling. I have been busy with school. I hope you like it  ❤❤❤❤

Warnings : none, just a bunch of fluff. 

------

A shaken up noise left your lips as you attempted to lift your head off the pillow, indomitable and unwilling.

“Dad…I’m not sure i’ll be able to go today.” You whispered, drawing in a breath of air and exhaling it painfully. 

Your whole body hurt, your muscles, your head, even your eyes ached with each movement of the iris and your body burned flames, all the while you trembled from the cold. You were ill, you felt like you were…dying. 

“Dying ?” Your father sweetly chuckled. “You are not dying,It is but a little cold.” 

You growned, unsatisfied with his answer. 

“ It is said that contentment preserves one from catching a cold.” And just as if he needed to make you feel worse. “Have you been feeling down lately ?” 

You growned. “Oh, please.” As you rolled to your other side, facing away from him while whimpers followed each movement you made, right until you stopped moving “You, of all people should not be mingling philosphy and science.” 

Hannibal chuckled again at your response, pressing his warm hand on the back of your shoulder. “I am only joking. What a better way to lighten up your mood ?” 

Your eyebrows furrowed. Actually make me feel better, maybe ?

“Maybe try less boring jokes ?” You sugarcoated your own thoguhts, but still surpressed a laugh.And although you usually find yourself to be funny, he still was the man that kept you alive. And you’d much rather keep it that way.

“I’m going to let that one go, only because you are ill.” Your father flashed you a quick smile before getting off the bed. But you gripped his wrist and pulled him down, causing a gasp to leave his lips. 

Hannibal was a trained man, always aware of his surroundings because one little mistake, one little moment of relaxation would cost him his life, and much more. 

It seemed to you, though, that whenever you were around, he’d get calmer, like at that moment, if someone else would have done that to him, they’d be lamb for dinner....Not literally, hannibal is not a canniball. 

“Please don’t leave me;” You pouted. 

“I have to feed you, my darling. How else would you heal ?” Hannibal completely ignored your puppy eye attempt. He got up, again, tenser than before, prepared for another drag down. But you didn’t pull him again, you just gripped his wrist harder. 

“By staying with me, maybe ?” You sarcastically said, dragging your lower lip out even more. You thought, maybe if you looked cuter he’d stay ? 

But he didn’t. And you growled, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“Rest, darling. I’ll come back with the most delicious soup you’ve ever tasted” Your father bent down slightly, rubbing your cheek from above. “And i will come back with the most delicious soup you’ve ever tasted.

Thankful, you smiled weakly.  “No need, dad. I’ll stick to a chicken soup this time. I’d much rather you be with me, right now.” 

Jokes aside, you didn’t want to be alone at such a moment. Your whole body ached, and so did your brain. But your father’s presence eased that pain, somehow. And as much as you knew his lovely soups do ease the pain too, you’d rather stick to his presence, his smile and lame jokes. 

“You’ve won me over.” Hannibal stepped away from you, just a little warning step, before disappearing out of the room. And soon after that, his steps quickened, he was running. 

“Why are you-” Your voice cracked and you let out a loud cough. “Why are you running ?” You tried again, quieter this time.

“So that i can come back quickly.” He shouted from afar, and all you could do is grin. 

Your father was never one to take things lightly, smile, joke, even less play around. But there he was, doing it all , for you.

-----

❤❤❤🌹🌹🌹

[ellieslittleburrow]

BROTHER X SISTER FIC STYLE

Could also be father x daughter or even platonic things.

Personally im really fond of the reader being disciplined and scolded. I don't know i like angst and serious moments

[floatyflowers]

Dark! Hannibal Lecter, and John Wick x Young Mother! Reader

(Warning: Age gap, reader is a legal adult)

Hannibal Lecter

You booked a thereby session with him, but he did not expect you to attend with your baby.

"I really apologise, but I couldn't leave my daughter at home, and the babysitter cancelled in the last minute-"

"It's alright, Ms. (L/n), I don't mind at all"

Apparently, you needed therapy to get over your boyfriend's death as it traumatized you.

And Hannibal found it as a chance to get closer to you as the sessions became frequent and longer.

Allowing him to be more obsessed with you.

"I advise you to find a new partner, it will help you move on"

"No one would like to date a single mother like me, Dr. Lecter"

"Nonsense"

Little by little, Hannibal became closer to you providing for you and your child, making sure all your needs are met with expensive gifts.

Even though you refused at first, but Hannibal managed to convince you that he is doing all of this because you are a dear friend.

However, you don't know that he is the one who murdered your boyfriend from the beginning.

And made your friend suggest him as a therapist.

It is all going according to plan.

The next step is marriage and him adopting your baby.

John Wick

You were the daughter of Viggo Tarasov and a single young mother living in your father's mansion in peace.

That was until your brother, Iosef, screwed things up and decided to kill John Wick's dog and steal his car.

Of course, it led to your family demise.

You don't know why he didn't kill you and your son, maybe he wasn't heartless as he seemed.

When John took you and your son with him to live in his home, you did not fight him, fearing for your baby's life.

For the first month living with John, you refused to speak to him and stay almost all day in your room with your son.

Honestly, John bought all the necessities, making sure you are comfortable.

"Why did you keep me and my baby alive?"

