#Hannibal x OC

[shegatsby]

Can i request a smut of obsessed hannibal x shy student reader ( im obsessed with him lately). 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 (if u know what i mean *wink wink*)

A/N; Hi! Thank you for this request ;) I hope you like it.

Warnings; Smut! Sexual encounter, pussy eating etc.

Pairings; Hannibal x Y/N

Doctor Hannibal Lecter walked into his classroom with his leather bag, and his attitude. The dean of the university has been requesting, demanding to have him there and finally the dean put Will Graham on the job and Will convinced him to do it. Now Hannibal had three jobs; being a psychiatrist, helping the FBI and recently he has been teaching. Whenever he entered to give his lecture he would observe his students. Most of them were scared of him because he was a monster when he was grading papers, he never liked the way his students dressed, so informal and untidy. However, one of his students, Y/N, she always looked energetic, ready and put together. She had this type of feminine energy which made him navigate towards her, the perfume she wore filled his nostrils every time. The most attractive thing about her was that she would get so shy around him, red cheeks, always looking away whenever their eyes make contact. Hannibal was close to figuring her out, or so he thought. ‘’Hello.’’ He said with a dominant tone, he watched Y/N sitting straight, fixing her hair, ‘’Where did we left off last week?’’ he asked even though he knew where they were he was just checking to see if the students were interested, only Y/N replied. ‘’Thank you Ms. Y/L/N, shall we continue?’’

The rest of the class was as usual, he gave his presentation, executed swiftly, watched Y/N take notes, she looked adorable when she was focused on something. When he was finished he had a strange thought, his fox like mind was moving at a speed which he wasn’t used to, he waited for other students to leave the room so that he could be alone with her. ‘’Ms. Y/L/N,’’ she lifted her head to look, she was startled because a second ago he was at his desk, now he was right in front of her, ‘’Yes Doctor Lecter?’’ she said kindly. ‘’I’ve realized that you are quite interested in what I have to say about this lecture, would you like to come over to my home and discuss the upcoming topics? I want to feed your hunger for knowledge.’’ His hands were in his pockets, never loosing eye contact, he watched her go red with his last sentence.

‘’I- I would love that Doctor Lecter.’’

Y/N and also other students knew Doctor Lecter’s infamous dinner parties, she always imagined to be invited by him, just to see how he entertains his guests, also to be near him. Yes, she had a small crush but so did everyone. He was a brilliant man with great knowledge of his field and he was so polite to her all the time. Last week he brought coffee just for her, the other week she couldn’t make it to the lecture because she was extremely ill and Doctor Lecter sent her that weeks notes. She thought He does this to every student.. oh how wrong she was.

That evening she dressed to impress, black dress with a smooth make-up and high heels, when Hannibal opened the door in his expensive suit she realized she dressed right for the dinner.

Hannibal’s maroon eyes roamed over on her body, ‘’A work of art,’’ he thought ‘’all for me’’

‘’Please, come in. I must say, you look ravishing tonight.’’ Y/N tried to hide her face as she walked inside.

She knew he was rich but damn, his house was something else. He had a dark taste in colors and art, she found herself looking at the painting on the walls, as if she was at a museum. ‘’I assume you’re a fan of fine art?’’

He gave her a glass of red wine before dinner, ‘’Yes, I often visit art galleries and museums. I’m in awe of what people can do with their hands and imagination.’’ Hannibal lifted his eyebrow with a smirk look on his face, ‘’Shall we go to the dining room. Dinner awaits us.’’

He guided her by placing his large hand on the small of her back, she felt her heart at her throat.

The food was placed elegantly on the large table, the fireplace was lit, it gave a warm atmosphere to the place but she could feel the tension hanging in the air. Hannibal, as a gentleman, pulled her chair for her, she thanked him and sat. 

The dinner conversation was casual,  they talked about the university and classes, she was curious of his work with the FBI so Hannibal explained it generously. He usually had his dinner alone by the fireplace but having a company wasn’t so bad, he could feel the feeling of obsession rising from the back of his dark mind to the surface, it happened before and it didn’t end well. But maybe this time…

Y/n didn’t know exactly when and how she ended up in this position but she wasn’t complaining when Hannibal’s thick fingers found her wet clit and started to gently rub it. She was on top of the table, legs spread and Hannibal between them. His smug smile and his eyes will always be printed in her mind.

‘’Have you been wet like this during the dinner darling? If I knew… I wouldn’t have waited so long.’’ And she whined in pleasure because he started to finger her slowly, it was too slow for her liking. This pent up tension between them had to explode tonight, otherwise she felt like she was going to die.

He knelt to give her soft lips a kiss, which turned into a long make out session, she cupped his shaven cheeks with her hands, feeling his skin, his free hand went to squeeze her neck, he wasn’t rough but it wasn’t gentle either. They locked eyes, ‘’Let me taste you princess.’’ And with that he knelt on his knees and lifted her skirts. She had black lacy panties, he didn’t take them off just pushed them aside and started to give her small kisses, not there but her inner thighs. His slowness and the grip he had on her was driving her mad. ‘’Hannibal,’’ she said panting, ‘’please-‘’ he stopped and looked up, ‘’Please what princess?’’

He could see her cheeks, her parted lips and that expression her pretty face, she looked as if she was under a trance, a trance which Hannibal put on her. ‘’Use your words.’’ He demanded. He was certain that if she kept silent he wouldn’t move a muscle. ‘’Please eat me, use me.. I’m all yours.’’

A hungry smile planted on his dark face, ‘’As you wish princess.’’ And he dived into her treasure.

Hannibal had a taste for finer things in life, as soon as he got that intimate, warm taste of her he knew that he made no mistake in letting her into his space. She was so sweet and tasty, so soft and the sounds she made…

Even though she was wet Hannibal spit on her and also started to play with her with his fingers.

Y/N couldn’t believe her situation right now, her professor was eating her out at his home. Well, not like she didn’t have dream of it, but she never thought it would be this good. His tongue was skilled, his fingers hit the right spot.

Hannibal Lecter, even though he didn’t want to admit it, he too had dreams of her frequently. While he was treating a patient or giving his lectures he often thought of her, bent over on his table or on his kitchen counter. He pulled away from her, which made her whine in need. He pulled down his pants because he couldn’t wait anymore, he had to be buried in her sweet, juicy core.

He wrapped his dick and buried himself inside her fully, which made her freeze, ‘’Relax,’’ he knelt to give her a long kiss, ‘’I’m here.’’ They locked eyes as he started to move in and out.

''You like that princess? Look at you, legs spread for your professor. Such a whore.'' His shameless words and his pace made her legs shake in pleasure, Hannibal was rough with her hold on her this time, his hand chocked her throat and she saw stars.

Her body was moving with his fast speed, legs warpped around his waist, as she came undone she screamed his name over and over again.

''Now,'' his movements stopped slowly, ''You belong to me.''

[n1angi]

Shrouded in Darkness

CHAPTER 5 : RISOTTO MILANESE

previous chapter | next chapter

Will Graham x AFAB character x Hannibal Lecter (Polyamory)

Summary:

In the heart of Baltimore, forensic analyst Sidonie Renard navigates the shadows of crime scenes, concealing her loneliness behind a composed facade. Drawn into a web of intrigue, she captures the attention of profiler Will Graham and the enigmatic Hannibal Lecter.

Word count: 4,5k

Chapter Warning: Murder, Blood, Gore.

The morning air was crisp, with a faint chill in Sidonie’s home, a reminder that winter was fast approaching.

The sun was just beginning to rise, casting a dim light through her apartment, with only the glow from the front door offering any brightness.

She picked up the leather bag she had packed the night before, hearing a soft whimper from her dog. Smiling, she crouched down to give Lucy a gentle pet.

“I’ll be back soon, I promise,” she murmured.

Lucy licked her face, and Sidonie let out a small chuckle. After leaving the house, she locked the door behind her and glanced at the two cars waiting outside. Noticing Jack stepping out of his car, she sighed and began walking toward him.

Today, Sidonie was meeting Abigail Hobbs, and the thought made her sigh. Although she was irritated at Jack for assigning her to a task outside her usual duties, her curiosity ran deeper.

There had to be some connection between Copycat and G.J. Hobbs. Why else would the copycat contact G.J. Hobbs if they weren’t somehow linked? Even if Hobbs didn’t know the copycat personally, the killer had to have some knowledge of him to mimic his actions so closely.

Will Graham had mentioned earlier that the copycat case wouldn’t resurface, but Sidonie had a nagging feeling, almost instinctual, that he would.

Whether Abigail could help with the case or not remained to be seen, but it was worth a shot.

“You’ll be in the second car,” Jack told her.

“Good morning to you too, Jack,” Sidonie replied as she walked past him, heading toward the car behind his.

She glanced at the sleek, expensive vehicle and noticed Hannibal in the driver’s seat with Will in the passenger seat. She gave them a nod before opening the back door.

Her eyes fell on a slender young girl with wide, steel-blue eyes that held a mix of confusion and slight tension. Abigail’s pale, almost ghostly skin made her seem even more fragile.

She leaned away slightly to make room for Sidonie.

Sidonie settled in, placing her bag between herself and Abigail, and greeted her coworkers.

“Good morning to you too, Miss Renard. Did you get any rest?” Hannibal asked with a slight smile as he started the engine, following Jack’s car.

“More or less. Thank you for asking,” she replied, noticing Will slouched in his seat, rubbing his eyes. Now, he didn’t seem to have gotten any rest.

Sidonie turns her attention to Abigail, who looks at her anxiously. Offering a gentle smile, she extends her hand.

“Sidonie Renard. I’m a forensic analyst. It’s nice to meet you, Abigail.”

Abigail hesitantly shakes her hand, glancing between Sidonie and the others.

“I thought analysts were supposed to focus on evidence,” Abigail remarks.

“Umm, Yeah, that’s true. But sometimes understanding the bigger picture helps uncover details. Being present gives me a better sense of the situation, so that’s why I’ll be accompanying you on this trip.”

“Then I’m guessing you’ll be around quite often,”

Sidonie offers a subtle smile as Abigail continues to stare at her. She notes how expressive the young girl’s face is as if her emotions are laid bare for anyone to see.

“That’s right.”

Abigail smiles, but it’s clear that it’s forced, born out of discomfort.

Hannibal glances in the rearview mirror, observing them.

“How are you finding the weather, Abigail? I’ve heard it can be quite a change from what you are used to.”

Will subtly raises an eyebrow at Hannibal's question. Was he really starting a conversation with the weather?

“Winter is milder here than back at home… but I’m adjusting.”

“It’s often the small adjustments that are the most challenging, but they can also be the most rewarding,” Hannibal informs. “This trip can be considered as one of those occasions.”

“I just hope… it brings a bit of peace,” Abigail says softly, her voice almost a whisper.

She lowers her eyes, watching her fingers as they fidget. Her shoulders slump slightly.

“It’s not easy to keep hope alive… especially when everything feels uncertain.” Will murmurs, his voice raspy, betraying his fatigue.

