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cece693 · 8 days ago

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pairing: hannibal lecter x male reader synopsis: Franklyn Froideveaux didn't need an introduction—even if Hannibal was a firm believer in patient confidentiality—you knew the man had a huge obsession with your husband. However, rather than igniting jealousy within you, it provided you with endless entertainment.

The first time Franklyn Froideveaux saw you, it was purely by accident. He had just finished his Thursday session—another sixty minute spiral of anxieties masquerading as epiphanies—when he stepped into the waiting room to collect his scarf. There, beneath the copper leaf of the ceiling lamp, sat a man he’d never seen.

You balanced a stainless-steel bento of kaisen chirashi on one knee and two small stoneware espresso cups on the other, the arrangement so precise it looked curated for a magazine spread. Your suit was midnight blue, cut razor-slim through the waist, lapels rolled in a style Franklyn had only ever glimpsed on Milan runways. A silk pocket square—soft gray with a single cardinal-red stitch at the border—folded itself into an immaculate peak. Even seated, you radiated posture, the sort of spinal elegance that suggested ballet training or aristocratic rearing.

Client? Franklyn wondered, pulse skittering. Hannibal rarely kept overlapping appointments, yet here you were, looking effortlessly important. The thought that you might replace him knifed ice behind his sternum.

Then Hannibal emerged from the office, smoothing his waistcoat as always—but the mask slipped. A breath-quick, barely visible, yet seismic shift: his eyes warmed, mouth curved just shy of a smile, shoulders eased a centimeter down. It was the gentlest expression Franklyn had ever wrung from his psychiatrist—and it wasn’t meant for him.

Franklyn spent the subway ride home dissecting every detail:

Midnight-blue suit, super-150 wool, perhaps Savile Row.

Hair: swept back, a mild wave, no visible product—probably Oribe mousse, touch of sea-salt spray.

Bento: a chef’s tasting of raw fish, pickled daikon, paper-thin shiso. Franklyn googled the Japanese term on his phone and bookmarked three sushi spots that offered it to go.

Espresso cups: brown, not the white porcelain Hannibal served him—significant? Earthy tones, maybe.

By the time he surfaced onto Lexington Avenue, Franklyn had convinced himself of a simple equation: If I recreate the stimulus, I reproduce the response. Hannibal admired sophistication; Franklyn would become sophisticated. Easy.

He does not mean to become a stalker; he simply fails to notice the point at which observation tips into pursuit. Once Franklyn reached home, he sat infront of his computer and began to search for you. It was almost impossible to find anything on you. Franklyn didn't hear Hannibal say your name nor was there anything he could search that didn't elicit other unimportant hits—concert pianists, Roman senators, a British sitcom from the ’80s. Every permutation of keywords—“30-40 year old refined men from Baltimore,"—dissolved into digital static.

The elusiveness only whetted Franklyn’s appetite. Then, by some miracle, when out on the town, he saw you through the window of a tiny pâtisserie shop, holding a box of pale-green mille-feuilles tied with butcher’s twine. Franklyn’s pulse jumped. Providence! He darted inside, bell jangling overhead.

The patisserie was all copper fixtures and honeyed sunlight, a little jewel box smelling of butter and caramelized sugar. You had one hip braced against the marble counter, murmuring in liquid French to Madame Leroux about the relative virtues of Sicilian versus Sorrento lemons.

Bang.

Franklyn’s shoulder clipped the slatted door so hard it rebounded off the wall. The brass bell above his head shrieked in protest; every customer looked up. You turned, half-smile already blooming like citrus on the tongue. “Bonsoir,” you greeted, English shaded with play-acting Parisian flourish. “Can I help you find something sweet?”

Yes, Franklyn nearly blurted—your entire personal history, please, with a side of casual confidences about Dr. Lecter—but what came out was, “I…erm, heard the kouign-amann is life-changing?”

You glanced at the glass case. “Sold out hours ago. But if you’re intent on change, try the pâte de fruits. They crystallise disappointment into something chewable.” Your eyes glittered. “Name’s Franklyn, right? Tuesday afternoons?”