That's the first question you ask him after the tragic night, no fear in your eyes, only confusion.

"It's not your fault"

That answer didn't satisfy your curiosity.

"Then why did you force me to come with you?"

John only grabs your delicate hands with his rough ones, smiling a bit.

"So, you can take the place of my wife"

Part Two

[atlasscrumpit]

Hannibal x Reader

Extra Sweet

You sat in a chair in front of a mirror as your father roughly pulled your hair back.

"I told you to wash this mess, and cover those damn scars on your wrists I don't need people talking about my suicidal daughter." He grumbled as you rolled your eyes, he put your hair into a tight pony tail before going to your wardrobe.

"You'll need a long sleeve dress so we can hide those hideous scars." He grumbled pulling out a dark red velvet dress and placing it on the bed.

"Get changed and for gods sake put some make up on." He grumbled before leaving your room.

You sighed and stared at yourself in the mirror, this was going to be a rough night.

--

You stood at the entrance of Doctor Lecter's house, you fiddled with your dress before your father swatted your hand away.

"Stop." He growled as you rolled your eyes.

"This dress is too tight." You grumbled making him sigh in annoyance.

"Maybe lose weight." He replied before the door opened and you painter on a fake smile.

"Ah, this must be the lovely Y/N I've heard so much of." He said as he took your hand and pressed a kiss to it, making you blush.

"Y/N, this is Doctor Lecter. And of course this is my lovely daughter." Your father said in a kind voice that definitely wasn't real.

"Well, I hope you like beef because I've prepared a lovely meal." He said as your smile faltered.

"Oh, actually..." You muttered before your father nudged you.

"She's very excited." He finished for you as you made your way in.

Hannibal left to socialise with other guests as you turned to your father.

"I can't eat meat." You whispered as he rolled his eyes.

"Are we really doing this whole vegan thing again?" He grumbled making you want to shove your heel through his foot.

"I'm not vegan, I just can't eat meat or I get sick." You growled in a whisper as your father flashed you a displeased look.

"It's all in your head, be polite and eat the damn food." He responded as you groaned and left him alone to go get a drink.

You went to the bar and found Hannibal there.

"I must say you look very lovely this evening." He said making you chuckle softly.

"Thank you, that's very kind of you. I have to say I'm very uncomfortable, if it were up to me I'd grab that knife over there and cut this dress off." You replied fiddling with your dress again making Hannibal laugh.

"I have heard how uncomfortable it can be to wear such dresses. I'm honoured you made that sacrifice for my event." He said, a slight blush creeping onto your face.

You weren't used to people being so nice to you.

"Well, seems it was worth it after all." You said taking a sip of your wine, you cringe a little making him chuckle.

"I tried to pretend I was the kind of person to drink red wine but I can't do it." You grumbled as you cringed a little.

"It is an acquired taste, I must admit. Here, allow me." He said as he opened a bottle of champagne and poured you a glass.

"I believe you'll enjoy this one more." He said as you took a hesitant sip.

"Now that's more my liking." You replied making him smile.

"You seem like the kind of woman to like her wine as sweet as herself." He said making you chuckle a little.

"That's very sweet of you." You said with a slight blush.

You continued to speak with Hannibal, actually enjoying the company, but Hannibal noticed a lot of things other people didn't.

"You look a little uncomfortable, my dear. You're constantly pulling on your sleeves and trying to shift the dress around. Is it too tight on you?" He asked ad you looked up at him, you hadn't even noticed you had been playing with your dress too much.

"Oh... I'm sorry, it's just a little tight. I just need to get back to the gym I think." You replied with a nervous chuckle.

"Nonsense, my dear. You are gorgeous, while it is a nice dress it is only beautiful when you're comfortable in it. Have you injured yourself?" He asked as he slowly reached for your wrist and pulled the sleeve back before you ripped it away.

"No... No, I was just gardening that's all. I should get going." You muttered before he placed his hand on your back, stopping you from turning away.

"Do not be ashamed of it. Please, come with me." He said as you looked into his eyes.

You weren't sure you even had a choice to go with him or not.

He led you out of the dining hall and into the quiet hallway.

His hand was still on your back as he looked down at you, towering over you.

"Did you do these, or did your father?" He asked as he gently took your wrist and slid your sleeve up.

"Me..." You whispered as he gently ran his fingers over the scars.

"Your father seems quite controlling of you. I've known his type quite a few times, it's understandable you would feel the need to harm yourself." He whispered as you looked up at him, you'd never had anyone show actual understanding for any of this.

"It gives me something to focus on other than...my life." You replied as he nodded and rolled your sleeve back down.

"Has your father ever laid his hands on you?" He asked, hid voice low and somewhat comforting.

"Only if he's had too much to drink, he's just slapped me a few times. I just...I'm so sick of it! He wants me to do fucking everything and then practically fucking marry me off." You growled, Hannibal could see the exhaustion in your face.

You sighed and rubbed your face.

"Sorry, it's just been a lot lately." You whispered as he reached up and held your face in his hand.

"I can see how exhausted you are, you do not deserve to be treated like this. I want you to come back to my house tomorrow afternoon so we can talk, okay? I want to help you, Y/N. Will you be okay tonight with your father?" He asked as you looked into his eyes, unsure of what to say.