“Will is right,” Hannibal adds. “Hope is a powerful ally, Abigail. You are brave for facing what lies ahead, even when the path is unclear.”

“…I’m- I’m just…Everything feels so heavy sometimes.” Abigail admits, swallowing hard. “Hope feels more like a dream than something real.”

Sidonie watches Abigail closely, placing her hand between them and subtly shifting her shoulders.

“You don’t have to force yourself to move forward if you’re not ready. The burden you’re carrying isn’t light. Sometimes… just staying where you are is enough.”

Abigail looks up at her, then down again with a small shrug.

“Yeah… maybe you are right.”

The car falls silent for a moment. Sidonie clears her throat and reaches into her handbag.

“I didn’t have time to eat anything so…”

She pulls out a chocolate bar.

“I brought some chocolate. Would you like some?”

Abigail nods and smiles shyly.

“Do you prefer dark chocolate or something sweeter?”

“I thought only old people liked dark chocolate,” Abigail mumbles.

Sidonie raises an eyebrow playfully.

“Thanks for calling me old”

Abigail gives a faint chuckle.

Will listens, feeling a small swell of emotion as he hears Abigail’s chuckle.

He hadn’t been sure if he could reach that part of her, get her to open up. The moments they shared were subtle, but he hoped that she would get to be happy one day. He genuinely wanted her to have a normal life.

“Mr. Graham,”

He glances at Sidonie, holding out a chocolate bar. He nods grabbing the bar from her hand, mumbling small thanks.

He breaks off a section and glances at Hannibal.

“I’ll decline, as I’m driving,”

Will shrugs and pops a piece of chocolate into his mouth.

“Suit yourself.”

As the group arrives at the airport, the terminals are bustling with travelers and the clatter of rolling luggage. They make their way through the crowd, following signs to their gate. After a swift check-in and security process, they board the plane.

Inside the aircraft, the cabin features muted colors and soft, overhead lighting. Will settles into his window seat and pulls down the shade to block the rising sun. Abigail takes the middle seat, looking weary, and soon drifts off to sleep. Sidonie sits beside her.

In the row ahead, Hannibal, Alana, and Jack find their seats together, exchanging quiet words as they get settled. Hannibal’s gaze occasionally drifts back, observing the surroundings, while Alana and Jack engage in a low-key conversation. The plane begins to taxi, and the engine noise grows louder as they prepare for takeoff.

As the plane ascends, the cabin settles into a gentle rhythm of vibrations and occasional turbulence. Sidonie’s eyes are fixed on the pages of her book, turning them with practiced ease. Meanwhile, Will struggles to find a comfortable position.

After a few unsuccessful attempts to fall asleep, he glances over at Sidonie, noticing the cover of her book. It’s “The Bell Jar” by Sylvia Plath.

“Quite a heavy read for a flight”

“It’s been on my list for a while.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Interesting choice for this setting.”

“How so?”

“I am guessing you’re not near finishing it,” he looks over the page. “Yeah, not even close.”

Sidonie raises a brow at him.

“No spoilers please.”

He chuckles faintly.

“Such a book is impossible to spoil.”

Her attention turns back to the pages.

“I assume you read often.”

“I wouldn’t say that…”

“That’s what every bookworm says.”

Will shakes his head.

“Perhaps you got me.”

Sidonie smiles faintly.

“Do you read?”

“In my free time.”

“Do you have a favorite?”

“Crime and Punishment, by Dostoyevsky.”

Will nods.

“Classic.”

“You?”

“Frankenstein, Mary Shelley”

Sidonie hums thoughtfully.

“Huh, an Interesting choice.”

Will tilts his head, waiting for her to elaborate.

She places her book on a lap, her hands still holding it.

“Well, if you put it in a certain perspective, both of the characters deal with the consequences of their actions and look into darker aspects of themselves in their way.” she explains “Raskolnikov's surroundings had a profound impact on his actions, while Frankenstein's choices were more a product of his unbridled ambition and intellectual hubris. It’s interesting how both of them are driven to confront their inner demons, despite the different forces pushing them.”

“Huh…That’s a good way of putting it.” Will nods. He hadn’t thought of it that way but found the comparison intriguing. He realizes this is the longest conversation they've had since she arrived almost two weeks ago.

However, his lack of initiative and the irritation that came with Jack’s persistence were the biggest reasons for it. Will leans into his seat.

“Mhh, you have a talent for… connecting dots, even when they seem unrelated.”

Sidonie blinks, realizing she has rambled a bit.

She had felt and knew that Will didn’t think much of her. Perhaps even to say he was not particularly fond of her. But just now, she could tell his tone was slightly warmer and lighter. Even inviting.

“You’ve just described the reason why I’m here.”

“It can be your cognitive capabilities, and… some might consider a personality trait.”

“How so?” She looks at him.

“Well, um, It could mean you're constantly on edge, wary of revealing too much about yourself.” Will says slowly “As if you're constantly guarding yourself.” He pauses as she arches her brow. “Or perhaps you have a deep need to make sense of things, to feel a sense of security.”

"Looks like Dr. Freud is back from the dead.”

Will rolls his eyes, faintly smiling at her sarcastic remark.

“And here comes the humor, a classic defense mechanism,” Will adds in.

“And I’m the one overanalyzing now mh?”

“Touché.”

Abigail shifts slightly in her sleep, her head resting against Sidonie’s shoulder. She murmurs in her sleep, barely coherent.

Sidonie freezes momentarily but then adjusts so Abigail’s head is comfortably supported. Abigail’s face relaxes, showing a hint of relief.

Will watches the scene quietly. The interaction is subtle but undeniably comforting.

Sidonie notices Will’s softened expression.

“Let’s try not to wake her... She has a lot to face today.”

Sidonie tells him as he agrees with a nod.

As she goes back to her book, Will, unable to fall asleep, finds his mind preoccupied with other thoughts, looking forward to returning home.

Two rented cars pulled up at the airport, everyone loading their luggage and heading to their destinations.

The morning sun was dim but bright enough to cast a warm light on the car. The weather was nicer than in Washington, with a chilly breeze rustling the leaves on the ground. Minnesota was greener than Sidonie had anticipated.

The drive was quiet. Will, who had struggled to sleep on the plane, finally managed to doze off with his head resting against the window. Hannibal was driving, looking well-rested, while Sidonie assumed he must have slept during the flight.

In the other car, Abigail sat with Alana and Jack.

Hannibal glanced at Sidonie in the rearview mirror. She had her head propped up with one hand, her eyelids heavy as she looked out the window. The dim sunlight touched her face.

“I can wake you when we arrive, Miss Renard,” Hannibal offered softly.

Sidonie turned towards him, her gaze lazy.

“It’s okay. I prefer to sleep in a bed.”

Hannibal nodded and returned his attention to the road.

He gently pulled up to the motel, as Will had chosen to stay there rather than go into the city.

Sidonie stepped out of the car, and Will looked at her, still half-asleep. He had expected her to stay in the city with the others.

“Hannibal is heading to the city,” Will said, just to let her know.

“I know, but I’d rather get some rest right away,” Sidonie replied.

Will nodded and looked at Hannibal, signaling him to call before picking them up.

They received their keys and went to their rooms on the second floor, two doors apart, and settled in.

Sidonie looked around the room, noting the full-sized bed with white sheets, a small TV in the corner, and a table with two chairs. She drew the curtains and turned on the light. Setting her bag on one of the chairs, she sat on the bed and then lay down, closing her eyes.

The first day of travel had been exhausting, and she needed time to adjust to the new environment. She hoped she could trick herself into sleeping, but after ten minutes of silence and shifting uncomfortably, she gave up.

Getting up, she opened her bag.

Fortunately, she had picked up some food at the airport before their flight. She took out a sandwich and sat down in the wooden chair, leaning back.

As Sidonie unwrapped the sandwich, her mind drifted to a distant memory. She remembered sitting in the kitchen with her mother, a table of similar size between them.

She gripped the steel spoon with the delicate flower carvings. Her gaze fixed on the soup in front of her, which she could distinctly remember the smell of. It was earthy, and fresh, with a hint of onions, garlic, carrots, and celery mingling together. The smell should have felt comforting, but instead, it brought haunting tension to her.

Her eyes slowly drifted to her mum's hands, which were always empty of any jewelry. She could remember the navy dress she wore. She couldn’t quite place if it was old, or if she rarely wore it.

The memory of her face was blurry. All she remembered was her lips; tight and down casted. Her jaw clenched.

Sidonie took a bite of the sandwich but immediately felt her stomach churn.

It tasted acidic.

She spat it out and stood up, grabbing her bag and pulling out a water bottle to drink quickly. Her face showed her distaste.

Had she been given expired food?

Her eyes scanned the package, and the fresh date stared back at her, contradicting the discomfort she just felt.

The sleek, white car pulls into the driveway and Will glances back at Abigail. She looks over at Sidonie, prompting her to open the door. Both step out of the car, with Will and Alana following closely behind.

Abigail's gaze fixes on the large, graffiti-like letters scrawled across the front of her house. The word "CANNIBALS" glares back at her. She stares at it, her brows furrowing, her lip trembling slightly.

Hannibal and Sidonie stand behind her as Abigail slowly moves toward the house. Sidonie takes in the surroundings—a traditional two-story house with a classic suburban look. The muted brown bricks and siding give it a rustic feel, and fallen leaves are scattered across the black, sloping roof.

As Abigail nears the entrance, her eyes fall on a faded, rust-colored stain on the front step.

“Is this where my mum died?”

“Yes.” Will nods.

Her eyes slowly brim with tears.

“I was sort of expecting a body outline in chalk or tape.”

“They only do that if you’re still alive and taken to the hospital before they finish the crime scene.”

He explains as she stays silent for a moment.

“Goodbye, Mom.”

Abigail mumbles softly as she steps into the house. Will lingers outside for a moment, staring into the distance before turning back to glance at everyone else, then heads in.

Sidonie follows, her eyes briefly falling on the faded stain by the entrance. She pauses, staring at it, lost in thought. When she looks up, she catches Hannibal’s gaze. He silently urges her to move along with the others.

They all step into the dimly lit room. Antlers are mounted on the walls, and the interior is dominated by dark wood and deep browns. Sidonie can't help but admit that the decor isn’t to her taste.

Alana stays close to Abigail, while the rest follow behind. Abigail hesitates in the doorway before entering the kitchen. The room has been scrubbed clean, every surface meticulously wiped down by the cleaners. The evidence box sits on the table, waiting for them.

“If you ever want to go, you just have to say so and we will go.”

Alana reminds her.

“Go where? Back to the hospital?”

“For now.”

Abigail notices that all the family pictures, once proudly displayed, have been turned around, their images hidden from view.

“They turned all the pictures over.”

“Crime scene cleaners will do that.”

“They did a really good job.”

She glances at the spotless table and then shifts her gaze to the floor.

“Is that where all my blood was?”

Will nods.

“Yes.”

Abigail faces him.