His throat dried. “You remember me.”

“I make a sport of it. People are puzzles, and I collect corner pieces.” You paid for your order—two citron tarts and a palm-sized gâteau St. Honoré—then stepped aside. “Tell you what: walk with me. I know a park where the ducks are shameless beggars. We can feed your pâte de fruits to them and ponder the ethics of enabling avian gluttony.”

Franklyn followed like a moon-caught tide.

Under a bare-branched elm you unboxed the pastries, handing one to Franklyn. “Eat,” you commanded, “so Hannibal won’t suspect you’re starving yourself for vanity. He abhors affectation.” A mischievous pause. “Unless it’s my affectation.”

Franklyn bit into the tart, lemon silk shocking his tongue. “You and Dr. Lecter…you’re close?”

“Close enough to ruin his tailoring budget.” You plucked a crumb from his lapel—too calculatedly intimate to be careless. “So. What’s it you really want, dear Franklyn? Therapy tips? His favorite concerto? Or perhaps you’d like the brand of salt he sprinkles on cantaloupe?”

Heat crawled up his neck. “I—I admire his mind. I thought knowing his circle might help me become the sort of person he could value.”

“Ah. Self-improvement by osmosis.” You tapped your chin, theatrically pondering. “All right. First lesson: he notices scent before speech. Skip cologne—choose tea. Something smoky, lapsang maybe. He’ll smell the difference.”

Franklyn nodded, eyes wide, scribbling invisible notes. You could almost hear the gears grinding. You tossed a sugared rind to an eager duck. “Second lesson: never present imitation as affection. He values the original.”

Franklyn frowned. “But if the original inspires—”

“Then draw inspiration, don’t Xerox it.” You patted his cheek. “Create something uniquely Franklyn. Otherwise, you’re just a shadow on a wall.” You left him with the ducks and an aftertaste of citrus and riddles.

Over the next days Franklyn raided specialty tea shops for lapsang souchong, practiced Chopin nocturnes until his downstairs neighbour threatened murder, and scoured thrift stores for vintage cashmere because you’d off-handedly mentioned Hannibal’s fondness for texture. Yet each session ended with Hannibal’s cool appraisal and a politely distant hmm.

Franklyn’s desperation calcified into brittle impatience, and it bled through his voice in therapy. “I’ve done everything the self-help books say—refined my image, broadened my cultural portfolio, adapted to the—uh—social milieu I want to inhabit.”

Hannibal folded his hands. “And who, precisely, authored that milieu?”

“I…I suppose it’s inspired by someone admirable. Someone refined.” Franklyn’s eyes flicked upward, searching for any change in expression.

“Admiration expressed through mimicry is flattering,” Hannibal said, tone as bloodless as a scalpel’s steel, “but only until the original notices his echo.”

The metaphor lanced cleanly; Franklyn winced yet forged ahead. “Hypothetically, Doctor, if a person were…emotionally available, would you consider—”

“You are mistaking hypothetical for hopeful.” Hannibal’s voice dropped an octave, the single word hopeful carrying the weight of a tribunal verdict. “Hope is best served tempered by reality. And reality, Franklyn, is that sculpting a façade does not change the clay beneath.”

A silence stretched, taut as piano wire. Franklyn’s next breath juddered. “So you’re saying it’s pointless.”

“I am saying,” Hannibal replied, eyes narrowing to flinty slits, “that authenticity cannot be reverse-engineered. The path to worth is inward, not outward. Until you accept that, every new habit will ring hollow—both to you and to anyone you wish to impress.”

When the session ended, Hannibal rose first—an unmistakable signal—while Franklyn lingered, one foot still caught in the snare of longing he had woven from your riddles and his own desperations. Outside, the corridor smelled faintly of cedarwood and oolong: your unmistakable trail. It mocked him all the way to the lift.

Hannibal wasn’t stupid; he knew Franklyn’s sudden taste for cedar-laced teas, vintage cashmere, and late-Romantic piano hadn’t sprung from self-discovery. Even if he hadn’t already smelled your laughter all over the poor man, the pattern was obvious: each new obsession followed within forty-eight hours of your latest outing.