"Yeah... Yes, I'll be okay. You don't have to do this." You muttered making him smile softly.

"I know I don't have to, my dear. But, I would like to. I'll have some tea ready for you...extra sugar." He said making you chuckle softly.

"It's a date."

[shegatsby]

Requests are open!

Hannibal Lecter Fanfictions!

Requests;

 Sweet Serial Killer    Taking Care of You   Shard of Blood  Thanksgiving Dinner

Honesty  Losing Him  Their Secret   Whisper of Evi  Polar Opposites

 Mistletoe  Hannibal x Will Request Oneshot; First Kiss

Anxiety Attack    Audacity    Audacity part 2

Hannibal x Reader x Will; A New Beginning

Hannibal x Reader Request; Chapter One Chapter Two(final)

Hannibal x Will x Reader; Tangled In Between

 Mrs. Lecter    Hannibal x Will x Reader Request; Allergy

Jealous Kiss   Princess   Crisis of Lust   

Oneshot; Hannibal just found out he have the first symptoms of parkinson’s disease, like his hand are beginning to shake and freak out and try everything he could the hide it

 Oneshot;  Hannibal x reader when Mason Verger gets too close to their young daughter and Hannibal immediately goes into protective dad mode and his daughter immediately doesn’t like Mason.

  Oneshot; Reader is Abel Gideon’s daughter & was in medical school but dropped out after the whole “dad killing her entire family” thing. The FBI questions her when they think her dad is the Chesapeake Ripper & she is just shy.

 Oneshot ;  How Hannibal would react to and tend to a S/O who age regresses? Not super young but like regresses to 10 or 12 to destress or cope.

Oneshot; She's his wife and one evening Will randomly shows up at their house, while they're talking Will notices she has a bite mark (or whatever) on her shoulder/neck and Hannibal catches him staring.

  Oneshot; Hannibal comes home and sees that the reader is missing. He thinks she's ran away, she broke up with him but didn't tell him, she's been kidnapped, etc. He searches the whole house and just when's about to give up or start a major freakout, he finds the reader. And it turns out that the reader had just fell off their bed when she was alseep and happened to roll under the bed and stayed alseep.

Onehsot; The reader is innocent and sees the good in everyone, something that attracts Hannibal. But she surprises him when he’s under attack and she just deadass kills the guy hurting Hannibal and her only explanation is “I don’t like the people I love in danger” (bonus points if that’s the first time she tells him she loves him)

Oneshot; Reader is good friends with Will and meets Hannibal but Reader is naturally shy and quiet, Hannibal decides to help her open up with a bit of flirting and rewards her at the end of the night with the long awaited kiss!

Oneshot: Hannibal x reader request where the reader washes Hannibal’s hair and styling it the way he likes it for him after he’s been badly injured and can’t do it himself.

Oneshot: Hannibal x female!avenger!reader part 2? Where it takes place after the snap which 5 years later when everyone that turned to dust already come back and Hannibal come back to search for her.

Oneshot: Hannibal x shy student reader. He is obsessed with her while she has a small crush on him and then he invited her to her house and just cant get enough of her.

Oneshot: Hannibal caught their darling smiling on their phone.

Oneshot: Hannibal x fem(or gn) reader where she gets kidnapped and he finds out and saves her(but she’s injured). Heavy angst to pure fluff!!

Oneshot: Hannibal keeps you all to himself like a Rapunzel situation.

Oneshot: where he is in love with Alana‘s best friend. He met her after she picked up Alana from one of his dinners.

Oneshot: Meeting in an online portal similar to tattle crime where you can chat privately, they start talking and develop like a relationship but for the sake of their identities they keep their real names out of the chat one day you go to therapy and he is your doctor, he calls you by your username, turns out he stalked you the night you met.

Oneshot: Hannibal x Gone Girl type of reader who is running from her past life.

Dangerous Game (Finished) Hannibal x reader

Hannibal X Female Reader

Genre: Romance, Slow burn, SMUT. 

Summary: Y/N Hobbs an opera singer and also the eldest adopted daughter of The Minnesto Shrike, and her entire life changes after what happened. She will be the object of affection of a certain psychopath, whether she likes it or not. 

Chapter 1  Chapter 2  Chapter 3  Chapter 4  Chapter 5

Chapter 6  Chapter 7 Chapter 8  Chapter 9 Chapter 10    Chapter 11 

Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 (final)

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER TWELVE: FRUIT

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

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, implied child abuse

This is chronologically the twelve chapter

READ AFTER THE CUT...

-

You ascend to your room alone, glancing back over your shoulder in the paranoia that one or the other man pursues you like night after the sun.

Neither have taken you by way of carnality since Will rutted you against the wall. It seems an unnatural strike of fortune, and one unlikely to last.

There is too much lust between these beings, hunger of such echoing depths that the sensual urge is but one chained within. Their eyes all evening have picked you to the bone like carrion set at by desert birds. Your cunt parts, empty, about the memory of Will’s fingertips; there is a sense of art unfinished, a crescendo in the crashing of keys only the hands of men can bring into violent birth.

In dread of missing the sound of their approach across the landing you lie quiet in your bed, no music nor comforting hum of the television as your night-time companions. Yet footsteps only halve the house when your captors go to bed, each in their own room, an anti-climax. 