“You do this all the time? Go places and think about killing?”

Sidonie glances at Abigail and then shifts her eyes to Will.

“Too often.”

“So you pretended to be my dad?”

Will steps forward, moving closer to Abigail.

“And people like your dad.”

“What did that feel like? To be him?”

Hannibal eyes subtly narrow as he observes the exchange between Will and Abigail.

“If feels like… I’m… talking to his shadow suspended on dust.”

“You think you knew him?’

“I tried to know him. I still try.”

“Even after you killed him?”

“Maybe because, I killed him.”

Sidonie crosses her arms, her eyes lowering to the floor.

Abigail nods.

“No wonder you have nightmares.”

“The attacks on you and your mother, they were different. Desperate. Your dad knew he was out of time. Someone told him we were coming.”

Will explains.

“The man on the phone?”

Sidonie’s eyes drift back to Abigail and Will. Hannibal’s gaze follows hers, taking in her reaction.

“It was a blocked call. Did you recognize his voice?”

“I had never heard it before.”

Abigail’s eyes flick briefly toward Hannibal, as Hannibal tilts his head slightly.

“Was there anybody new in your father’s life? Someone you met or someone he talked about.”

Alana asks.

“He may have been contacted by another serial killer, a copycat.”

Will’s voice is gentle as he addresses Abigail, who furrows her brows in visible distress.

“Someone who’s still out there?”

“Yeah.”

Abigail swallows hard, a realization dawning on her that her nightmare is far from over and hope feels increasingly out of reach.

Sidonie walked through the hall and entered the room bathed in soft cream pastel hues.

This was Abigail's room. Her gaze swept over the full-sized bed with dark blue sheets adorned with white flowers, flanked by wooden nightstands. One of them held a white lamp and a photo of Abigail with a friend.

Approaching the desk on the right, Sidonie noted its neat arrangement of books. Above it, posters of horses, bands, and pictures from trips decorated the wall. Two small shelves displayed a few trophies, all earned from horse riding.

The room had a peculiar, somewhat unsettling scent.

As Sidonie examined the trophies, Abigail entered. Her eyes took in the sight of the woman In front of her.

Although Sidonie’s strong, distinctive features and deep, articulate voice were intimidating, just now there was a softness in her demeanor, which contrasted with her usual presence.

“Do you like horseriding?”

Sidonie shakes her head.

“Never tried it before.”

“But do you want to?”

Abigail asks her, and Sidonie glances over with a gentle smile.

“Now that I remember it, I would love to try.”

“I used to be afraid of the horses when I was small. They used so huge in my eyes.” Abigail shares “But after my dad forced me to start horse riding… I grew to love them.”

Sidonie gazes at her for a moment, lost in thought.

G.J. Hobbs had appeared to be a loving father, and despite everything that had happened, Abigail still seemed to love and miss him.

She wondered if it was truly possible to love a parent who had caused so much harm.

“I see.”

“They are suspecting me, aren’t they?”

Abigail suddenly asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

“It’s natural that they do,” Sidonie reassures her.

“Yeah…Why else would they send you here.”

“I’m not qualified for what they asked me to do. The only reason why I agreed, is for personal interest.”

“Personal interest?”

“Copycat killer.”

Abigail nods slowly, her gaze drifting away.

“I see… um, how does he kill?”

“He displays them theatrically. Like pigs. Leaves no evidence. Quite the character, I would say.”

“And you work on evidence.”

Sidonie nods in agreement.

Abigail crosses her arms and swallows, her expression tense.

“Is he… going to come after me?”

“There is a high probability that he might.”

Abigail nods her mind elsewhere.

Sidonie tilts her head slightly, observing her.

“Do you remember anything about him? The tone of his voice? Anything can help Abigail.” She gets closer to her “If we catch him, you will be safe.”

“Why do they suspect me?”

Abigail shifts the topic, drawing Sidonie's attention for a moment.

Alana had noted that Abigail seemed adept at gathering information while holding back her own—a subtle form of manipulation. Yet, Sidonie knew there was nothing to hide about their suspicions of Abigail. The girl was sharp enough to understand that much on her own.

“They’re struggling to understand how your father could have lured the girls.”

“I wouldn’t… I didn’t do anything.”

“The evidence doesn’t point to you. It’s just a theory.” Sidonie pauses. “But… it’s more likely that a copycat might be targeting you.”

Abigail’s gaze locks onto Sidonie’s, a flicker of terror in her steel blue eyes contrasting sharply with her calm olive green ones.

“If you remember anything, even just a small detail, it could help us solve the case. You’re under FBI protection, but that might not last forever. So if something comes back to you, you need to let me know.”

“He… He might have had an accent.”

Abigail mumbles.

Sidonie’s eyes widen slightly.

“An accent is a good detail. Can you remember anything else about it? Maybe where it was from or what it sounded like?”

“I’m not sure...”

A knock on the door interrupts them. Hannibal stands there, watching them.

Sidonie looks up, and Abigail, startled, glances at him.

“Dr.Bloom asked us to stick together,” Hannibal says, addressing Sidonie.

“Alright, let’s go downstairs.”

Abigail nods and moves past him, avoiding eye contact. Sidonie offers Hannibal a polite smile.

As they walk away, the wood creaks slightly under their steps. Hannibal’s gaze lingers on Sidonie’s back. His eyes darkened.

She was proving to be a complication.

Sidonie, along with the others, carefully unpacks the evidence box in the room.

“Can you catch somebody’s crazy?”

Abigail looked at the item in her hand.

“Folie a deux.”

Alana replies softly.

“What?”

“A French psychiatric term. ‘Madness shared by two.’”

“One can not be delusional if the belief in question is accepted as ordinary by others in that person’s culture or subculture. Or family.”

Hannibal adds as he sets another box down.

“My dad didn’t seem delusional. He was a perfectionist. After he skinned a deer, he would pluck the loose hair. Most people use a torch. Dad would remove all the hair by hand. He wanted to make sure he got every one of them.”

“Your dad left almost no evidence.”

Will said.

“You let me come home to find the evidence.”

“It was one of many considerations.”

Hannibal informs her.

“Are we going to re-enact the crime?”

Abigail as she looks at Will and Alana.

“You be my dad. You be my mom.”

She looks at Sidonie.

“You can be Agent Graham”

Then she looks at Hannibal

“And you be the man on the phone.”

Uncharacteristically, Hannibal is caught off guard by that. More so by Abigail’s steely nonchalant stare that followed.

Hannibal looks away as Alana's voice softens.

“We wanted you to come home to help you leave home behind.”

“You’re not going to find any of those girls, you know.”

“Why so?”

“Because he’d honor every part of them. Made plumbers putty out of elk bones. At least that’s what he told us. Whatever bones were left of those girls is probably holding pipes together.”

“Where did he make this putty?”

Hannibal asks.

“At the cabin. I can show you.”

“Abigail... there’s someone here.”

Everyone turns to see a girl with dark hair and a dark red leather jacket. She looks to be about the same age as Abigail.

“Hey, Abigail.”

“Hey, Marrisa.”

Marissa and Abigail head outside, with the adults deciding to give them some space. Will and Alana follow, standing at a distance to monitor the situation.

Inside, Hannibal and Sidonie go through the evidence box.

Hannibal’s gaze shifts to Sidonie as she fixates on a package containing a golden wedding ring. Her eyes locked on the ring, that had a slight stain of the blood.

Hannibal notices her intense focus, a subtle curiosity evident in his expression.

“You seem lost in thought Miss Renard.”

She puts it back down.

“Just thinking about the case.”

“I believe there should be more reasons for your agreement to accompany this case.”

Sidonie glances at him, her frows furrowing subtly.

“Perhaps, it is something personal,” Hannibal adds in.

“And what gives you that impression?”

“Everyone has a reason for doing what they do. Even being here has a purpose for each of us.  For Abigail, it’s a hope. Leaving her old life, to start anew.”

He watches her intently. She meets his gaze, her eyes briefly meeting his with a hint of curiosity. Raising her brows and sighing, she shifts her focus back to the evidence.

“I’m here because of the copycat killer. I’m curious of him.”

“Curiosity takes us to many places, but it always circles back to our mind. The real intrigue lies in the canvas itself, not just the strokes on its surface.”

She furrows her brows slightly, her gaze moving from his hands to his face.

As he examines the evidence with a calm demeanor, Sidonie feels an unsettling chill, as if something unseen is creeping up behind her. His calmness contrasts with the intensity of his scrutiny making him seem almost omniscient, adding to her discomfort.

“I suppose we all have our reasons for being drawn to certain things. If there’s something more personal, It’s my matter to handle. Not anyone else's.”

A faint smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

“Ah, a well-defended boundary. It seems that you have mastered the art of self-preservation Miss Renard.” He pauses “While such skill is admirable, it often leads to a certain solitude.”

Sidonie hesitates, the urge to deny the truth rising within her, but she can't escape the reality his words hold.

The loneliness she feels is palpable, shaped by her nature and circumstances. It leaves her with a sense of vulnerability as if she’s suddenly been laid bare.

“Perhaps there is some truth to that. Being alone is something I’ve grown accustomed to, but that’s what I chose, and manage just fine.”

She looks him in the eyes.

“But I can say for certain that catching this copycat killer will personally satisfy me. Knowing I’ve apprehended him will simply boost my ego and credibility.”

Hannibal’s eyes darken slightly, sensing the hint of need in her voice, almost a desire.

He smiles subtly, feeling a twinge of excitement.

A subtle yells come out of the yard as they look away.

A distant shout breaks the moment—Marrissa and Abigail are outside, calling someone out.

They look away, drawn back to the present, as the moment slips away and reality reasserts itself.

[uncanny-cannibal]

"You're walking down the street and you see a wounded bird in the grass. What's your first thought?"

"It's vulnerable. I want to help it."

[vixnovacoda]

Doctor's Medicine || Chapter 11

Hannibal Lecter x Original Character

Word Count: ~2k

CW/TW: NSFW 18+, graphic, disturbing content, dissociation, canon-typical violence.

[Chapter 1][Chapter 2][Chapter 3][Chapter 4][Chapter 5][Chapter 6][Chapter 7][Chapter 8][Chapter 9][Chapter 10]

[ao3 version here]

They were barely through the second glass when Hannibal tried to change the topic from favourite wine flavours and European countrysides. He lowered the wine from his lips, holding it how a trained hand would. “We’ve yet to touch upon the subject of your parents,” he said abruptly. 

   “Or yours,” returned Emma with the clashing of her nails against her wine glass resounding loud against the vastness that was Hannibal’s living room and its gothic decadence. The whole place was decadent, an oasis in concrete, filth-filled Baltimore - there was no sensible way that being a psychiatrist paid for this all on its own. It was made clear then that she didn’t know him well at all. Just bits of him.

   He took his time drinking, body turned to face her as he sat upright and perfectly poised on the other end of the sofa. The whole time, he sipped while she gulped. Not once had he broken form like a careful man being a gentleman with nothing to give away. “You don’t like opening up, do you?” assumed Emma.