Franklyn was devouring breadcrumbs you scattered with feline amusement, and the psychiatrist in Hannibal catalogued every crumb. But the husband in him seethed.

The following Thursday Hannibal left the office early and took the long route home—straight past the pâtisserie’s picture window. Predictably, Franklyn hunched at one of the café tables, oversized scarf bunched at his throat like a noose, notebook open to a page dense with half-legible French phrases. He was trying to charm Madame Rousseau into pronouncing them for him, and failing adorably.

Hannibal did not enter; he simply watched for a moment, head slightly cocked—predator evaluating prey already snared in its own trap. Then he continued on, leather gloves whispering together behind his back.

That night, while you diced preserved lemon into sun-bright cubes for the tagine, Hannibal recounted his detour past the pâtisserie. Each detail arrived as precisely as the slivers of peel slipping from your chef’s knife.

“I warned him not to Xerox me,” you said, flicking yellow specks into the waiting bowl. “Apparently he’s Xeroxing my accent now.”

“He is Xeroxing your life,” Hannibal corrected, voice flat as marble. “This game nourishes only your mischief. Franklyn is fixated, not amused. And I do not share.”

You set the knife aside and leaned against the counter, arms folded. “Jealousy, Hannibal? How…human of you.”

“Protective,” he corrected. “You are not a costume for him to don.” He closed the distance, hands going around your waist. “Tomorrow I end the sessions. I will transfer his care to someone equipped for his particular pathology.”

“A pity,” you murmured, brushing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I was the best circus he ever bought a ticket to.”

Franklyn arrived next Thursday with carefully mussed hair—your latest style—clutching a box tied with robin-blue twine. "For you, Doctor." He said eagerly. "Quince pâte de fruits. Rabelais—”

“I am aware of the quotation,” Hannibal interrupted, voice silk over steel. “Sit.”

Franklyn sat, box trembling in his lap.

Hannibal leaned back, gaze glacially calm. “We must speak about boundaries—specifically, the ones you have been trampling.”

Franklyn’s smile flickered. “I–I don’t under—”

“You follow my spouse,” Hannibal said. “You record his habits, mutate them into costumes you wear for my approval. You are not studying a role model; you are harvesting a persona.”

Silence detonated between them. Franklyn’s mouth opened, closed.

“You're married?! But—no rings,” he stammered. “I assumed—”

“Jewelry does not define the covenant,” Hannibal said, enunciating each word as though they were fragile porcelain pieces he refused to let Franklyn fumble. “Nor does its absence diminish it.”

Franklyn’s eyes clouded, flicking toward the bare hands resting atop Hannibal’s knees. He seemed to stagger beneath the weight of this revelation—one he felt entitled to but had never earned.

“But all the books say clear communication is essential in a therapeutic alliance,” he protested, voice threading into a whine. “You never disclosed something this…this significant.”

Hannibal’s smile chilled the air. “My privacy is not fodder for your growth. I am your psychiatrist, not an exhibit to be catalogued.” He tapped the robin-blue box. “And this”—he allowed a flicker of distaste—“is an attempt to buy admittance to a room you were never invited to enter.”

The sugared quinces inside rattled as Franklyn’s knuckles whitened. “I only wanted to show gratitude—”

“You wanted to ingratiate.” Hannibal’s voice dipped, neither loud nor hurried, yet it cut through Franklyn’s excuses like a piano wire through soft fruit. “But gratitude marinated in envy curdles into obsession.”

Franklyn swallowed. “I can fix this. I’ll stop.”

“There is nothing to fix here except your understanding.” Hannibal slid a cream-embossed referral to his hands, the motion precise as a bishop’s blessing. “Dr. Bloom specializes in attachment pathology. You will meet with her twice weekly, beginning Friday.”

Tremor replaced tension in Franklyn’s shoulders. “You’re dismissing me?”

“I am protecting both my marriage and your psyche from further injury,” Hannibal said. “Consider it an act of clinical mercy.”