You think of Hannibal, tossed amidst the curse of unsung ardour, then of Will, crushed under the density of an unsated sleep. Such lonely men, in their way, divided by what lies unchartered between them, and with you.

Though by now settled, the skin which Will has touched—struck—still seems to burn with him. Five fingers, the rounded oblong of a palm, a hand that feeds dogs, has fired a gun, has rocked you, fucked you. A hand that Hannibal Lecter reaches for across dead miles of darkness to know as you have, and to love what you have loathed.

Unsettled, you roll on your stomach, but the pulse you hear when overwrought seems to peal through your very bones in its jeering song.

Filth, sin, soil: you taste your shame in its salt, as you have each night since long ago. Yet before your taking for the purpose of this ritual science there had never been pleasure in it, only the experience of staring always at the edges of things. The corners of ceilings, the light at the top of a door, a wall torn to grain by the night, liminality your legacy of innocence.

With Will, with Hannibal, you cannot look away, are made to witness and to partake in every aggression and gentleness with the same focus of attention. For that is what they want, your immersion in the devil’s playhouse. For you to be a doll, a daughter, embraced after the most inclement incident into a state almost soothed.

You cry yourself to sleep, wanting such a practice of love from someone who’s never once hurt you.

*

Hunger wakes you in the night, a restless drumroll that compels you upright in its rallying beat. As you stretch, thinking morosely of the marvel it is to have gorged and still not be full, you hear someone stumble in the nearby hallway, thudding against the adjoining wall.

A fight? Some drunken struggle? An intimacy overheard? No—

There is but a sole pair of scuffing footfalls on the floorboards beyond, too unbalanced to be Dr Lecter’s.

In consternation you go to your door and try the handle. It gives way easily under your hand, allowing you to peer out into the black mystery beyond.

Will lists against the right-hand wall, his eyes glazed and rolling under twitching lids. As you stare, abashed, his limbs fall under him, and he sprawls thrashing in unconscious spasms of animation.

There is blood on his face where he’s bitten his tongue, ebony in the negation of light. An oil spill on a seabird, drowning. A splash of mud on a bog's sunken dead.

You should let him suffer, step over his convulsing form and dart for nearest open window or outer door, but horror shakes you senseless of the thought before it takes full form.

Will’s fit continues, throwing the young man’s slim frame about like a machine caught in the throes of grim malfunction.

God help you: you pity him. He is human, and you are, as well.

“Will?” you say, stepping gingerly towards him. “Daddy? Can you hear me?”

It occurs to you that Will’s death is also yours, your lifelines enmeshed, a symbiosis in which only he would survive your parting. You kneel with your palms hovering over him, recalling very little that you know of First Aid, and entirely terrified of making him worse.

Hannibal’s voice comes from your left, uttering your name with a softness that somehow bears all the authority of a bellowed command.

He steps up quickly behind you, his hair disrupted from its usual tidy arrangement.

“Will’s having a seizure,” you say, in despair. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I’ll help him,” says Hannibal. “Go back to your room.”

You stare at him, dumbfounded by his apparent calm.

“But—”

Again Dr Lecter says your name, without raising his voice, or with any particular emotion. Yet you scuttle back the way you came, jarred by the suggestion of temper in that subtle repetition.

You hear Hannibal calling to Will, the sound of him lifting the other man and carrying his dead weight back to the spare room. The door closing, the subtle murmur behind it of Will rousing, his friend's soft, reassuring reply.

Silence, as of an exhibition ended.

Half an hour edges by, and not once do you stop shaking despite the heat of the autumn night.

Presently a knock comes at your door, and the doctor enters, his eyes lowered in remorse.

“I apologise if I spoke harshly to you. I know that you weren’t being deliberately disobedient. It wasn’t my intention to imbue your evening with additional distress.”

“It’s not your fault,” you say, quite disarmed by the apology. “It’s nobody’s fault. I mean, I shouldn’t have left my room, but I couldn’t just not go out there and see what was going on.”

Hannibal’s expression is opaque, a mask of ivory.

“I detect a concern for Will that isn’t entirely manufactured for my benefit,” he says. “Could it be that such a little cynic loves something other than her hunger?”

“What choice do I have but to care about Will?” you ask, shrilly. “What’s wrong with him?”

Adrenaline runs so high within you that you see the room on a tilt like some demented circus mirror reflection.

“What’s wrong with him?” you ask, again.

This time Dr Lecter answers, his tone low and even so as not to incite further upset.

“I suspect that Will is suffering from a combination of stress and fatigue, although I can’t deny the possibility of a neurological disorder.”

“Jack said he was sick,” you mumble. “And the other night, when I— you know. He looked awful.”

Will's face is punched into your retina like a flash of light, all blinding awfulness.

“And he’s been getting so angry with me,” you say, in a panicked rush. “Even though sometimes he’s almost nice. Is that why? Because he’s not well?”

“Will’s health has certainly contributed to his recent outbursts,” says Hannibal, smoothing your rumpled coverlet with fastidious hands. “The absence of control he feels amidst his fever leads to acts of impulse, particularly when in an environment he’s uncertain of, or feels threatened in.”

