#hannibal x teen!reader

[inlovewithquestionablecharacters]

Hey,

may I request a Hannibal one-shot, where he meets a teenaged reader at a classical music concert or the opera?He is really fascinated by how interested she is in it and how much knowledge she has?

Hannibal X Teenage!Reader: Musical Connection

Warnings: none

Word count: 796

You settle into your seat in the grand opera house, the rich scent of polished wood mingling with the soft hum of excited conversation. The air is thick with anticipation, the velvet curtains drawn in front of the stage. You’ve been to many concerts and operas in your life, but there’s something uniquely magical about this evening—the elegance, the atmosphere, the music that promises to sweep you away.

As you scan the program, preparing yourself for what’s to come, you feel a presence beside you, a slight shift in the air. You look up, and there he is: Dr. Hannibal Lecter. It’s difficult not to notice him—his impeccable posture, the sharpness of his features, the aura of controlled confidence that surrounds him like a perfectly tailored suit. You’ve seen him before, of course. He was quite well known in the Opera community. A man whose love for the art was left clear to whoever observed him during any performance. 

For a brief moment, he glances at you, then returns his gaze to the stage, as if his attention was momentarily captured by your own. The thought crosses your mind that he’s perhaps one of those people who thrive in the background, quietly observing everything around him.

His voice, smooth and velvety, breaks the silence between you.

“Beethoven’s Violin Concerto in D major, isn’t it?” he asks, his tone more of a statement than a question. He doesn’t need your confirmation, he’s merely trying to make conversation.

"Not many young people your age attend these performances." 

His gaze is focused on you as he speaks, his eyes glow as if he’d just found something extraordinary. 

"Tell me, what is it about this music that draws you in?"

There’s a slight challenge in his voice, an invitation to share your passion with someone who, you sense, might truly understand. You hesitate only for a moment, then begin speaking, your voice steady and confident, as you always are when discussing music. You may be younger than the usual people who go to these sorts of events but that doesn't mean you don;t have the knowledge to understand the profoundness of the music.

“It’s the precision, the way each note is so deliberate and yet so expressive. Beethoven had to overcome so much adversity, and when I listen to his violin concerto, I hear his struggle, his triumph… it's like he poured everything into it.”

Dr. Lecter watches you intently, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of fascination and admiration. You can tell that he’s absorbing every word, every nuance of your explanation. There’s no mockery in his gaze, no condescension—only genuine curiosity, as though he’s meeting someone who shares his refined appreciation for the art.

“You have an impressive understanding of music. It’s rare to find someone who truly listens—not just to the melody, but to the meaning behind it. Most people simply hear sound, but you… you feel it.”

You feel your heartbeat a little faster, caught off guard by the compliment. Hannibal Lecter—who, you’re certain, could analyze any human with a level of depth few could match—is paying you such attention. And it's not just because you're sitting next to him in an opera house. It's because you’ve managed to stir something within him.

His eyes flicker momentarily to the stage, where the orchestra begins tuning their instruments, preparing for the performance. 

“Do you ever think, when listening to a piece like this, that music can be… a form of communication? A language, perhaps?”

You nod thoughtfully. 

“I’ve always thought of music as a language of the soul. Words can’t always capture what you’re feeling, but music can convey emotions too complex for speech.”

Lecter’s smile is subtle, but there’s a certain warmth behind it—a rare softness in the cold precision of his usual demeanor.

 "You have an eloquence in your understanding. I think that is what makes this concert special for you... You’re not merely hearing the music, you are living it."

For a moment, you feel as if time itself has stopped. The world around you fades into the background, leaving just the two of you, locked in a conversation about music and meaning—two souls who recognize the beauty in things that others may never notice.

As the lights dim and the orchestra begins to play, you settle back into your seat, but your thoughts are still with him. Dr. Lecter’s presence, his quiet fascination with you, lingers in the air, adding a layer of complexity to your evening that you didn’t expect.

For the rest of the concert, his presence beside you remains like a quiet undercurrent, an almost imperceptible pull between the two of you—two people who, for a brief moment, understand each other in a way that words cannot fully explain.