A brittle pause, punctuated only by the ancient clock’s tick. Then Franklyn rose, the robin-blue box still cradled like a dislodged organ. “I…I hope—”

“Hope,” Hannibal said, “is most useful when tethered to reality. Good afternoon.” Franklyn managed a jerky nod, turned, and shuffled to the door. It clicked shut behind him with the quiet finality of a scalpel tray settling into place.

That evening, you lounged in Hannibal’s couch, legs draped across his, sipping the sencha Franklyn had supplied as some sort of peace offering to prevent the inevitable. “You told him.” Your grin curled feline.

“He left me no dignified alternative,” Hannibal replied, brushing a finger down the side of your face. “Besides, it was time.”

You grabbed his hand, tracing along the vein at his wrist, marveling—as always—at the absence of jewelry that nevertheless bound you tighter than gold ever could. “Perhaps we should buy rings,” you teased. “For Franklyn’s peace of mind.”

“Peace,” Hannibal mused, “is rarely forged in precious metals. And I cherish the subtlety of us.” A pause. “Would a ring prevent you from twirling it during lectures? From leaving it inside a cadaver’s thoracic cavity by accident?”

You snorted. “That was one time.”

He bent to kiss the laugher off your mouth, savoring the quiet metallic tang of burnt tea on your tongue.

“In any case,” he murmured against your lips, “I find the absence of visible claim arousing.” His teeth grazed the curve of your jaw, gentler than a diamond bit yet infinitely more possessive. “Only we know. And those bright enough to discern the music beneath the silence.”

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conclaveyaoi · 21 days ago

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if I was the gay son of my big reputation christian senator father growing up amidst homophobia, part of it secular, part of it derived from the traditionally catholic society in which I'm expected to excel at as a straight italian man and I was aware I would never be able to carry the political legacy my father was obsessed with, I would have to compensate for this vulnerable position by following in the footsteps of several generations of gay men who chose the priesthood to regain autonomy over their gay lives, doubling on it by becoming a franciscan, both to show the intensity of my commitment to the alternative path I had to take and as a direct response to my upper class upbringing, at the same time I was seeing that the regain of gay autonomy didn't feel enough when one still had to live in secret and keep a low-profile among the blatant hypocrisy of my institution's grand gay subculture and that I, like many of my peers, saw that amidst vatican politics the search for gay autonomy, an ego booster to compensate for the secret life, often was the search for power also, which I understood well due to being so close to it and in my own fine line of intense humility, liberal politics and thirst for significance, thrived in becoming the archbishop of milan and a cardinal while keeping the bitterness over never feeling this path had been enough, this high position not enough to match the political dream left behind in my father's coffin, seeing too clearly the vatican hypocrisy and being angry at the gay homophobes standing next to me, convincing myself I was doing enough good because I wasn't like them and supported a man I admired, more than I ever admired my father even, until my grand moment of relevance came in the form of a death announcement, a thought I had entertained before, and being secretary of state, the next goal that surely would make me feel enough and significant this time, the same way I thought all the others before would, had never been so close so it was time to use all I had learned from my father, which then turned out to be an embarrasing little amount because I never had the practical experience in politics, I just thought I knew how to do it and was so delighted to be able to do it, so eager to get the job for the man I was a praetorian guard to and for myself, so caring for the liberal values within the church I dedicated my life to and unable to shake my sassiness and pretentious attitude at the same time, only to face the underwhelming first ballot and panic at the thought of not getting the position after all, insist too much on my man only for him to reach his breaking point and scold me in the personal way he of course would be able to do, making me look like a bratty boy sitting with arms crossed in the school bus, and then finally facing reality, temporarily abandon my own values, pathetically trying to get a high position by getting coffee for the ridiculous, pompous centrist I loathe just to make a point for going against the traditionalists and tell my father, in my head, tell myself, I made it, I'm powerful, I'm no longer a dissappointment, I'm a gay man and I'm powerful, I can leave a significant mark in this world, I can have my own legacy, I can do both, I can.

but this isn't me. this is my good friend giulio sabbadin. he told me so.