“I’m not threatening him,” you insist, hotly. “How could I?”

“I don’t mean in the literal sense. Will has very few close confidants, and those he possesses he guards dearly— that, or it is he himself that Will defends against his competition.”

You look up sharply, and Hannibal smiles, all benign conspiracy.

“Yes, little one. Having considered your thoughts on Will's dislike of you, I suspect that he also fears you may supersede him, or else share intimacies with me that he alone would otherwise possess. Yet Will’s envy is more complex than mere romantic ire, for unlike other rivals he has contended with, Will finds himself in the position of dizzying power over you.”

Dr Lecter pauses, his head at a rueful incline.

“For my part, I admit that it was rash to elect Will as the disciplinarian between us without taking all factors into account. It seems that I underestimated how antagonistic your relationship would become as his immersion in your treatment progressed.”

This you do believe, at least in that the doctor’s dissuasion of Will’s most outrageous verbal lashings is clearly genuine. Your bickering, in its familial likeness, he enjoys: an outright skirmish, repellent it its indecency, he does not.

“As you’ve indicated,” says Dr Lecter, going about your room to address its customary disorder, “Will’s becoming aware that his resentment is not entirely warranted as he finds himself increasingly sympathetic to your case. Such feelings are at odds with his desire to be alone in my company— an intricate conflict for any mind, let alone one so fiercely ablaze.”

“Ablaze?” you repeat. “What do you mean?”

“If my suspicions are correct, then Will’s condition may have been agitated by the ingredients in various dishes served in my home these past few weeks. The symptoms are closely matched to Will’s behaviour— disorientation, loss of consciousness, personality changes, mood swings. It’s unfortunate that I didn’t notice this much sooner.”

There is something performative in Hannibal’s guilt, his unshed tears like the glass eyes of a taxidermy animal. He’s known of Will’s ailment far longer than he suggests, and as he turns his back to close your chest of drawers you feel relieved, no longer forced to entertain this show of lies.

“You mustn’t mention any of this to Will until he’s received a formal diagnosis,” says Dr Lecter. “It may be that he’s simply mentally unwell, which would be a far more complicated outcome to navigate. But what you’ve seen of him lately is merely a conjunction of symptoms and heightened territorial emotions. Will’s true self you’ve yet to meet.”

The assurance is of little comfort to you, being that the nearest you’ve come to perceiving Will at his most natural and honest is in his private conversations with Dr Lecter. Through these you’ve glimpsed a complex creature, one that approaches evil with a newborn’s chary exploration.

You want to believe, for your own sake, that the sensitivity you’ve received from him sporadically evidences the continued persistence of his soul. Yet you cannot decide if he began a good man, changed through Dr Lecter’s influence, or if he’s always been a hunter, each kindness a flash of marsh fire luring you to drown.

The image of Will—twitching, defenceless—ultimately overrides this dilemma of thought.

“So what do we do now?” you ask. “We have to help him.”

Pleased by your concern, Hannibal leans across the bed to kiss the downturned corner of your mouth.

“I’ll reschedule tomorrow’s appointments so that I can tend to him. Will needs rest, first and foremost. As for his role here, it would be safest for him to delegate the majority of his more strenuous duties until he's recovered. I’ll continue them, in his stead.”

Choosing not to linger on the implications of this, you ask, “What about me? What can I do?”

“Healing Will is not your responsibility, little one.”

“But I’m making things worse,” you say, fretfully. “I know it. How can I make him like me?”

Not without humour, Hannibal says, “You can begin by tempering that sharp tongue a bit. Like Will, you rarely attempt to sweeten your words. I’ll never encourage you not to bite, but it is important that you roll on your back when we bid it. You must be our good girl, above all else, or if not good then charming, at the very least.”

You roll onto your side, crushing your face into a valley of pillows.

“I guess I really haven’t been playing along enough,” you mutter.

Hannibal chuckles.

“Not nearly enough, for all your promises. But it’s early days yet, sweet girl. We’ll see how you are once we're used to one another.”

*

 

Morning comes rudely, stalling the excitement like an opera’s intermission.

You take breakfast with Hannibal, only distracted from the usual struggle of eating by the presence of Will’s vacant seat. Having thought of him without respite for hours you’re in state of nervous delirium, your flinching knee a seismic force under the table.

“I want to see Will,” you blurt out, at last. “I want to see if he’s alright.”

“I’ll be taking a tray up to him in a few minutes,” says Dr Lecter, scarcely bothering to hide his delight in this new interest. “Don’t ask him too many questions. No doubt he’s feeling somewhat delicate this morning.”

You watch as Hannibal prepares a separate meal for the other man, cutting fruit and stewing tea leaves with loving ceremony. When he puts a strawberry to your lips you take it, your tongue rasping the juice gamely from his fingertips.

The shock of the previous night has amputated your mulish declination to humour him; even the disgust that meets your every concession is hushed, made redundant by a renewed vow to leave this house on soft feet rather than screams.

Other women have befriended their keepers and lived, as will you, if you can bear to pander to Dr Lecter as long as they.

*

Accompanying Hannibal to Will’s room you find that you’re oddly excited, even gleeful in anticipation of the visit. You’re taken with the notion that his seizure will incur some unknowable change, though whether in Will himself or the dynamics of the households you cannot predict.