   Then it broke briefly. Hannibal looked away from her. She could barely see the look in his eye, but it was clear enough by how he chose to focus on the skulls of dead prey, their lives having been taken away from man to be used as decoration, that he was questioning something. Maybe letting her inside this room while he had still been awake. It wasn’t clear what exactly. It was never always clear with him. Hannibal Lecter, the man who chooses horse hooves for chair feet. The man who designed his living room to be a forest; his hunting grounds. A place meant for calmness or to take home a meal. But she knew she said something he wasn’t expecting.

   “Then in that, we share,” came to utter Hannibal unexpectedly.

   “I suppose,” responded her. “However, I just simply don’t like getting close to people.” She lingered on him as the open fire painted the contours of his face like it were some greco-roman sculpture. If his head wasn’t so attached to his body she’d donate it to sit amongst the greats at a museum. “… Not anymore.”

   “Am I not ‘people’?” asked Hannibal in his usual manner, in his usual way that had you giving more of yourself up to him than he ever would; charming. Hannibal’s words were a bait she openly ate from.

   “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

   His head slanted, ever curious. “And what is your assumption so far?”

   The details of his sculpted lines turned less blurred. “A hunter,” she answered, her hand grabbing the back of the sofa between them as her body shifted closer. “You wait. You watch with care. You stand in a world of prey and take the ones you need in search of something, maybe you enjoy it, maybe it brings you calm. Either way, you’re alone.”

   “I am?”

   “It’s hard to find someone willing to hunt alongside.”

   The firewood crackled in the silence where they were at a stand still. Embers broke and sparks flittered, seen reflected in the only clear thing of that man she called a hunter, his eyes. Deep, dark forces of nature. Flecks of red. So much red in them. So… familiar.

   A bathtub, marbled by blood spilling, pouring over under my knees. I sit in it. I stare. There’s the body, then me. Fingers dip like toes in water, testing the climate. Eyes float to the surface. Iris of blue turned a glaring red. I bend closer, and it almost bleeds into my own.

   A hunger.

   That’s what it was. She had seen it before back in that house she was supposed to call home. Years passed where she might have almost forgotten. But, how could she when he was right there in front of her to remind her. Hannibal had that same look in his eyes, she was sure, and not a reflection like Will. Just, similar. Which meant he was one of the only people that understood her and what she felt. He had to. He just—

   With a grip larger than her own, Hannibal coerced the half-empty glass from her teetering grasp before she could taint the expensive upholstery or the remnants of his stripped-down suit – in which the shirt (a couple buttons undone) and trousers remained – and there she remained without moving an inch. Any closer and their knees would be touching. Then, a buzzing, tingling. A warmth filled her cheeks. She couldn’t help herself, but what was she doing? She barely knew this man she labelled as a friend mere hours ago. 

   Embarrassment swallowed whatever feeling she had while reality came rearing its head in. “But, what do I know? Maybe I am just projecting,” Emma stammered and lurched herself back, resting her tiring body over what was her side of the furniture. “Or deflecting the original question. After all, there's a lot of revealing oneself in discussing parentage, no hiding from the truth where the pieces come together. Even when buried, it never dies.” Though she wished it did. Then none of this would ever have happened. No pain. No tragedy. No dead Alex.

   The alcohol made light work with her, festering in all the nooks and crannies of her body, and the unrest fashioned lead from her frame as she slumped with a heave, spine curving against the armrest. Emma never believed in spirits, but as her heart felt cold while the tips of her fingers and the fireplace burnt, she might have sworn it was Alex. But she would never be so cruel to leave Emma at odds and staring at where heaven laid between the clouds that was Hannibal's ceiling for an answer. It had been this way not too long ago in the spare bedroom Hannibal had provided. Wide-eyed and brain ticking, she had stared at that ceiling. Unable to sleep, Emma was the one to search for the bottom of a bottle and Hannibal the one who indulged her thirst by uncorking a vintage when he probably shouldn’t have. 

   “Why are we still awake?” questioned Emma. Why am I alive?

   Hannibal’s voice waded through the confused silence like an echo. “I think only you can answer that one.” Followed by the pour of more wine. Drop after drop.

   It wasn’t a difficult answer when there was pause and alcohol in the air and the warmth of another who was in reach. She knew, like she had never known before. “… Company,” admitted her with newfound lucidity being consciously aware could never give her. “The world sounds different when I’m with you.”

   “What does it sound like?”

   “Like… Like a symphony.”

   The sofa sighed under the shifting of his weight as she swore he moved closer. “Harmony. When the right notes mix with the right instruments under the direction of the conductor, it is a cacophony of delight that is profound to the senses,” assuaged Hannibal.

   Makes a part of you from deep inside feel as if you could finally breathe , added Emma mid-thought.

   “Everything in sync. Everything right.”

   “See, you understand.” Too drunk with enlightenment under her breath to care, Emma threw herself upright to the rhythm of a bounce and eureka. “You’re the only one who sees me. Is it so bad to want to understand why? To be curious as to what you have buried when you’ve already begun digging up mine? Tell me anything of your parents, then I shall tell you mine. Is that so hard?” pressed Emma as she leaned forward, hunching slightly like a blind beggar to assuage and bend his gaze from above as predators pretending to be as innocent as prey ought to often do. This was the time. She was sure. He’d finally give a little; a test to their bond. To their friendship. Or whatever it was that they had and pretending was friendship. Survival.

   He looked at her.

   She looked back.

   And there was that look again. That hunger . When was the last time either of them had consumed? Too long, but Emma’s hunger was stronger, enough to beat Hannibal by a mile. He sighed through seething teeth. Just this once. That’s all she needed. That’s all she’ll get. “It was snowing the last time I saw them. Our home was covered in thick layers of its pure colour that you could barely see the horizon at dawn. A guise of innocent ongoings, one might say, or the blessing of god,” divulged Hannibbal, straining, like he was slicing off a part of him and serving it up to her raw on a platter. The act softened her. It was the closest she had gotten to understanding him, and sure, he could have been lying to get her to divulge something deeply personal. But only God would do that and he wasn’t God. He was far better than Him.

   Emma swallowed the hardened lump of salt in her throat. “There was a storm when my mother was murdered. It flooded our moors like an ocean. No one could leave,” she confessed.

   “Did you think it a blessing?” he asked.

   “Did you?”

   They stared amidst a revealing quiet, their eyes piercing through reflections.

   “Death is no blessing. It is just death,” spoke Emma through dry lips, suddenly more thirsty than she’d ever been.

   Hannibal slid her lipstick-stained glass across the table.  “I find that it is an end and a beginning.”

   “That’s one way to think about it, certainly.” Nodded along Emma half-heartedly and took glass to mouth; rapid and fast. Anything to completely satiate herself to completion. It wasn’t often she had told someone about her mother and she did not like this strange feeling that came to occupy her because of it. This bitter bile stuck within her like a rot, like a shame. Her fist clenched the wine glass stem with ferociousness. “I prefer to just let death be death.”

   “My, you really are a persistent force in the face of a battle, Emma Darcy,” commented Hannibal, with his sliver of admiration seeming all too genuine.

   Suddenly smiling and all too proud, Emma said, “I get that a lot. People are often surprised to find how unwilling I am to lie down and play dead.” She raised her glass almost triumphantly as she pushed down the rising rot.

   “And nor should you be forced to be something you are not.” Peering past the lip of the glass, she could see the beginnings of a smug smile like he knew something she didn’t. But, no sooner than downing the wine glass’s remains did the red liquid wash away the sight and her vision blur around the corners with a swallow. Light-headed and weightless. Unaware and buzzing. She didn’t seek to stop. The alcohol numbed the pain of her chrysalis – the pain that followed her existence, the pain she had come to stop. The change that was the end of her. Though it was less of a change or evolution and more of a breaking free from an ill-fitted cage.

   “Emma, are you still there?” came the sound of Hannibal’s dulcet voice, distant and far off, ringing and echoing, come to pull her back to the surface.

   “Yes.” She tried to follow it. Dragging, squeezing. Rising, and rising, and, then, free. Blinking away an old layer of a blurred world and struggling to centre her body upright, she repeats herself with a newfound conviction. “Yes, I always have been.”

   With reality rearing back in, she could feel the palm of his hand on her forehead, the other on the small of her back, as the warmth of his body melding with the closeness of hers. The beginning of early daylight cracked into rays behind Hannibal’s head and seeped into the smile that flitted across his lips. This version of herself, the one that had been begging to be let out – the one that found an easy way through the cracks of drunkenness – owed its life to him, and she matched his delight with awe and thankfulness at her saviour.

[yourcryptidwendi]

I have a fic I’ve been trying to finish It’s called Through Hell and High Water, it’s a Hannibal x Oc x Will. A Dead dove like everything I do. If anyone is interested lmk! I already have the first 2 chapters written and wouldn’t mind for someone to beta read :>

[fatpinkrabbit00]

How to make tomato sauce yummy

[cute-bag-of-bones]

If anyone is interested I have put the first part of my Hannibal fanfic up. Here is the link. It's going to be a bit of a slow burn at first. I hope you like it! 🤗💖

[house-of-slayterr]

Sorry I’ve been on a hiatus for a while, I had burn out then I sprained my elbow so it’s been a bit difficult to write recently.

I wasn’t feeling entirely happy with my Hannibal OC Newt, since they were never really supposed to be more than a one off thing. But you guys keep asking for them, and I didn’t want to scrap them entirely.

So introducing, Newton 2.0!!!

I don’t like using face claims more than once, and Taissa has been set as my characters Harmony for years. I’ve just been using her out of convince since Peter (Charlie’s lovlie Oc who I’m obsessed with and started this whole thing), is played by Evan. But I wasn’t really feeling it.

Since the character already expressed having some gender identity issues, I figured, why not make him transition. So Peter, Kevin and Morgan get a new brother, Hannibal gets a son, and Hannibal Sr gets a grandson.

I’m not gonna bother to go back and rewrite anything, but from here on out I’m starting this plot line. You know with his father being a psychiatrist, he would support the transition.

Also this should be obvious, but Charlie is the main writer of this series! I am simply writing an fanfic about another fanfic. So Charlie gets seniority for whatever is consider “cannon” in this weird little universe we’ve created.

I only say this because I also made Serenity, and I’ve been more than platonically shipping her with Morgan. But I don’t wanna step on any toes. I just love that man and I wanted to give him a partner 🥺

Wren is Newton’s older sister who’s in law school at collage. 🥰 This is her before and after meeting Morgan and being dragged off the deep end with him… what can I say, love make appropriate do crazy things! 😅

Anyways that’s the update for now! Hope to start writing again soon, but even just typing this kinda hurts my arm still so 😔 I will update with a new chapter when I can!

Tag: @charliedawn @iloveslasher @myers-meadow @queer-and-utter-chaos

An: Yes both characters are lazily named after my current middle name and my birth middle name… what are you gonna do about it? 🤨

[rey-jake-therapist]

Oh well fuck it then.