#sabbadin characterisation hours #giulio sabbadin #cardinal sabbadin #sabballini #if you take the praetorian guard and your man mentions at face value #(which I think was robert harris' intention and I think it's too 👀 of an implication within the gay vatican)#giulio sabbadin brat culture #giulio sabbadin was interested in politics from a very young age #he's so dear to me I want to question his ballot projections

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wilwheaton · 1 year ago

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Up until the moment of its collapse, the cult of Reagan appeared as strong as ever. In the Bush administration, the son of Reagan’s vice president let Dick Cheney, one of Reagan’s earliest supporters in 1980, and other Reagan alumni steer the country. At the same time, then-congressman Mike Pence even co-sponsored a bill to boot Franklin D. Roosevelt off the dime in favor of Reagan. It became tradition for GOP presidential contenders to hoof it to the Reagan presidential library in California for a debate beneath Reagan’s glistening Air Force One jumbo jet. Two decades later, Cheney is persona non grata in the GOP, exiled for the cardinal sin of criticizing Donald Trump. Also gone is Cheney’s daughter Liz, primaried out of Congress in 2022 by furious Trump-aligned voters. Pence had to flee the Senate floor as a mob of MAGA zealots threatened to hang him. None of those Jan. 6 rioters cared that Pence had been a good steward of Reagan Republicanism during his long political career. They only knew that he had betrayed Trump, and that alone merited execution on the Capitol steps.

Wednesday’s Republican primary debate might as well be a funeral

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1634archive · 1 year ago

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OTTAWA, CANADA - FEBRUARY 10: Matthew Knies #23 of the Toronto Maple Leafs celebrates his second period goal against the Ottawa Senators with teammates Morgan Rielly #44, Mitchell Marner #16 and Auston Matthews #34 at Canadian Tire Centre on February 10, 2024 in Ottawa, Ontario, Canada. (Photo by Andrea Cardin/NHLI via Getty Images)

#2024 #02.10.24 #andrea cardin #celly #senators #rielly #knies

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mysharona1987 · 2 years ago

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#free palestine #palestine #israel #democrats #republicans #politics #usa #war crimes #liberals #woc #poc #new yorker #ben Cardin #Biden

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deadpresidents · 15 days ago

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Do you think there should be age limits on politicians?

I think that age limits would be ideal and reasonable -- I mean, as we recently saw, even the Catholic Church has an age limit (80 years old) for the Cardinal electors eligible for selecting a new Pope during a Conclave. I just don't know what the target age should be because people age differently than one another. I also don't know what the mechanism would be for instituting an age limit on politicians. Would it apply to office-holders in all branches of the federal government? How would that work with someone who has a lifetime appointment, like members of the Supreme Court? It seems like there would first need to be term limits across the board, and then maybe some sort of age cap.

But it's clearly unhealthy to the governance of the country for all three branches of the federal government to effectively be a gerontocracy. We've seen the issues with President Biden and now President Trump holding the most powerful office in the world at advanced ages. But I don't think most Americans even realize that the person who is third in line to the Presidency -- the president pro tempore of the U.S. Senate, Chuck Grassley -- will be 92 years old in September. He's been in the Senate since 1981 -- practically my entire life and in Congress since the Ford Administration. And here's an even crazier fact: Grassley, who again is third in line to the Presidency, was first elected to the Iowa state legislature during the Eisenhower Administration (1959)! The president pro tempore is usually the longest-serving Senator in the majority party, which means the person who is third in line to the Presidency (after the Vice President and Speaker of the House) is usually one of the oldest members of Congress. Strom Thurmond was third in line to the Presidency when he was 98 years old (in 2001, just a few months before 9/11 when continuity of government was genuinely threatened). Robert Byrd was third in line when he died at the age of 92 in 2010. It's crazy to think one of the highest-ranking leaders in the federal government is routinely someone north of 90 years old. But that will likely never change because it would require politicians to vote against their own ambitions and self-interest, and that's not something that American political leaders do.

#Politics #Government #Congress #Age Limits #Term Limits #Presidential Line of Succession #Presidential Succession #U.S. Senate #President pro tempore #Charles Grassley #Chuck Grassley #Strom Thurmond #Robert Byrd

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beardedmrbean · 1 month ago

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The Catholic Church has issued a warning to its clergy in Washington state: Any priest who complies with a new law requiring the reporting of child abuse confessions to authorities will be excommunicated.