Never have you seen him so utterly fragile, the dilapidation of a man. You think of a child, foisted on a detached father by a mother Will had never seen fit to name.

Will he be ashamed that you’ve seen that self so clearly? Will he be angry, indifferent, or else fear the power his weakness allows you as though your thumbs press deep in the fluttering dell of his very throat?

There is another possibility, however, the one your morning-fresh hopes hang onto by their nails: that he’ll remember how you’d crouched at his side and called to him as he shook in the darkness.

“Wait here for a moment,” says Hannibal, as you crowd up behind him at Will’s bedroom door. “I’d like to speak to him alone first.”

You hang back as Dr Lecter goes in, pressing your ear to the door the moment it shuts at his back.

“You’re awake,” says Hannibal, simply. “How are you this morning?”

There is a pause as he sets down the beautifully arranged tray somewhere in the room.

“I feel like I could sleep for another forty-eight hours,” says Will, his voice thick and slightly nasal, a sickbed tenor. “I should probably get up and head home. I need to check on the dogs.”

“I called Alana and asked her to look in on them,” Dr Lecter replies. “It’s inadvisable to drive in this condition. Try to eat. You’ll revive much quicker if you line your stomach with something.”

“Yeah, well. I can’t make any guarantees of keeping it down.”

You hear the metallic scraping of a fork about Will’s plate and writhe in envy. Even unwell he eats without thought of the fat that disallows your enjoyment of any meal. You live vicariously through him, in that moment, imagining the liquor of fruit across his tongue, the forbidden pearls of white sugar.

What you’d give not to be a slave to thinness, the goal whose end will never form.

Hannibal says, "Present issues aside, I can't help observing that you've been conflicted, as of late, Will. One might even say confused."

"Have been since the start of all this,” says Will. “The clouds still haven’t cleared. A bilious forecast.”

"Yet you've no wish to abandon this project for brighter climes."

Will gives a little snort of derision.

"I'm too enmeshed in this household to extract myself now. The night I first touched her was my signature at the end of the page. Indelible ink. No taking it back."

You flatten your face to the door so as to better interpret Hannibal’s silence.

"You feel a genuine duty to our little one, for all your misgivings,” he says, at last. “I was beginning to question if I’d made a mistake."

"She's abrasive,” says Will. “Not exactly malleable. I believe you know what you’re doing, but on paper it seems like an ill-fitting adoption."

"Children are reflections of their parents, and so far she’s shown herself to be a mirror of you. Towards me she is cool, distant, and distrustful. With you, there is an attraction of sorts. Not sensual, nor even familial, but it’s enough that, in spite of your every rebuttal and harsh word, she’s beginning to develop something of a rapport with you."

Laughing tersely, Will says, "Not sure I see it."

"You don't allow yourself to,” says Hannibal. “But you’re aware of that truth, all the same. Each time you relent into even momentary tenderness you turn against her in savagery that is vastly unearned.”

“You asked me to punish her,” Will says, sharply. “Encouraged me to— relish it.”

The admission does not move you; these men have knifed ecstasies of you like oyster flesh enough times to have indicated their tastes.

It is the why you listen for, the object they skirt about with the same flirting avoidance of a tryst that cannot be.

“I’m not referring to punishment,” says Dr Lecter. “This I have openly supported. It’s how you address our charge that’s beginning to make her feel displaced.”

“Are you criticising me, Dr Lecter?” asks Will, with a smile in his voice.

“Certainly not. I’m merely observing a pattern of behaviour, and its impact upon my patient.”

To this Will says nothing, but the tension between the two men is as visible as the door that stands between you.

"If you yearn for the hours that you and I once spent alone, I'm able to accommodate by replenishing that time together,” Hannibal says, at last. “But the blame for that neglect is solely mine. I've foisted our little one upon you without consideration of what response such an abrupt change would elicit."

"You don't have to apologise,” says Will, as surly as ever. “It’s an adjustment. I’m getting used to it.”

Your ears catch the delicate action of him lifting the tea cup on his tray, then of setting it down again.

“I spoke to her alone last night,” he says, abruptly. “Told her of my intentions to stay part of this. For a moment it felt like we connected. Like that was the promise she was looking for. But when I refused her something she wanted, she accused me of being ‘like him’. I figured you'd know who she was referring to.”

“Yes,” says Hannibal. “I can make what I imagine is an accurate guess.”

“Whatever parts we try out here, I don’t want to become the unnamed shadow that stands at her shoulder. It made her the way she is. There’s a tastelessness to that kind of evil.”

"I know. It’s more than apparent that you repel her less through genuine hatred, and more through the necessity to protect yourself from what it would mean to know her, and for her to know you in return.”

As Will replies you hear the huskiness of genuine emotion forced out between gritted teeth.

“All this would be a wasted effort if she were ever taken from me.”

“That won’t happen again,” says Hannibal, at once. “The pillar of salt left when you looked back at Abigail will never form with our new charge. When our second daughter turns to me with the same thirst for intimacy she’s developed for you she’ll be, at last, our Chloris, the nymph turned mistress of flowers."

He speaks with such tender compassion that it starts an ache somewhere in the underwing of your ribcage. What necromancy he conducts here to wake your dead and mangled innards into a living heart you cannot guess, only fear the compassion you’re capable of towards such creatures as would destroy you.