[everythingnerdyxoxo]

The Angel of Death - Hannibal x OC

Summary: A newly diagnosed schizophrenic becomes a patient to Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Is he her angel?

Pairing: Hannibal x OC

Chapter Four

‘Dr Lecter tells me you have been making great progress here.’ Will smiled graciously at her, eyes glancing at her bound wrists. Luna made a disagreeable noise at his statement.

‘Luna, be respectful of Detective Graham, you allowed him to join us, he only wants to check on your progress.’ There was an amused look in Dr Lecter’s face as he glanced at her. She raised an eyebrow at him in response.

‘It’s fine Hannibal. She’s right to distrust me, she’s been through a lot, and I was one of the first faces she saw after it happened.’

Luna was becoming more irritated; Will Graham was taking to Hannibal about her as if she wasn’t even there. She didn’t have all her memories of that day, but she remembered Will Graham. Remembered his sympathetic face as she was wrestled from the bodies of her parents by police officers.

‘What do you want from me Will Graham?’ her voice was laced in poison as she spoke to him. A cold and dissociated response to the man in front of her. The voices becoming louder in her head. Kill. Kill.

Will looked at her in shock, using his full name and not his title, the way she looked at him, she was another person to the one he had seen the day he had arrested her.

‘I don’t think it was your fault that you killed your parents. You weren’t well. Dr Lecter here has diagnosed you with Schizophrenia, but I wonder if there is something more here! I have heard about people with multiple personalities and…’ Hannibal put an arm on Will’s shoulder, stopping him from his sentence.

‘You are not a trained psychiatrist William. I am. This is my patient, are you trying to tell her that I am wrong in my diagnosis.’ He had an unimpressed look on his face.

Luna felt jealously watching Hannibal touch William but also amusement in the show before her.

‘I am just saying that perhaps we should explore different options. I want to understand what happened that day with her parents. She was so distressed at the scene, as if she had no memory of what had happened. The writing on their chests, none of it makes sense.’ Will had gone back to talking to Hannibal as if she were no longer there.

‘What writing?’ This had been the first time she had heard of this detail. She looked between Hannibal and Will. Will looking down at his hands in regret and an almost angry look on Hannibal’s face as he looked in Will’s direction.

‘On your parents’ chests, you scratched out “You Made Me Do This” with a kitchen knife after you had killed them.’ Hannibal sounded sympathetic as he explained this to her. A soft look on his usually cold face as he gazed at her.

It was like watching a video, all of her memories came all at once to her, the voices screaming in her head, as if she were back in that room with her parents. Kneeling on their bleeding bodies with the knife in her hand. She felt hot, like her skin was melting. She could hear Hannibal, calling to her, trying to get her attention but the screams were deafening. Then it all went black.

[shegatsby]

Idk if ur requests r open but what if hannibal caught their darling smiling on their phonee? ty!

A/N; Thank you for this request! Love you all! Sorry for any typos <3

When Hannibal noticed it for the first time it was after dinner, he prepeared the dinner for his dearest, you and after you two finished it he told you to relax while he takes care of the dishes, you didn't complain. You were sitting on the comfortables couch in the livingroom and he saw you smiling on the screen of your phone. He tried to be as silent as he could be but you heard him come in and quickly turned off your phone. Hannibal was a smart man so he noticed how worried you got but didn't say anything to your face, however... his dark mind's gears started to work.

Recently you seemed distant and he didn't like it at all. The second time he saw you smile at your phone was at the weekend where he was at home and you were gettinf ready to go out with friends.

He walked into the shared bedroom to get something and saw you, you weren't completely dressed, holding your phone and smiling. This had to stop, you were hiding something. This time you didn't see him coming so he snatched the phone from you in a second, ''My dear, before I look at your phone do you want to tell me something?'' your expression was confused, ''Do not play with me please, tell me the truth.'' his tone was calm yet the undertone was threatening, a tone which he used to others but you.. till now.

''Hannibal I don't understand..''

He couldn't bare it anymore so looked at the screen, it was the local shelter's website and Hannibal saw a grey cat on the screen, ''Now, I don't understand.'' he said.

''I was going to tell you... I want to adopt a cat but I know you don't like pets at home.. I just... I....''

Hannibal threw the phone to the bed and gave you a long kiss.

your foreheads touching, ''Darling, I'm willing to have a pet with you if that's what you want. You should tell me when you want something.''

He was so relieved that his darling wasn't up to something else and he felt shamed to even judge his dearest's actions.

[n1angi]

Shrouded in Darkness

CHAPTER 3 : BOUCHE

previous chapter | next chapter

Will Graham x AFAB character x Hannibal Lecter (Polyamory)

Summary:

In the heart of Baltimore, forensic analyst Sidonie Renard navigates the shadows of crime scenes, concealing her loneliness behind a composed facade. Drawn into a web of intrigue, she captures the attention of profiler Will Graham and the enigmatic Hannibal Lecter.

Word count: 3,9k

Chapter Warning: Murder, Blood, Gore.

The following day arrived, and the routine remained unchanged. They examined the found evidence and documented it together.

It was a peaceful day, thankfully devoid of any new murders. The four of them split into pairs to examine the bodies.

The lab door creaked open, revealing Will Graham with a cup of coffee in hand. He approached Brian and Jimmy, observing the corpse. Will donned gloves and joined them.

“What were they soaking in?”

“A highly concentrated mixture of hardwoods, shredded newspaper, and pig poop. Perfect for growing mushrooms and other fungi,” Jimmy explained, as Brian pointed at the kidney.

“It wasn't the mushrooms though. They all died of kidney failure,”

“Dextrose in all the catheters. He probably used some kind of dialysis or peristaltic to pump fluids after the circulatory systems broke down,” Beverly suggested, moving closer to the group. Will glanced briefly at Sidonie, who seemed to be engrossed in her work.

“Force-feeding them sugar water,” he concluded, turning back to Beverly.

“You know who loves sugar water? Mushrooms. They crave it” Jimmy chimed in.

“Recovering alcoholics crave sugar. Uh, don’t take that personally,” Brian teased Jimmy, prompting a smile from Beverly.

“I'm not recovering,” Jimmy retorted with a smirk.

“But alcoholics aren't the only ones with compromised endocrine systems.” Will mumbled as his expression shifted into a realization. “They all died of kidney failure? Death by diabetic ketoacidosis?”

Beverly to raise an eyebrow at Brian.

“Did you know they were diabetics?” she inquired.

“We don't know.”

“No, they are all diabetics,” Will confirmed, shaking his head. “He induces a coma and puts them in the ground,” Beverly couldn't help but smile at his deduction.

“How is he inducing diabetic comas?”

“Changes their medication. He's a doctor or a pharmacist or works somewhere in medical services,”

“He buries them, feeds them sugar to keep them alive long enough for the circulatory systems to soak it up,” Beverly summarized.

“So he can feed the mushrooms,” Jimmy added.

“We dug up his mushroom garden,” Brian lamented.

“He'll want to grow a new one,” Will remarked before leaving the room to inform Jack about their discovery.

Sidonie gently pulled a red hair from the corpse, recognizing it immediately.

“What's that?” Beverly asked, taking a step towards Sidonie.

“Freddie Lounse,” she replied, storing the hair in a small container. Brian glanced up at the name.

“How did she get there before us?” Beverly wondered, looking around.

“She has her ways…" Sidonie shrugged. “It’s a surprise she hasn’t been caught for contaminating the crime scene. It’s not like she hasn’t done this before.”

“Wait...” Jimmy stepped closer, examining the hair. “Doesn’t it look like the one found in Minnesota?” Everyone turned to him. Beverly groaned slightly.

“She was there too.”

Brian stayed silent, listening to the conversation unfold.

“Should we inform Jack, or...?” Jimmy wondered aloud.

“It will be wise to report it,” Sidonie suggested, her gaze returning to the corpse. A suspicion crossed her mind. “Maybe there's someone in B.A.U. leaking information. How else would she know about the locations?”

“You are right.” Beverly nodded. “It’s best if Jack knows.”

Jack Crawford and Will Graham, accompanied by other agents, approach the serene-looking pharmacy. Jack briefs Will.

“She's the chain’s 10th diabetic customer to disappear after filling a prescription for insulin, second from disappear from this exact location.”

“The other eight.”

“All over the county. One pharmacist has been all over the county, too,” Jack replies.

“A floater, huh?”

“Floater's floating right there. Still logged into his workstation,” Jack remarks, as the armed agents approach the pharmacy counter. Upon noticing the FBI agents, individuals raise their hands. Some of them kneel, others lean against the wall.

Jack displays his badge and announces loudly.

“Everyone. Stop what you're doing and put your hands in the air.” Will stands behind him as the pharmacists comply.

“Special Agent Jack Crawford. Which one of you is Eldon Stammets?” The pharmacist glances at his colleague beside him, looking puzzled.

“Eldon was just here. Just now,”

“His car still in the parking lot?” Will asks. The pharmacist falls silent, and Jack raises his voice, insisting.

“His car!”

Beverly and Sidonie arrive at the pharmacy, announcing their intention to review the documents and potential evidence. Brian begins examining the medicines while Jimmy and Sidonie focus on the prescriptions nearby.

Beverly checks the computer, her eyes scanning the screen until she notices something familiar recently accessed. Opening it, she discovers an article, causing her eyes to widen.

“Jimmy,” she calls out, gesturing to the screen as he approaches. He reads the title.

“I’ll go and get Jack.”

“What’s the matter?” Brian asks curiously.

“It's Freddie Lounse,” Beverly informs. Sidonie's attention is piqued upon hearing the name. Brian reads the article title. His eyes slowly look up at Sidonie.

“It’s about Will Graham and… you.”

“What?” Sidonie's brows knit together, blinking. She approaches the computer, standing between the others as she reads the article.

The headline reads, “EXCLUSIVE: 'MATCH MADE IN HELL,”. Beneath it, she comes across a picture of her where she tries to approach Will.

She continues reading about what Freddie wrote about him. The article portrays the FBI as paying a psychopath to catch another, essentially painting them as one of them.

“The esteemed profiler seems to have found himself a fitting counterpart, who is, not so surprisingly, the daughter of a murderer. What a charming pair, don't you think? After all, why else would she choose such a career path? Her knack for murder runs in the family!

Oh, but let's not forget her delightful habit of falsely accusing her colleagues, leading to their unfortunate job losses. Such dedication to spreading chaos surely speaks volumes about her upbringing. Is this how she channels her impulses? By wreaking havoc and ruining lives for sheer entertainment? Just ask her former coworkers who fell victim to her blame game, leaving them out of a job. Looks like her idea of therapy involves a little collateral damage. Daddy issues, anyone?”

Jack and Will approach them.

“Freddie Lounse,” Brian speaks hesitantly. Sidonie takes a step back from the computer. Her expression shows a hint of a frown, but she quickly smoothens it, maintaining a composed demeanor.