[weponxwrites]

Yall ever just look at the characters you're attracted to and wonder. Wtf is this character genre

[boy-of-death]

I want to thank all the girls and the gays that are obsessed with shows that ended 10 years ago and still write about it. Thank you for your service, you are my sole lifeline 🫡

[aspenmissing]

ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ - ᴏɴᴇ-ꜱʜᴏᴛꜱ

ᴀʀᴄᴀɴᴇ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ -

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ, ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ, ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ, ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ, ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ, ᴊɪɴx (ᴘʟᴀᴛᴏɴɪᴄ), ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ, ᴠɪ, ᴄᴀɪᴛʟʏɴ, ᴄᴀɪᴛᴠɪ, ᴄʟᴀɢɢᴏʀ, ᴇᴋᴋᴏ, ᴍᴇʟ, ᴍᴇʟᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ

ᴏᴠᴇʀᴡᴀᴛᴄʜ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ -

ᴄᴏʟᴇ ᴄᴀꜱꜱɪᴅʏ, ʜᴀɴᴢᴏ ꜱʜɪᴍᴀᴅᴀ, ᴍᴄʜᴀɴᴢᴏ,ᴏᴠᴇʀᴡᴀᴛᴄʜ ɪɴ ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀʟ

ʀᴇꜱɪᴅᴇɴᴛ ᴇᴠɪʟ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ -

ʟᴇᴏɴ ꜱ. ᴋᴇɴɴᴅʏ, ᴋᴀʀʟ ʜᴇɪꜱᴇɴʙᴇʀɢ, ᴀʟᴄɪɴᴀ ᴅɪᴍɪᴛʀᴇꜱᴄᴜ, ᴄᴀʀʟᴏꜱ ᴏʟɪᴠᴇɪʀᴀ, ʟᴜɪꜱ ꜱᴇʀʀᴀ

ᴍᴀʀᴠᴇʟ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ -

ʙᴜᴄᴋʏ ʙᴀʀɴᴇꜱ, ꜱᴛᴇᴠᴇ ʀᴏɢᴇʀꜱ, ꜱᴛᴜᴄᴋʏ, ᴛᴏɴʏ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴋ, ᴍᴏᴏɴᴋɴɪɢʜᴛ, ᴘᴇᴛᴇʀ ᴘᴀʀᴋᴇʀ, ʟᴏɢᴀɴ ʜᴏᴡʟᴇᴛᴛ, ᴘɪᴇᴛʀᴏ ʜᴏᴡʟᴇᴛᴛ, ʟᴏᴋɪ, ʏᴇʟᴇɴᴀ ʙᴇʟᴏᴠᴀ, ʀᴏʙᴇʀᴛ 'ʙᴏʙ' ʀᴇʏɴᴏʟᴅꜱ

ꜱᴜᴘᴇʀɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴀʟ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ -

ꜱᴀᴍ ᴡɪɴᴄʜᴇꜱᴛᴇʀ, ᴅᴇᴀɴ ᴡɪɴᴄʜᴇꜱᴛᴇʀ, ᴄᴀꜱᴛɪᴇʟ ɴᴏᴠᴀᴋ, ᴅᴇꜱᴛɪᴇʟ, ᴊᴀᴄᴋ ᴋʟɪɴᴇ (ᴘʟᴀᴛᴏɴɪᴄ), ɢᴀʙʀɪᴇʟ, ʟᴜᴄɪꜰᴇʀ, ᴄʀᴏᴡʟᴇʏ, ʀᴏᴡᴇɴᴀ

ʙᴀʟᴅᴜʀ'ꜱ ɢᴀᴛᴇ 3 ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ -

ᴀꜱᴛᴀʀɪᴏɴ, ᴋᴀʀʟᴀᴄʜ, ʜᴀʟꜱɪɴ, ɢᴀʟᴇ, ʟᴀᴇ'ᴢᴇʟ, ꜱʜᴀᴅᴏᴡʜᴇᴀʀᴛ, ᴘᴏʟʏ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘꜱ

ꜱᴛᴀʀ ᴡᴀʀꜱ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ -

ᴏʙɪ-ᴡᴀɴ ᴋᴇɴᴏʙɪ, ᴀɴᴀᴋɪɴ ꜱᴋʏᴡᴀʟᴋᴇʀ, ʟᴜᴋᴇ ꜱᴋʏᴡᴀʟᴋᴇʀ, ʜᴀɴ ꜱᴏʟᴏ, ᴋʏʟᴏ ʀᴇɴ, ᴘᴏᴇ ᴅᴀᴍᴇʀᴏɴ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀɴᴅᴀʟᴏʀɪᴀɴ/ᴅɪɴ ᴅᴊᴀʀɪɴ

ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʟᴋɪɴɢ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ -

ʀɪᴄᴋ ɢʀɪᴍᴇꜱ, ᴅᴀʀʏʟ ᴅɪxᴏɴ, ʀɪᴄᴋʟʏ, ɴᴇɢᴀɴ ꜱᴍɪᴛʜ, ɢʟᴇɴɴ ʀʜᴇᴇ, ᴍᴀɢɢɪᴇ ɢʀᴇᴇɴᴇ

ᴄʀɪᴍɪɴᴀʟ ᴍɪɴᴅꜱ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ -

ꜱᴘᴇɴᴄᴇʀ ʀᴇɪᴅ, ᴀᴀʀᴏɴ ʜᴏᴛᴄʜɴᴇʀ, ᴇᴍɪʟʏ ᴘʀᴇɴᴛɪꜱꜱ, ᴅᴀᴠɪᴅ ʀᴏꜱꜱɪ, ᴅᴇʀᴇᴋ ᴍᴏʀɢᴀɴ

ʜᴏᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅʀᴀɢᴏɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ -

ʀʜᴀᴇɴᴇʏʀᴀ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ, ᴅᴀᴇᴍᴏɴ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏɢᴇɴ, ᴊᴀᴄᴀᴇʀʏꜱ ᴠᴇʟᴀʀʏᴏɴ, ᴀᴇᴍᴏɴᴅ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ , ᴀᴇɢᴏɴ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ, ᴄʀᴇɢᴀɴ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴋ

ɢᴀᴍᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜʀᴏɴᴇꜱ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ -

ᴊᴏɴ ꜱɴᴏᴡ, ʀᴏʙʙ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴋ, ᴛʏʀɪᴏɴ ʟᴀɴɴɪꜱᴛᴇʀ, ᴊᴀᴍɪᴇ ʟᴀɴɴɪꜱᴛᴇʀ, ᴅᴀᴇɴᴇʀʏꜱ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ, ᴛʜᴇᴏɴ ɢʀᴇʏᴊᴏʏ, ʙʀɪᴇɴɴᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛᴀʀᴛʜ, ʀᴀᴍꜱᴀʏ ʙᴏʟᴛᴏɴ

​ʟᴏʀᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ʀɪɴɢꜱ/ʜᴏʙʙɪᴛ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ -

​ᴛʜᴏʀɪɴ ᴏᴀᴋᴇɴꜱʜɪᴇʟᴅ, ʙɪʟʙᴏ ʙᴀɢɢɪɴꜱ, ʟᴇɢᴏʟᴀꜱ, ᴛʜʀᴀɴᴅᴜɪʟ, ᴋɪʟɪ ᴅᴜʀɪɴ, ꜰɪʟɪ ᴅᴜʀɪɴ, ʙᴀʀᴅ, ᴘɪᴘᴘɪɴ ᴛᴏᴏᴋ, ᴍᴇʀʀʏ ʙʀᴀɴᴅʏʙᴜᴄᴋ, ᴀʀᴀɢᴏʀɴ

ᴅᴇᴛʀᴏɪᴛ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ -

ᴄᴏɴɴᴏʀ, ʜᴀɴᴋ ᴀɴᴅᴇʀꜱᴏɴ, ɢᴀᴠɪɴ ʀᴇᴇᴅ, ᴍᴀʀᴋᴜꜱ, ᴇʟɪᴊᴀʜ ᴋᴀᴍꜱᴋɪ

ʟᴀᴡ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏʀᴅᴇʀ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ -

ᴏʟɪᴠɪᴀ ʙᴇɴꜱᴏɴ, ᴅᴏᴍɪɴɪᴄᴋ "ꜱᴏɴɴʏ" ᴄᴀʀɪꜱɪ ᴊʀ, ʀᴀꜰᴀᴇʟ ʙᴀʀʙᴀ, ʙᴀʀɪꜱɪ, ᴀᴍᴀɴᴅᴀ ʀᴏʟʟɪɴꜱ, ɴɪᴄᴋ ᴀᴍᴀʀᴏ, ᴅᴇᴄʟᴀɴ ᴍᴜʀᴘʜʏ, ᴍɪᴋᴇ ᴅᴏᴅᴅꜱ, ᴛᴇʀʀʏ ʙʀᴜɴᴏ

ʜᴀɴɴɪʙᴀʟ (ᴛᴠ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ) ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ -

ʜᴀɴɴʙᴀʟ ʟᴇᴄᴛᴏʀ, ᴡɪʟʟ ɢʀᴀʜᴀᴍ, ʜᴀɴɴɪɢʀᴀᴍ, ꜰʀᴇᴅʀɪᴄᴋ ᴄʜɪʟᴛᴏɴ

ꜱᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇʀ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ -

ᴇᴅᴅɪᴇ ᴍᴜɴꜱᴏɴ, ꜱᴛᴇᴠᴇ ʜᴀʀʀɪɴɢᴛᴏɴ, ꜱᴛᴇᴅᴅɪᴇ, ​🇯​​🇮​​🇲​ ​🇭​​🇴​​🇵​​🇵​​🇪​​🇷​, ʙɪʟʟʏ ʜᴀʀɢʀᴏᴠᴇ, ɴᴀɴᴄʏ ᴡʜᴇᴇʟᴇʀ, ʀᴏʙɪɴ ʙᴜᴄᴋʟᴇʏ, ᴊᴏɴᴀᴛʜᴀɴ ʙʏᴇʀꜱ

ᴄꜱɪ (ᴍɪᴀᴍɪ/ʟᴀꜱ ᴠᴇɢᴀꜱ) ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ -

ɢɪʟ ɢʀɪꜱꜱᴏᴍ (ᴘʟᴀᴛᴏɴɪᴄ), ɴɪᴄᴋ ꜱᴛᴏᴋᴇꜱ, ɢʀᴇɢ ꜱᴀɴᴅᴇʀꜱ, ᴅᴀᴠɪᴅ ʜᴏᴅɢᴇꜱ (ᴘʟᴀᴛᴏɴɪᴄ), ʜᴇɴʀʏ ᴀɴᴅʀᴇᴡꜱ, ᴀʀᴄʜɪᴇ ᴊᴏʜɴꜱᴏɴ, ᴅ.ʙ. ʀᴜꜱꜱᴇʟʟ (ᴘʟᴀᴛᴏɴɪᴄ), ᴍᴏʀɢᴀɴ ʙʀᴏᴅʏ, ᴇʀɪᴄ ᴅᴇʟᴋᴏ, ᴛɪᴍ ꜱᴘᴇᴇᴅʟᴇ, ʀʏᴀɴ ᴡᴏʟꜰᴇ

ɴᴄɪꜱ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ -

ʟᴇʀᴏʏ ᴊᴇᴛʜʀᴏ ɢɪʙʙꜱ, ᴀʙʙʏ ꜱᴄɪᴜᴛᴏ, ᴛɪᴍᴏᴛʜʏ ᴍᴄɢᴇᴇ, ᴀɴᴛʜᴏɴʏ ᴅɪɴᴏᴢᴢᴏ

ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ ᴡʜᴏ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ -

10ᴛʜ ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ, 11ᴛʜ ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ, 12ᴛʜ ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ, 13ᴛʜ ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ, ꜱᴘʏ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀ, ʀɪᴠᴇʀ ꜱᴏɴɢ, ᴄʟᴀʀᴀ ᴏꜱᴡᴀʟᴅ