The new law, which will take effect on July 27, eliminates the long-standing confidentiality of the confessional, forcing Catholic leaders and lawmakers into a highly charged standoff over religious liberty and child protection.

However, the Archdiocese of Seattle and several bishops argue that the law not only contravenes church doctrine but crosses constitutional lines, while supporters maintain it is a crucial step to protect minors from abuse.

Newsweek contacted the Archdiocese of Seattle and Washington Governor Bob Ferguson and the three Democratic state senators who sponsored the bill for comment via email and online inquiry forms.

Why It Matters

The issue spotlights the enduring tension between religious freedom and the state's duty to protect children from abuse. By compelling clergy to breach the confessional seal, Washington joins a small group of states stripping traditional confidentiality protections.

The law has triggered a national conversation about the boundaries of church and state, setting a precedent that could have implications for religious practices and privileged communications nationwide. The outcome may influence how other states approach mandated reporting requirements for clergy, especially as constitutional and civil rights groups enter the debate.

What To Know

Washington's new statute requires clergy to report suspected child abuse, explicitly denying exceptions for information revealed during confession.

"Catholic clergy may not violate the seal of confession—or they will be excommunicated from the Church," the Archdiocese of Seattle warned, according to Fox News.

The Catholic Church's canon law regards breaking the confessional seal as a grave offense: "A confessor who directly violates the seal of confession incurs an automatic excommunication reserved to the Apostolic See."

The U.S. Department of Justice said it is investigating whether the law infringes on First Amendment religious protections.

Voting by the College of Cardinals to select the next pope is set to begin Wednesday, following the death of Pope Francis on April 21.

Francis' funeral took place at the Vatican on April 26, with dignitaries including U.S. President Donald Trump, Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky and Prince William in attendance.

The current favorites are Italian Cardinal Pietro Parolin and Filipino Cardinal Luis Antonio Tagle, according to U.K.-based bookmaker William Hill, with odds of 12/5 (29.4 percent) and 3/1 (25 percent), respectively.

On April 2, Trump sparked controversy by sharing an AI-generated image that depicted him as the pope on his Truth Social website.

What People Are Saying

Speaking to Newsweek Professor Michele Dillon, an expert on Catholicism at the University of New Hampshire, said: "This is highly controversial because it directly challenges a core element of the Catholic faith...For the government to require priests to report any instance of sex abuse that they learn about through the sacrament of confession would directly violate the core of the sacrament and its significance in Catholics' lives. The Church has made significant strides in recent years to safeguard children from sex abuse, and so it's unfortunate that the controversy stoked by the Washington State law – and the church's opposition to it based on core theological belief and practice – may erroneously convey to people who are not familiar with the full meaning of the sacrament that the Church is opposing the requirement simply to evade dealing with the issue of sex abuse."

The Archdiocese of Seattle: "All Catholics must know and be assured that their confessions remain sacred, secure, confidential and protected by the law of the Church."

Archbishop Paul Etienne of Seattle: "Priests cannot comply with this law if the knowledge of abuse is obtained during the Sacrament of Reconciliation."

Assistant Attorney General Harmeet K. Dhillon told the New York Post: "SB 5375 demands that Catholic Priests violate their deeply held faith in order to obey the law, a violation of the Constitution and a breach of the free exercise of religion."

Washington Governor Bob Ferguson: "We look forward to protecting Washington kids from sexual abuse in the face of this 'investigation' from the Trump administration."

What Happens Next

The law's implementation is set for July 27, unless halted by litigation or further legislative action. The Department of Justice's Civil Rights Division review could determine whether the statute will stand or be blocked on constitutional grounds.

Meanwhile, Catholic bishops indicate they are prepared to face legal consequences rather than violate Church law. This standoff may provoke broader reevaluation of confidentiality protections in other states, as well as the balance between religious freedom and mandated reporting.

#nunyas news #they answer to a higher power

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