Beverly informs Jack she can’t read it out loud because it goes into detail, so Jack reads it quietly. Will does the same. As Jack finishes, he curses.

“Son-of-a-bitch,” he mumbles. Silence falls upon the group.

Will looks at Sidonie, curious about her reaction to the article.

Without a complete understanding of her history and actions, likely exaggerated due to Freddie Lounse's article, the potential parallels between Sidonie and Abigail Hobbs provided a faint sense of comfort.

Jack hadn't factored in Sidonie's past, but regardless of this Will couldn’t help but relax slightly at the thought of her hastily judging Abigail.

Sidonie sensed Will's gaze on her. Looking at him, their eyes locked. His deep blue hues met her olive green ones for the first time.

A wave of anxiety and discomfort washed over her. Quickly averting her gaze, she excused herself, stepping back to catch some fresh air.

Hannibal sat at his desk, his posture upright but his gaze downcast as he read a recent article by Freddie Lounds. His attention lingered on the image of the unfamiliar woman depicted in the article.

After reading it through, he closed the page with a slight shake of his head.

“You are naughty Miss Lounds.”

Sidonie sat at the table, pen in hand, diligently jotting down the evidence they had gathered from the pharmacy earlier that evening. Her gaze drifted over the paper as she wrote, though her mind wandered elsewhere, causing her to shift in her seat and blink, trying to refocus.

With a firm grip on the pen, she clenched her jaw slightly, meticulously labeling the evidence and noting its details, such as location, custody, and packaging.

As she glanced at one of the photos of the evidence, memories of Will Graham's acknowledging look after reading the article flooded her mind, eliciting a sense of irritation.

She disliked the sudden attention drawn to her past, especially due to Freddie Lounse's article. It seemed history was repeating itself, and she found the notion unsettling.

The door creaked open, and Jack Crawford entered the dimly lit lab, the sound of his footsteps echoing.

Sidonie's eyes darted to him, surprised by his sudden presence, which put her on edge.

“Agent Crawford.”

“I took care of Freddie Lounse. The article has been removed,” he informed her, prompting Sidonie to relax her shoulders slightly, unaware of how tense she had been. “I ensured she won't write about you again.”

“Thank you,” she replied, though her gratitude was tinged with doubt.

“She confessed she was in Minessoda.” Jack continued, recalling the earlier report the team gave him on the case. Sidonie nodded as silence loomed over the room.

“I assume you've had dealings with her before?” Jack inquired, prompting Sidonie to sign, as she crossed her arms.

“Unfortunately,” Jack mirrored her posture, prompting for more information. “She wrote an article about me, back when I worked in law enforcement.”

“And when was this?”

“A few years ago,” Sidonie replied, her tone curt. “After I reported some of my coworkers for misconduct, including breaking protocols and involvement in drug-related offenses. Agent Lawson ensured everything was documented. You can check if you are curious.”

“You sure do have a knack for reasoning everything with evidence,” Jack remarked with a lighter tone.

She chuckled softly, though her smile didn't quite reach her eyes.

“It just comes naturally to me, I guess,”

“I'm not questioning you. I trust Harold's judgment of you. That's why you're here,” Jack assured her.

Her former boss had always spoken highly of her, acknowledging her hard work, and she was grateful for the recognition.

“However, I don’t get one thing. Why would they speak ill of you?” Jack inquired, taking a step closer.

“Because it's easier to shift blame onto someone else for your own mistakes,” she replied, meeting Jack's gaze. “Especially someone with a background.”

Jack's expression tightened slightly, a hint of discomfort flickering across his features.

“Did they know?”

“When you're looking for someone to blame, you'll dig up anything you can find.”

A heavy silence settled over the room as Jack nodded, his eyebrows raised in understanding.

Sidonie turned to her notebook, her handwriting from earlier appearing shaky as she glanced at it.

“I'd like to ask you a favor.” Jack began, catching her attention. She had a suspicion of what he might be hinting at after their conversation. “You and Abigail Hobbs share some, overlapping aspects in your past. I want you to talk to her,” he requested.

Bingo.

“You have Will Graham, a man with an empathic mind who can understand anyone. I'm sure he can determine if Abigail Hobbs was involved in her father's actions,” Sidonie reasoned.

“Convincing him to see things differently is a challenge. You've seen it yourself,” Jack responded, causing Sidonie to lean back on the table, feeling hesitant about the idea.

“Why do you doubt Will Graham?”

“I doubt his judgment regarding Hobbs's daughter, not him. Guilt can cloud anyone.”

Sidonie looked away slightly, acknowledging the truth in his words. Guilt was indeed a powerful blinder.

“According to the regulations, Abigail should have a psychologist,” Sidonie pointed out.

“She will.”

“Agent Crawford It’s beyond my duties to accept such a request. A psychologist should be able to figure out if she's hiding something.”

“Would you have more faith in someone who has experienced similar circumstances or someone attempting to understand them? Or are you perhaps also convinced that she is innocent? Is this something personal Agent Renard?” Jack countered, raising his eyebrows and inclining his head slightly.

Sidonie stared at him for a moment, aware of the implication.

Despite her irritation at Jack's request, she knew better than to let her emotions cloud her judgment, especially when dealing with someone in authority. She sighed deeply.

“I'm certain Will Graham won't be pleased with this plan.”

“I'll talk to him. Or I'll get Hannibal to do it.”

Sidonie shook her head slightly, as she turned around. She had deduced that Hannibal was a psychiatrist who had been present at Hobbs's death with Will.

The idea of an unknown presence unsettled her.

“I doubt he'll warm up to the idea,”

“He'll have to adjust,”

“Accusing someone without evidence is just as serious as proclaiming a killer's innocence,” she reminded him, giving him a meaningful look. “I don't want my professional reputation to suffer because of actions I took while I was asked to fulfill certain duties,” Sidonie stated firmly.

Jack observed her, biting inside his cheek.

He admired how she stood her ground while staying professional. He got why she hesitated. Her reputation had taken hits from her dad and old colleagues. More rumors or hostility could harm her credibility, affecting not just her job now but what comes next.

“I'll ensure history doesn't repeat itself,”

Rejecting Jack's proposal didn't seem like the wisest choice for her. She understood that refusing him could potentially strain their professional relationship, especially given Jack's reaction to Will Graham's statement about Abigail.

As Sidonie pondered the copycat killer and its potential link to the Hobbs family, she wondered if there could be some connection there.

She recalled Will mentioning an unidentified phone call during the lecture.

She collected her notebook, signaling the end of the conversation.

“You won't be able to repair my reputation if things go wrong.”

“It won't,” Jack asserted confidently.

"Goodnight, Agent Crawford," Sidonie bid farewell as she left the office, her footsteps echoing on the ground.

Jack watched her go, knowing she had accepted the offer.

In the dimly lit hospital room, Will Graham sits quietly, his gaze fixed on Abigail Hobbs, who lies comatose in her bed. Suddenly, the sound of hooves echoes through the hallway, drawing Will's attention to the door. A large black stag passes by, ignoring him completely.

Will rises from his seat and follows the animal's path. It disappears into one of the rooms just as the hallway lights begin to dim. Will remains still, closing his eyes slowly.

When he opens them again, he hears a soft, familiar voice.

Alana is there, reading a book to the unconscious Abigail. Will looks around the room, noticing a blanket draped over him that he doesn't remember putting on. He rests his head on the arm of the couch, listening quietly to Alana.

After a moment, he sighs softly, interrupting her.

“What are you reading?” Alana glanced back at Will, then returned her gaze to the book.

“Flannery O'Connor. When I was Abigail's age I was obsessed. I even tried to raise peacocks because she raised peacocks, but they're really stupid birds.”

“You could be reading to a killer,” Will remarked lowly, shifting slightly.

“Innocent until proven guilty and all that,” Alana replied, closing the book nervously. Will noticed her hesitation. “I'm about to broach the subject of that “match made in hell” article.”

He briefly glanced at Abigail, recalling the discomfort he and Sidonie had shared over the article. Will shifted in his seat.

“Oh, that. Did Jack send you?”

“No, I send me,” she smiled, causing a slight swell in Will's heart.

“I don't think we've ever been in a room alone together. Have we?” Will remarked.

“I haven't noticed. Have we?” Alana's voice was lighter. She glanced between Will and Abigail, smiling. “Not that we're necessarily alone now.”

Will lifted his head, stretching slightly. His hair was tousled, and his eyes were partially closed.

“Back to… Jack Crawford's crime gimp,”

“It certainly creates an image, I don't need to talk about it if you don't.”

“No, no we can talk about or not talk about whatever you want" he assured her, smiling slightly and signing with a hint of uncertainty. Alana looked at him, puzzled by his statement.

“Honestly… I was enjoying listening to you read,” he confessed, leaning back and flashing a smile, revealing his teeth.

Alana allowed herself a genuine smile in return.

“Abigail Hobbs is a success for you.”

Will remained silent at her statement, his gaze fixed on Abigail and her condition. His voice softened.

“She doesn't look like a success.”

“Don't feel sorry for yourself because you saved this girl's life.”

“I don't,” Will insisted, running his hands over his face. “I don't feel sorry for myself... at all,” he added after a moment, furrowing his brows as a realization dawned on him.

“I feel... good.”

Freddie Lounds, visibly shaken and blood-spattered, is attended to by paramedics while a police officer's body is wheeled toward an awaiting ambulance. She calls out to Jack.

“Miss Lounds?” Jack approaches, dismissing the officer beside him. “Are you alright?”

“Where's Will Graham?” Freddie's gaze searches the area anxiously.

“We have an eye witness to the murder. We don't need Will Graham,”

“No, that’s not why I am asking,” Freddie shakes her head, her expression troubled. Jack realizes this and instructs the officers to find Will Graham as Freddie begins to explain. “He was talking about people sharing the same properties of a fungus. Thoughts leaping from brain to brain. They mutate. They evolve.”

“What does he want with Will Graham?”

“Someone who understands him,” Freddie replies, causing Jack to pause. “Graham was right. Stammets is looking for connections.”

“What did you tell him?” Jack's tone is firm, demanding answers. “I need to know exactly what you told Eldon Stammets about Will Graham.”

“I told him about the Hobbs girl,” Freddie admits, her eyes distant.

“What exactly did you tell him?”

“Everything," Freddie confesses. “He wants to help Will Graham connect with Abigail Hobbs. He's going to bury her.”

The hospital elevator doors slide open, and Will Graham steps out. His phone rings, and he answers it, listening intently to Jack's voice. His expression shifts, a hint of concern creeping in.

He quickly tucks his cell phone into his back pocket and reaches into his pants, retrieving a revolver. With measured steps, he makes his way into Abigail's room.

The room is empty. No Eldon Stammets. No Abigail Hobbs.

Will's thoughts race as he backs out into the hallway and approaches the reception desk. He looks at the nurse and asks for answers, his tone urgent.

“Where is she? Abigail Hobbs. The girl in this 408. Where is she?”

“They took her for tests,” she stammers nervously.