ꜱᴀᴡ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ -

ᴍᴀʀᴋ ʜᴏꜰꜰᴍᴀɴ, ᴊᴏʜɴ ᴋʀᴀᴍᴇʀ (ᴘʟᴀᴛᴏɴɪᴄ!), ʟᴀᴡʀᴇɴᴄᴇ ɢᴏʀᴅᴏɴ, ʟᴏɢᴀɴ ɴᴇʟꜱᴏɴ, ᴀᴍᴀɴᴅᴀ ʏᴏᴜɴɢ, ᴘᴇᴛᴇʀ ꜱᴛʀᴀʜᴍ

ꜱᴄʀᴇᴀᴍ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ -

ꜱᴛᴜ ᴍᴀᴛᴄʜᴇʀ, ʙɪʟʟʏ ʟᴏᴏᴍɪꜱ, ꜱᴛᴜ/ʙɪʟʟʏ ᴘᴏʟʏ

ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴏꜱᴛ ʙᴏʏꜱ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ -

ᴍɪᴄʜᴀᴇʟ ᴇᴍᴇʀꜱᴏɴ, ᴅᴡᴀʏɴᴇ, ᴅᴀᴠɪᴅ, ᴍᴀʀᴋᴏ, ᴘᴀᴜʟ, ᴘᴏʟʏ!ʟᴏꜱᴛ ʙᴏʏꜱ

ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏʏꜱ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ -

ʙɪʟʟʏ ʙᴜᴛᴄʜᴇʀ, ʜᴜɢʜɪᴇ ᴄᴀᴍᴘʙᴇʟʟ, Qᴜᴇᴇɴ ᴍᴀᴇᴠᴇ, ʜᴏᴍᴇʟᴀɴᴅᴇʀ, ꜱᴏʟɪᴅᴇʀ ʙᴏʏ, ᴀɴɴɪᴇ ᴊᴀɴᴜᴀʀʏ

2 ᴏʀ ʟᴇꜱꜱ ꜰᴀɴᴅᴏᴍ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ -

ʜᴇʟʟʙᴏʏ (ᴍᴏᴠɪᴇꜱ), ᴇᴅ ᴡᴀʀʀᴇɴ (ᴘᴀᴛʀɪᴄᴋ ᴡɪʟꜱᴏɴ), ꜰʀᴀɴᴋ ɴ' ꜰᴜʀᴛᴇʀ, ᴛᴀɴɢᴇʀɪɴᴇ, ʜᴀʏᴍɪᴛᴄʜ ᴀʙᴇʀɴᴀᴛʜʏ, ᴄᴏʀɪᴏʟᴀɴᴜꜱ ꜱɴᴏᴡ (ʏᴏᴜɴɢ), ᴍɪᴋᴇ ꜱᴄʜᴍɪᴅᴛ (ᴍᴏᴠɪᴇ), ᴡɪʟʟɪᴀᴍ ᴀꜰᴛᴏɴ (ᴍᴏᴠɪᴇ), ᴊᴏᴇʟ ᴍɪʟʟᴇʀ (ᴘᴇᴅʀᴏ ᴘᴀꜱᴄᴀʟ)

[gallavichsreddie1128]

Welcome

Hey everyone! My name is Alexis! I’m 21 years old and I write Fanfic (x female reader) Below is my masterlist:

Masterlist (Will not be updated)

Hannibal Masterlist

The Boys Masterlist

Challengers Masterlist

Marvel Masterlist

OBX Masterlist

Star Trek Masterlist

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(Other fics I have can be found in the first Masterlist until further notice)

Requests

I take requests on different types of Shows/Movies. If you would like to see the list please check my bio. If you don’t see a fandom on there just ask!

I currently have written for:

Hannibal Lecter

Will Graham

Baz Blackwell

Dean Winchester

Sam Winchester

Castiel

Homelander

Billy Butcher

Soldier Boy

A-Train

Obi Wan Kenobi

Anakin Skywalker

Darth Vader

Kylo Ren

Art Donaldson

Patrick Zweig

Wolverine

Deadpool

Captain America (Sam Wilson)

Bucky Barnes

John Walker

Rafe Cameron

Data Soong

Spock

James T. Kirk

Bones McCoy

Q (Star Trek)

Lore Soong

Quark

Odo

Tom Paris

Tommy Shelby

Michael Gray

Alfie Solomons

Aaron Stampler (Primal Fear)

Joel Miller

[liennka]

Mizumono

Hannibal Lecter x Will's daughter X Will Graham

Summary: Will was supposed to help Jack with killing Hannibal, but he arrived too late and with him, his daughter, Y/n.... (s2e13)

-> This one is filled with angst, but i realised that's just what i am good at :) I am open to any criticism (be nice pls).