"Our little one would like to speak to you, it seems,” says Dr Lecter, closing the previous subject with a seamless finality. “Should I let her in?”

Will shifts uneasily on the bed, creaking its springs.

“She asked to see me?” he asks.

“She did.”

You imagine the younger man scraping a tangle of hair back from his temples as he gathers his thoughts.

“Where is she?”

Thus your cue to enter announces itself: you open the door, peeping at its edge, oddly shy.

"Hey,” you say, in a semi-whisper.

Will is as grey and moist with feverish sweat as deep-sea stone. His vast eyes nest in violet shadow, the whites a thread work of capillaries.

You pity him, this shambling experiment of Dr Lecter's creation, one of many, no doubt.

"Hello,” says Will, dully. “Sorry about last night."

Edging into the room, you allow Hannibal to slip discreetly away behind you with a light pat on your shoulder.

"Are you okay?" you ask. “How are you feeling?”

"Tired, mostly,” says Will. “I'll get over it. Need to. I’ve got a case to work on."

He scrutinises the half-empty tray before him from under lowered lashes.

"I'm surprised you helped me. You could have run off. Hit me over the head with one of Dr Lecter's vases."

"I wouldn't do that,” you retort. “You even said so. That I— can't."

"No, but you could have gotten away. So why didn’t you?"

There is no surprise in his voice, nor even suspicion, which you’d expected. He merely sounds ill, and trying to be interested, in spite of it.

“I don't know,” you admit. “I felt bad for you, seeing you like that. I didn’t want to leave you."

A weary cynicism twists Will’s features into momentary ugliness.

"You were afraid of being alone with someone you could never hope to understand without me."

"Not just that,” you insist, alarmed by the truth of the insight. “I was scared for you. Really. You should go to a hospital. You need tests. Meds. Scans and stuff, maybe.”

Will searches your face with eyes like dull rain, and some of the guardedness falls away from them.

"If it gets any worse, I will,” he says. “Just not today.”

You see how much he detests his own weakness, the potential to be devoured like an animal fallen in a savannah. If you strike, he will struggle, and sick as he is, you will lose.

So you offer him the gift of submission instead, the cunning exertion of a child's mite power.

"Okay, Daddy.”

You feel rather than see Will straighten in response to the word.

"Don't think I'll ever get used to that,” he says. "It’s alright to use my name. There aren't any rules against it."

"No, but he wouldn’t want me to.”

“When have you ever cared what Dr Lecter thinks?”

Shrugging, you mumble, “I guess I’m just sick of fighting all the time.”

The sick man scrutinises at you for so long that you hop from foot to foot in discomfort, itching your sole against your calf.

“It’s going to be hard for me to trust you,” says Will. “You’re probably just going to pretend until you see an avenue to get out of here.”

“Everything’s pretend, here,” you say, smartly. “Nearly all the conversations in this house are about myths and dreams. Dr Lecter talks about them like they’re real, or something.”

Amusement lights the sunken dark of Will’s gaze.

“He finds their philosophies more valuable than the moral structures most people follow.”

“And me?” you ask. “Am I valuable to him?”

Being that you’re still convinced that your worth to Dr Lecter is entirely reliant on Will’s continued interest, you only ask to discern if he himself understands this, or if he believes Hannibal would love you of his own accord.

With a tired caution, Will says, “Right now, I think you entertain him. What else he feels about you I don’t know.”

“And what do you feel?” you persist. “Still don’t like me?”

At this the young man laughs and shakes his head.

“Ask me again once I’ve gotten to know you. If you can agree to a truce, that is.”

“Fine,” you say, and you put out your hand for him to shake. “Truce. Let’s try that.”

With a wry grin Will accepts, letting go almost at once with a sharp inward breath.

“You’re freezing!”

“Haven't you noticed?” you say, hastily stuffing the offending hand under one arm. “I always am.”

It’s an unfavourable symptom of your hunger, this blood and touch of ice. Under even the sweltering gasp of summer’s heat you’ll shiver, knock-kneed, and suffer at the slightest feather of a draught.

Still, that cold affirms you. Were you to be warm again you’d hate yourself, having regained enough of the weight your system craves to regulate its heat.

Glancing up, you notice Will examining his own hand as though he shares your temperature, his fist a twin to frost.

"Come along, little one," says Hannibal, materialising in the doorway again. "Will needs more rest. Perhaps you’ll see him later on.”

But by late afternoon Will has dragged himself home without saying goodbye, and as before his absence eats a crescent into the house.

*

Some days later you pass an evening with Hannibal like so many others, yet unlike for the new state induced in you through his medicinal enterprise.

You're accustomed to the concoction of drugs that regresses you to a needy youth, the sleepers, the stimulants, the tea that lowers you from the electric heights of righteous hysteria into something slowly numb.

Yet whatever element comprises the pill flushed down by water from today’s gently tipped glass elevates you to orbit a heaven above you, so removed from your imprisonment that you observe all below with an objective eye.

Dr Lecter has bestowed upon you the rare trust that you may eat without prompting or assistance, and you have done so, temporarily rescinding your disordered agitation to a mycelium half-dream.