“Who took her? Who took her?!” Will's frustration mounts, his face turning to annoyance. Without waiting for an answer, he dashes down the hallway, gun in hand.

Bounding down the stairs, Will rushes through the hallway, his eyes scanning for Eldon.

“Hey!” he shouts upon spotting him, aiming. Eldon turns, and his shoulder is suddenly struck by a bullet.

He falls to the ground, clutching his arm in pain as his gun tumbles from his grasp. Will swiftly kicks the weapon out of reach before checking Abigail's pulse, his gaze never leaving Eldon.

“What were you planning to do with her?” he hisses through his teeth.

“We evolved from mycelium. Only reintroducing her to the concept.” Eldon explains, his voice strained with pain.

“By burying her alive?” Will's tone is sharp, his disbelief evident.

“The journalist said you understood me,”

“I don't,”

"Well, you would have. You would have. If you walk into a field of mycelium, they know you're there. They know you're there,” Eldon desperately tries to explain. “Their spores reach out for you as you pass by. I know who you're reaching for. I know,” he adds, his gaze shifting to Abigail. Will listens in silence as Eldon continues.

“Abigail Hobbs. You should have let me plant her. You would have found her in a field where she could finally reach back.”

Will’s anger is evident in his gaze, although upon hearing footsteps approach he quickly presses the emergency stop button.

He leans against the doorway as the cops, nurses, and paramedics approach.

Will stands in Hannibal's office, his back turned to the elegant man.

“When you shot Eldon Stammets... who was it that you saw?” Hannibal inquires as Will's gaze shifts nervously.

“I didn't see Hobbs,”

“Then it's not Hobbs' ghost that's haunting you, is it?” Hannibal's tone softens slightly. “It's the inevitability of there being a man so bad that killing him felt good.”

“Killing Hobbs felt Just,” Will asserts firmly, recalling the act.

“Which is why you're here. To prove that sprig of zest you feel is from saving Abigail not killing her dad.” Hannibal explains. Will closes his eyes, struggling with his thoughts.

“I didn't feel a sprig of zest when I shot Eldon Stammets,” Will argues

"You didn't kill Eldon Stammets," Hannibal clarifies, meeting Will's gaze calmly. Will clenches his jaw, reluctantly admitting.

“I thought about it. I'm still not entirely sure that wasn't my intention of pulling the trigger,” he confesses, turning to look at Hannibal, searching for his reaction. Hannibal remains composed, offering no visible response.

“If your intention was to kill him, it's because you understand why he did the things he did. It's beautiful in its own way. Giving voice to the unmentionable.”

Their eyes meet for a moment. Will shakes his head.

“I should have stuck to fixing boat motors in Louisiana,” Will jests, taking a seat. Hannibal chuckles softly.

“A boat engine is a machine. A predictable problem, easy to solve. You fail, there's a paddle. Where was your paddle with Hobbs?” Hannibal inquires, moving to sit directly across from him.

“You're supposed to be my paddle,”

“I am,” Hannibal affirms, mimicking Will's gesture.

“It wasn't the act of killing Hobbs that got you down, was it?” Hannibal pauses, letting the question linger.

Will contemplates for a moment, his thoughts racing.

“Did you really feel so bad because killing him felt so good?”

“I liked killing Hobbs,” Will confesses.

Hannibal leans in, a sense of satisfaction evident in his demeanor. Though his expression remains unchanged, there's a subtle understanding in his voice.

“Killing must feel good to God, too. He does it all the time, and are we not created in his image?” Will avoids the question, looking down at his hands.

“That depends on who you ask,”

“God's terrific. He dropped a church roof on thirty-four of his worshippers last Wednesday night in Texas, while they sang a hymn.”

“Did God feel good about that?” Will asks.

Hannibal pauses, locking eyes with Will and tilting his head slightly.

“He felt powerful.”

Jack entered the lab, taking in the busy scene of forensic analysts at work. Beverly greeted him and informed him that the evidence had been handed over.

Jack scanned the room and spotted Sidonie, who was conversing with one of the clerks about handling specific evidence.

He called her over, and Sidonie excused herself from the clerk and approached Jack and Beverly.

“Follow me,” Jack instructed, leading the way. Sidonie glanced back at Beverly, who gave her an encouraging thumbs up.

Sidonie quickened her pace catching up with him. She stayed quiet, sensing it likely pertained to yesterday’s discussion.

As Jack opened the door to his office, she stepped in, her gaze immediately falling on a man she didn't recognize, dressed in a dark blue suit with brown stripes.

Jack closed the door behind them, ensuring it was locked.

The man turned to face them as he heard the door close, his eyes meeting Sidonie's with a hint of recognition from a photograph he had seen.

“Dr. Lecter, this is Special Agent Sidonie Renard,” Jack introduced, gesturing towards Sidonie.

“Sidonie, this is Dr. Hannibal Lecter. He will be assisting us with insights on the Painters case.”

[venusbyline]

guys i promise that someday i'll really write an AU/crossover fic about female reader or female OC in a throuple with Spencer Reid (Criminal Minds) and Will Graham (Hannibal)

[vixnovacoda]

Doctor's Medicine || Chapter 10

Hannibal Lecter x Original Character

Word Count: ~3.5k

CW/TW: NSFW 18+, graphic, disturbing content, dissociation, canon-typical violence.

[Chapter 1][Chapter 2][Chapter 3][Chapter 4][Chapter 5][Chapter 6][Chapter 7][Chapter 8][Chapter 9]

[ao3 version here]

Time is for the living. When someone's dying it loses function, changes shape, and it either becomes a line in the sand that haunts them clear as day or the ocean that washes up the line, blurring the distance when the tide rises and ceases. Emma’s is the liquid kind. She can't seem to get a grip on it, which is to imply that she’s dying, and to some extent, that's not untrue. She sure felt like she was. Part of her was dying. She was taking medicine, after all.

   She gave a meeker than expected thanks as Marcus passed over some water and small little white tablets the shape of pearls. Then swig, head back, and no sooner were they gone and it was as if she were back at that hospital when she was twelve, dried crimson still coating her nails and surrounded by nurses and doctors (and police). Like mother, like daughter , she recalled someone saying, although her memory wasn’t to be trusted – especially during then, when there was barely anything to go off, but no one ever really forgets when the doctors deliver the death sentence in the form of a label and pills with no cure. 

   At least the clear difference in this reality was there only stood one man qualified to be a doctor here while Marcus was practically no more than a glorified nurse. “So, um… What happened?” Emma peered up at them both as she picked off red flakes, nail against nail, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

   The two shared a look – except, only Marcus looked like he was asking for permission, while Dr. Lecter never took his eyes off her from across the room. The dread sat heavy on Marcus’ face, sagging his features and adding creases where there weren’t any before. It almost could have been mistaken for fear. He didn’t want to tell her, whatever it was that happened, and he had been there to witness.

   “What? Marcus, what is it?” she became adamant as she twisted her head back and forth between them.

   The closest stepped forward first. Marcus swept the perspired dread off his brow, the thickness of it bunching together in a furrow. “You don’t remember?” he said in a too cautious and too stilted manner so her glass self wouldn’t fracture. She figured that from his view, she’d always be a fragile thing, something to dance around and never touch or view from afar like a fixture in a gallery. Well, maybe she was already damaged, or the medication had kicked in or that the good Dr. Lecter was in the room, but she could deal with another blow. “I’d rather you tell me,” she said.

   “There was a small scene at the crime scene, you refused to move. They had to force you out, and I drove you here,” answered Marcus, crouching so she would have to look down at him, like she was some child that didn’t understand death, and parents never told the full truth. No. There was more still missing from her memory. Something he wouldn’t tell her, and he always told her everything .

   Emma stood. Her heart raced against her mind. “That’s not it, though, is it? Otherwise, you wouldn’t be so… so terrified, and he wouldn’t be here. Why is he here?”

   At that, Hannibal showed no reaction. “Because you had me worried,” said Marcus.

   She scratched her nails harder, and she bubbled—

   “The hotel called me about concerns of a disturbance in your room.”

   —and bubbled—

   “I came and found you mumbling to yourself.”

   —and bubbled—

   “God’s sake, Emma, you were tearing at the floor with your bare hands over something that wasn’t there!”

   —and it ran over. Dried blood dropped in small flakes. Taking in the scene with new revelation, she saw it now for the mess it was: a massive shipwreck. The overturned sheets. Knocked lamp. Broken glass. Ripped up carpet. The flooring from under said carper laid out for all to see. Blood staining wooden groves. It was like a scene from her books had come to life once again; the melding of two worlds, and the ringing threatened to surface. She could remember it, remember the clawing, the blood (her’s) under her nails, and the ringing (Alex’s ringtone) that begged for an answer so someone could put an end to its misery. The flashes of a haunting transposed themselves over the real world where the late night claimed hold over her as she plied carpet and clawed at exposed wood with the echo of a phone getting louder and louder and louder and her raw hands bled.

   “No,” said Emma finally, shaking her head. “No. I know what I heard.”

   “Please, Emma.” Grit bit Marcus’ inflections.

   Her hands fell to her side, bunching up the still-worn dress in her palms. “I know what I heard. She was calling me. Her number, it was her ringtone. The Ghost Writer put it there, beneath the flooring, to mock me. I know it’s there.”

   “There’s nothing there.” He grew more adamant.

   “Stop.”

   “No phone, no ringing. Nothing. It was in your head.”

   “Stop it! Stop lying to me.” Spittle ran from her mouth as her breath quickened against the raging storm confronting her mind about reality, and solitary tears ran their course on the pale of her cheeks because maybe he was right, but she knew what she heard. She wasn’t insane. No. Not her. Maybe she wasn’t ‘normal’ , but she wasn’t that type of crazy.

   Maybe whatever she had could not be satisfied by medicine alone.

   Maybe she had pushed it too far.

   She couldn’t tell.

   Taking a sharp inhale and pushing herself away from the kneeling man, who was desperate to correct what he thought was wrong, Emma stalked over to the drawn curtains and fumbled to open the window as it squeaked, a burst of oxygen slamming into her. Tightly, she shut her eyes, opting for feeling the breeze of a cold 2am morning rather than having to look for another second longer at the face of a slimy snake, wrinkled and distorted and full of deceit.

   The air shifted to account for his movements when Marcus bent his neck, hanging his head as his limbs swayed aimless and exhausted. Exasperated, he opened those thin lips only to release a disgruntled sigh with Hannibal interrupting and stepping between them as all the forces in the world allowed him to do. “It’s probably best if you make sure that journalist isn’t still hanging around outside, Marcus.”

   Heavy were the fall of the feet which followed, echoing in the silence that further confirmed what she knew about Marcus’ character. He only cared about reputation and the money it gave. She was only important if it meant getting another book, making thousands of sales, and the public didn’t become aware about the real her. At that moment, Emma wasn’t sad, she was just a boiling pot of hot emotions spilling out into the deep sea; mixed and muddled.