I just wanted to say that I am not the owner of this show, but I did make this story, so don't copy it without my knowledge, thank you.

When Alana called about the warrant, Will didn't panic. He told Y/n to go downstairs, urging her to turn off the lights and grab a jacket. And as the police headlights came through the windows, they ducked and crawled on all fours to the back door, Will grabbing his gun. Outside, hidden in the darkness, they ran across their property, stopping on a road. The rain soaked their clothes, though at least the ground wasn't muddy, otherwise they'd be easy to track. A taxi pulled up and Will gave him an address. 

"Hannibal Lecter's house? Why are we going from one danger to another?" Y/n asked, much rather preferring a McDonald's or a cinema. 

"Because Jack will be there, and right now nowhere is safe," her father whispered, looking out the window, "and maybe it's the only address I know."

"That's probably it. What are we going to do then? Have a cup of tea with him and chat with Hannibal?" she sarcastically teased. 

"I gave him time to leave, nothing should happen".

Y/N wasn't so sure.

----●----●----●----

When they got off, her father couldn't have been more wrong. Alana laid there, glass broken, rain rinsing blood from her hair. She seemed dead, just the twitching from shock making her shoulders move up and down. 

"Alana!" Will rushed to her and wrapped her in his coat.

Y/n made note of her surroundings. The front door opened, all sorts of wet footsteps on the carpet, the second floor window busted. And a bloody burgundy dahlia looking at her from a pot near the entrance. 

"Betrayal," she hummed, crouching down beside Alana.

Will looked at her as if she was crazy. He had just called the ambulance and left Alana his phone. 

"The flowers," Y/n pointed out, "I guess he's inside.” 

"Jack's there too," Alana choked out.

Y/N was surprised, she thought Alana's rib cage was too damaged to speak, but Alana proved her wrong. Will nodded and stood up, his gun in both hands. Y/n stayed a little longer, not caring that her hair was now sticking to her ears and causing her to feel cold.

----●----●----●----

As she opened the door to the kitchen, the smell of blood hit her. There were knives, plates and glass everywhere, two pairs of shoes standing in the midst of it all. As she looked up, Hannibal's silhouette greeted her.  

"You were supposed to leave!" Will was standing in front of him.

"I couldn't leave without you two," Hannibal said affectionately. 

Y/n did not know who 'you two' meant, but had a hunch that it included her. Strangely, Hannibal didn't even spare her a look, placing his palm on Will's cheek as if to caress it. They both had such an intense gaze, the sexual tension almost making Y/n turn around to give them some privacy. The scenery looked like a theater piece, a tragedy at that. They dove into their world, where she didn't exist and where they spoke in a different language, or maybe she just lost her hearing from how loud her heart was beating.  Either way, Y/n wanted to separate them, to drag her dad back to their house, back to their dogs. 

She did not see the knife coming from her point of view. Her father simply yelped and took a step forward, crashing into Hannibal's arms. This wasn't real, no. Hannibal would never hurt Will, he was like the other half of his soul, she lied to herself. But there was a red stain on his shirt and when Hannibal embraced him, the weapon remained in his hand, as if to mock them. Y/n stood motionless, no sound could break through her frozen vocal chords. She never thought this would happen, her chest tightening and her eyes filling with tears of pure terror.

The impact of Will's body aligned with her first fallen tear. His body fell directly into a pool of Jack's blood, his pants soaking it up. A few droplets of their mixed blood landed on her shoe, ruining her white trainers. Y/n swallowed nauseously, not daring to look into her fathers eyes. 

Hannibal leaned forward, his crescent-shaped blade back on the counter. 