Thus entranced, you watch yourself drape the tines of your fork back and forth across your half-eaten plate, enthralled by patterns on the porcelain that are not there.

Your eyes drift repeatedly to a painting on Hannibal’s wall, mounted coyly for any dinner guest to comment on.

Naturally, you’ve seen the piece many times before, and have been, in turns, startled and disturbed by its subject.

Now you find yourself dully intrigued, as you were by the Japanese prints. This attention does not go unnoticed by Dr Lecter.

“What is it, little one?” he asks, intently. “Do you have an interest in art?”

“I don’t know,” you say, confused by the banality of the question. “It’s just this picture. Isn’t it... rude?”

Hannibal smirks, eyeing the image with a fond appreciation.

Its focus is a supine young woman, draped, half-naked, on a rumpled bed towards which a curious swan approaches with its curved neck bowed.

Likely it is the original painting, procured at auction, its price unimaginable; all things in this house are ripe with expense, even you, its demanding charge.

“Artistic nudity is only considered rude by children,” says Hannibal, blithely, “or else by shallow and ignorant adults. Does the depiction of genitalia offend you, my darling?”

You gaze up at the cowrie of a cunt under its shadow cap of hair, pinkly presented on spread silk, and think how often your own has been arranged likewise for Will or Hannibal to admire.

“Why is it in this room, specifically?” you ask.

You struggle with the syllables of the words, spitting the sibilants in a manner unbecoming of so distinguished an event as dinner with Dr Lecter.

“Doesn’t it put people off their food?”

“I find it makes for an amusing conversation piece,” says Hannibal, pouring himself another generous glass of wine like the blood of some celestial giant.

You attempt to grimace, none of your muscles quite taking to the motion.

“I don’t think it’s funny at all. Just creepy. Sad.”

“Are familiar with the story of Leda and the Swan? Zeus, a virile and insatiable God, looked upon the queen of Sparta and desired her. So, in order to seduce her, he transformed himself into a swan so that she would be fooled by his beauty and appearance of vulnerability to take him to her bed.”

“He tricked her,” you say, quietly. “He didn’t seduce her, at all.”

Dr Lecter’s face scarcely moves, but there is something of laughter in the lines of his strange beauty.

“So it’s the deception that unnerves you,” he says. “The pretence that he was an innocent creature rather than the all-powerful and lustful deity he truly was.”

You nod, not wanting to admit that you see your own face mirrored in the brushstrokes of the damned queen.

Prophet-like, Hannibal interprets the gesture with flawless vision.

“You empathise with Leda. Recognise the parallels between her story and your own.”

“Is that why you put it there?” you retort, emboldened by the miles between you and the girl slumped in the dining chair. “Because you think you’re the swan?”

“The bird is a shield for the truth, remember,” says Hannibal. “So what would the swan be, in me?”

Dropping the fork with a discordant clatter, you consider.

“The polite, handsome doctor,” you say, at last. “You fool everyone: Jack, Alana Bloom. My parents. They would never have left me here if they knew what you really were.”

Hannibal turns his head at a slight angle, as though by doing so he might uncover some mystery in your face.

“And what am I, little one?”

“I... don’t know,” you admit; a killer, certainly, though there is more to him even than that. “There are a lot of things you’re hiding from me.”

“Tell me your perceptions, then. There’s no need to spare my feelings; after all, you so rarely do.”

Amidst your mushroom-made divinity, you are fearless in your answer.

“You’re a bad person. You’ve done things that would get you into a lot of trouble. Hurt people. Not just me. Not just Tobias. And you don’t feel bad about it. You think that everything you do is right, somehow. Like you should be allowed to do it. Like you’re the gods in all these stories.”

Hannibal absorbs this with the silence of having been sated by your answer.

“And what about Will?” he prompts, some moments later. “Is he, too, a starving monster under the cunning guise of a tender animal?”

“No,” you say, with less certainty. “He’s... sick. You're using him, making him think that this is what he wants.”

Your captor laughs over the rim of his wine glass.

“That’s where you’re wrong, little one. The Will you think you see is only one wing of a swan. Soon, you will glimpse beyond that fragile veil, and feel the mythic need of all immortals to plunder from the weak, merely for the pleasure of knowing that they can.”

A sudden sadness tugs you back to earth like a choke chain, iron-like the lump in your throat.

“So you don’t want to help me, after all,” you mumble. “It really was all a lie.”

Taking your hand across the table, Hannibal presses a thumb to the pulse at your wrist, a soothing motion.

“Not at all,” he says, firmly. “I’m quite fond of you. I wish you to be strong. Each time you find yourself resenting Will and I you must remember that Leda did not die after Zeus bedded her: she became a mother. In you, I seek another outcome. More than one, and not all of them so horrible as you imagine. There will be beauty in this conversion, as well.”

You gaze at him with disbelieving eyes, close to rejecting the hope he grooms in you.

“What other outcomes are you looking for, Dr Lecter? How can I become all the things you want if I don’t understand them? What’s really going on?”

Hannibal kisses your knuckles and places your fork back into your hand.

“Nothing you need to think about at the moment,” he says. “Now, finish what’s on your plate. I’d like you to move on to dessert.”

Just like that, you are his little girl again, the moon having passed across the sun.