   “You really are becoming your mother…” mumbled Marcus in a parted insinuation. Emma was spoiled goods.

   The second the door woefully closed, she put a hand to her chest and leant closer to the source of open air, gripping the frame. S poiled, rotten, ruined. Deep down, it didn’t bother her. But the words still repeated themselves. Is that what everyone saw when they looked at this version of her, the part her monster was eating away at? She refused to see it. Marcus didn’t know anything. The implication rattled around till they were a distant reverberation, hushed by a collection of breezes that reminded her of home, and then came the waves. The waves and the boat. A calmness went to wash over her, unfurl her brow, except it could not undo the hole in the vessel as it leaked, and the water rose to swallow her whole because some part of what he said stuck to her like a barnacle.

   Head bobbing in and out, throat and lungs burning and starving, Emma wavered between beliefs. Before she would have taken his words at face value, but how could she when he dismissed her truths so easily. Then again, it was a stance he and Alex shared; that something was wrong with her. Then again, she knew what she saw, she knew what heard, she knew the gaps in her memory were nothing worth worrying over. Then again, the kind Dr. Hannibal Lecter told her she was normal; this was normal. Wasn’t it?

   She wasn’t so sure anymore.

   Not knowing what exactly happened left her colder than the ocean and colder when wondering about its undiscovered depths. “What am I supposed to believe when I’ve lost so much time that I have barely a grip on it?” she questioned aloud in a hushed manner meant for herself.

   Then came the squeaking reminder she was not, in fact, alone. Time-worn springs gave out as the last person she expected to stay – let alone show up at break of midnight – sat in the only available spot he could. “There is but one thing you can do,” said Dr. Lecter after a while, inviting her beside him. “You cannot force yourself to remember that which is buried so deep into non-existence. Instead, trust in what you do believe.”

   “But I don’t trust any of it.” Vocal cords quivered in knots and cracks in her throat. “I’m-I’m trying everything and none of it is enough. With and without medication, it’s still the same. Nothing is working. I’m drowning. Drowning. God, I feel like I’m losing the plot.” The words came out faster than she intended, like the drumming of her heart and, for the second time in the past twenty-four hours, his hand found hers.

   “Then you must find someone to trust for you.”

   The beat in her chest pulsed. It waited, holding its bated breath. “… And I can trust you, right, Dr. Lecter?”

   “Emma, as your psychiatrist, if you couldn’t, then I would have failed at my job.” It wasn’t until she met his gaze that the worry gave up, and her body surrendered to his gentle form, calming down from the high height she had plunged and drowned in. There was something about him, something undeniable, that Emma had to finally admit to being a disturbing source of comfort. Simply being around him could put her under his spell; she knew she could trust him, body, monster, and soul.

   But a single question remained which would test that: “What happened?”

   Like the sinful snake of Eden waiting for the perfect moment, Hannibal struck. He told her everything. Everything had happened.

   All of it. Even if the phone she swore on her mother’s life to have seen and heard in that floor crevice was no longer there. All of it was real .

   Relief came over her as belief became a crooked sense under his every word. She took what he said to be gospel with the fervorous desire of the most wretched nun seeking salvation by their God, because who wouldn’t want to be told they weren’t crazy? Emma believed then, over nothing else, that Hannibal could, perhaps, be the only one she trusted. What little time they had been acquainted with each other was nothing in the face of being believed in herself. It was an almost satiating sensation. The kind she wanted to devour cautiously over and over again.

   Must be the medicine taking effect, she lied to herself. But, oh, how she so preferred the truth that was Hannibal Lecter. What was coming over her?

———

Belief was a powerful thing as it could leave one never to doubt he who held all that faith, to paint over any cracks of their ‘truths’; to be pliable in their hands while twisting fantasy into reality. Hannibal knew that all too well. Such was his goal, after all.

   Emma was to be a devout. His .

   His for the making and undoing, and how she’d thrive under him. No longer would she have to hide or lie to herself, there was no room for either in his teachings. Coming to a calming lull, Emma’s chest rose and fell against the constraints of her dress in a false sense of security. But, grooves formed where cloth met skin along her clavicle, red bleeding into red, as muscles tightened and her spine stood upright, too upright. Though she appeared calm, Emma secretly remained traipsing back and forth on the edge of trepidation; she was not ready. Not yet.

   True, fear remained an excellent tool in convincing, God’s shepherds did it all the time, but it meant nothing to Hannibal if she had half a foot in the world that hated her honest form. There were ties she needed severing from first for this to work and, in fact, Marcus had just presented him with the perfect opportunity. The bond between the family friend and the author slipping as whatever the pair had threatened to give out ever since his true colours were shown. What a convenient turn of events.

   Emma retreated her hand ruefully at the slightest release. “Where are you going?” she asked, desperation reeking beneath her earthy scent; juniper berries and yew. Death omens. It was clear she didn’t want to be alone lest it befall her.

   “Nowhere far, I assure you,” Hannibal replied.

   Only the reassurance fell flat at her feet, and the moon tapped its rays atop her moving digits in bright swaths that made glistening, marbled skin out of crystalised beads from prior hour-born sweat, where veins danced and twisted and knotted beneath flesh so unruined; the perfect fox with the most tender muscles having been thrusted into a cage all on her own as she awaited her inevitable fate. Being separated from her other half burned her from the inside out that caused rivulets of crimson ribbons to pulse out of tune with the rest of the world, she appeared almost endearing and pitiable; a pretty morsel.

   “Nowhere far?” Emma echoed, reducing his pleasant words to held-back trembles.

   After a brief second, he peered down at her. Warm. But stern. “It’s not safe for you anymore. Alex was part of a finale. This killer knows where you stay, your every step. He knows you, Emma. Do you understand?”

   Reluctant to the truth, she nodded.

   “Then you understand that, out of concern, I must inform the FBI,” he said.

   “You can’t. If Jack hears about this he surely won’t let me stay on the case, plus he already thinks I’m crazy, and I have to do this,” blurted Emma.

   “Emma.”

   “Please. Please don’t tell them. She’s the only friend I had, and he took her from me before I had a chance to fix things with her. I need to do this for her, for me, so I can sleep.”

   “Emma, I wish I could, but I have to.”

   “Because you’re my psychiatrist?”

   His face turned serious as the moonlight softened sharp edges. “Because I care about you and what might happen to you,” he revealed so matter-of-factly, so plainly, that this made-up lie felt like a truth, and maybe it was.

   She stared at him, rarely blinking, caught off guard without a reason to disbelieve the sudden admission. After all, who else would drop whatever they were doing late in the evening to ensure her wellbeing rather than a friend – a relationship that went both ways; he was hers, she was his – and while some saw that as kind, others saw it for the possibility it could be: a vulnerability.

   “Then…” began Emma, drawing out her thought, “as my friend, you mustn’t say a word about this or I’ll never see nor speak to you again.” An empty threat, but, oh, how fear made her ruthless; calculative and cunning; willing to put others in uncomfortable positions to achieve what she wants. A spark lit up within her vixen eyes at her bark. Though it was a hesitant one, a bark it still was.

   All was going as expected.

   Beneath the skin and veil of concern, Hannibal smiled. “As your friend, you have my word.” Then, floor squawking with his shifting weight, he glanced towards the door to say, “I’ll need to say something. What will you have me tell him?”

   She paused, unprepared. “Only that it isn’t safe here,” she finally answered.

   “Are you sure?” he prompted.

   “No,” she reconsidered. It was clear then that she hadn’t attempted manipulation this way – being so aware of doing it; consciously aware – in a long time. In time, though, it would, like it was second nature. Her gaze shifted to the destroyed flooring, then to the strewn sheets and to the crooked objects and to the glinting of possible broken glass in small movements before staring at her own bloody nails with veiled conviction. “No. Tell him I need to stay somewhere else for the time being, preferably with company, to ensure what he thinks happened doesn’t occur again.”

   “Where would you go? His?”

   “I’d rather eat my own heart.” Hurt betrayed the best of her as Emma spat out the words.

   Hannibal shifted closer conspiratorially. “A scenario best avoided for the time being. Not an unwise decision either, Marcus isn’t equipped to look after your wellbeing. He doesn’t understand.”

   “He doesn’t. He’s a… a rot inside me.”

   “The rotting of things is rarely beneficial,” he mused. “Sometimes a rot is best being removed. He might get hurt, but you’d be making the right choice, Emma.”

   “Considering I’m pretty much on my own here in a foreign country, separating myself from him and finding somewhere else, that’s no easy task. I know no one, nowhere else I can go, just like he wants me,” said her as vulnerability snuck its way out from a single burning tear. Emma did not cry then because of fear, it was because of an illness Hannibal recognised all too well: homesickness. It had taken root, anchored itself to her and ran her dry to the point of exhaustion. Many can miss a home and learn to live without it, but few like her miss the life they once had. To see death is one thing. To have it served upon your plate is another entirely. She would not last long if she kept this up.

   “And he won’t. Dear old Marcus wants you stuck by his side for selfish reasons. Where you go, death follows, and what man does not seek to put the reaper on a tight leash? Is it not he who controls Death that shall gain immortality? He believes he can control you and sustain himself off of what is yours. I won’t let him.

   “You’re not alone, Emma. You have me, remember that,” he added, standing even closer now. A reminder, tall and noble, that he was there and would not be forgotten, existing in this moment to further cement himself in the memory of her mind, and waiting like others do upon the figure of Christ in a church for the moment where she got up and prayed for his guidance.

   Wiping her tears away, she stood on quivering feet, still not reaching his height as she looked up with that glossy face of hers, neck stretching, just as he had planned. Except for the flames raging in her dead stare that sent a ghastly breeze over him, it almost made a visible, pleased curl in the corner of his mouth. An interesting thing. That’s what she was. “You,” Emma reasoned. “Can I stay with you? It’d be temporary until I can find somewhere else, please.” and what was a simple reasoning became desperation while the fox played the prey with her ragged, worn form of a jagged body and pleading brow.

   Hannibal laid his hand on her shoulder, a promise bound on his lips. “I’m already here, it would only be convenient.”

   Emma’s body loosened at the joints. Muscles relaxed. Trepidation finally and completely washed away.

   “I won’t be long,” he said in passing as Emma watched his silhouette part from their gloom filled room, his grip lingering on her exposed self. But outside, stood and lit by hallway bulbs, Emma would miss witnessing how Hannibal ridded any remains of her from his hands by the wipe of a white pocket square. He’d do what had to be done, endure these absurd moments of closeness, until it was no longer a necessity. Because, proud as he was, Hannibal had no real feelings for the girl and wanted none. The fox; the unholy beast; the truth she hid beneath layers of generational and societal trauma and kept in the dark for years, all his efforts were for that and the possibility of what it could become. If he had any feelings it was curiosity, the fleeting kind which whispered to him to get what was his.

   And as Marcus came into sight, Hannibal got what he wanted.

   The fox-housed cage all to himself.

[diavalkitty]

Hello!!

Finally, it’s commissions info!)

[lsd-ink]

S3