"I have let you know me, see me," Hannibal paused as Will struggled to breathe, "I gave you a rare gift, but you didn't want it.”

"Didn't I?" Will insisted heartbroken, his eyebrows knitted tightly together. He seemed distressed, but more than anything, he was furious. 

Y/n shut herself off, not wanting to remember her father so frail, choosing to merely listen. And when she heard Hannibal mention the shattered teacup again, something in her snapped. She opened her pocket knife behind her back, using it for the first time since she bought it after the encounter with Tobias. Her fight-or-flight instinct flipped a coin and settled on fight. In a blink of an eye, she was standing behind Hannibal, her knife placed just under his jaw.

Y/n had no idea what she was doing. Her mind told her to end it, to be free at last. But her heart knew that was not possible, not in this life. She couldn't stop shaking, so she applied more force, making him bleed a little.  Will sucked in his breath, not quite understanding what was going on as this was out of character for her. 

"We are not a shattered teacup. You can't glue us back together and pretend like nothing happened," Y/n croaked in his ear, her voice high-pitched.

The blade suddenly twitched as a chuckle erupted from Hannibal’s chest.

"No, you certainly are not just a piece of pottery, but you are indeed fragile."

“You should have left when Will told you to. Instead you slaughtered them all, rightfully or not, whether you believe in God or not. There is no excuse for that,” Y/n hissed, her disappointment in him turning her words bitter. 

"I should have seen it coming…you made us so blind," her disappointment in herself turning her words sour.

Alana's happy face when she gave her a handmade sweater, or Jack and Bella's Christmas party, it was all over. Her bright future turned dim.

"I just wanted us to be a family. Why," she sobbed, a big droplet falling on the floor, "why can't I have a genuine family for once?"

----●----●----●----

Taking advantage of her state of mind, Hannibal grabbed her hand, pulling the knife away from his throat and spinning her around. He took her face in his palms, making her look at him. Y/n had teardrops on her chin, red spots on her irritated skin, her lips chapped and her eyelashes littered with fresh tears. He wiped them away so she had a clear view of him. However, he was no better, his normally perfectly sleek bangs were now messy, blood on his collar and some drying under his nose. He was bruised and in pain, yet he still looked like the most charismatic man she had ever seen. A charismatic man that attempted to erase her father's existence. 

"You don't get to start over after what you've just done, that's not fair!” she tried to wriggle out of his grip, “You hurt Will and you broke my trust. What do you expect us to do?" 

"Nothing, such is life. Don't fight it, let it all go."

Y/n raised her eyebrows in disbelief, a single tear running down her cheek. By now she could care less about having a weapon on her side, she felt she had already lost. 

"'And what if I don't want to let it go, to forget or forgive?" 

"Then you lose yourself," Hannibal directed his gaze back to Will, "I forgive Will. Will he forgive me?"

"'Don't. No, no, no!" Will uttered for the first time after his collapse.

It broke his heart, but there was nothing to be done, his design was meant to be finished and everything had to go according to plan. He pried her knife from her slack hold, unbeknown to her. 

"What are you tal-" Y/n's question couldn't be finished as she was silenced.

Her own knife, now in Hannibal's possession, was plunged blade deep into her side, almost identically to her father's. She yelped as she felt her muscles being torn apart, the stinging as Hannibal yanked it out causing her to choke. Her eyes opened wide as if trying to comprehend what was happening. The searing pain in her torso sent her to the ground, but it was the pain in her heart that made her burst out crying again, only this time it would not stop. Hannibal slowly lowered her down beside Will, splattering the tiles with her blood and tears like the rain would.

 She shook, struggling to catch her breath. With one hand she pressed against her wound, with the other she found her father's hand and weakly squeezed it. She felt his cold fingers, the energy draining from his body. 

"Dad," Y/n muffled her cries. 

Will wanted to help her, to hold her and console her, but he'd been bleeding for so long he couldn't even open his mouth. He had no choice but to watch with half-closed eyes as the entire room bathed in red.  

"You can make it all go away. Put your head back, close your eyes," Hannibal reached for Will's shoulder and met his eyes. "Wade into the quiet of the stream".

Y/n blinked at Hannibal for a second, but instead of a man, she saw a red horned monster with black dahlias sprouting from its eye sockets. So this was his true self, she realised.

“We were never meant to work, were we?” she clutched at Hannibal's trousers with her bloodied fingers. 

There was a silence for a while, Will's labored breathing slowing and her own sniffles fading to silent tears. Hannibal knelt down and ruffled her wet hair. 

And as her father closed his eyes, Hannibal asked her: "Will you forgive me?"

Y/n wanted to say no. She wanted to send him into the pond of burgundy ink as well, but her own mind said otherwise. 

"'Maybe, if you promise to make us work."

He smiled and stood up, not looking at her again. As his footsteps faded away, Y/n's warm blood grew chilly and her eyes heavy. With her last strength she kissed her father's knuckles, her last tears streaming down her face.  

----●----●----●----

She shed tears for how pitiful her ending was. And as her vision got blurrier, she bid farewell to her life.

[inlovewithquestionablecharacters]

May I request a Hannibal one-shot, where his adopted teenage daughter is really into sports tennis, football (soccer),vollyball etc., while also being excellent in school? So she‘s pretty much used to being good in stuff, except for art, where she can‘t even draw a straight line.How would Hannibal handle the situation with his frustrated daughter?

Hannibal X Daugther!Reader: Perfectly Imperfect

Warning: feelings of not being enough, fluff, Fatherly Hannibal, no use of y/n

Word count: 1,2K

You hate art.

It’s a statement you’ve been avoiding for weeks, but today, the frustration finally bubbles over, like an overfilled cauldron ready to spill. The bright, sterile classroom feels suffocating as you sit in front of the blank canvas, the fine-tipped brush trembling in your hand. Your concentration is razor-sharp. You’ve conquered sports, aced exams, and excelled in everything you’ve ever put your mind to. So why does a simple line of paint seem so impossible?

The art teacher, an older man with glasses perched too high on his nose, walks by your desk, peering at your work with a quizzical frown. He doesn’t comment, but the disappointed silence hangs heavily in the air.

"Come on," you mutter under your breath, forcing the brush across the canvas, but it’s no use. The line is crooked, the colors smudge together in a haphazard mess, and your frustration grows by the second.

Why can’t I just get this right?

It’s not like you haven’t tried. You’ve spent countless hours practicing, focusing all your energy on trying to master the simplest shapes, but they never come out the way you want them to. Why does this feel so… hard?

The bell rings, signaling the end of class, but you don’t move. You sit frozen in your seat for a moment, staring at the chaotic mess you’ve created, a sinking feeling pressing down on your chest.

Later that evening, as you’re sitting at the dinner table, Hannibal takes his seat across from you, his sharp eyes studying your every movement as you push your food around on your plate absentmindedly.

His gaze is perceptive, like always, and you can feel the weight of it on you, like a calm before a storm. You know what’s coming. You can’t escape it.

"Is something bothering you, darling?" 

His voice is smooth, a slight hint of curiosity lacing his words, but you know better than to think he doesn’t already know the answer. He always knows. One of the perks of being a psychiatrist's daughter: he was good at reading people. Unfortunately for you that was also part of the cons of having Hannibal as your father. You hesitate, glancing down at your plate, picking at your food. You’re not sure what you’d tell him. You don’t want to disappoint him, but the words are stuck in your throat.

"Art."

You take a deep breath in, sighing as you shift the piece of meat on your plate for the millionth time that evening.

“I can't do it. I’m just… I’m not good at it."

The silence that follows is heavy. You can feel his eyes on you, but you don’t look up. You’re afraid if you do, you’ll break. The perfection you’ve always strived for, the easy victories, all seem to crumble when you try to do something that’s not measurable, not quantifiable. No matter how hard you try, you can’t force the brush to draw straight. It doesn’t help that he's great at it. You’ve seen his drawings. They should be hung on museum walls, not hidden in the drawers of his study. You know your desire to be good at art has to do with the need to have something in common with him. He wasn’t your blood but he’d been there when it mattered and you couldn’t help but feel like you needed to impress him. 

His response comes slowly, measured, as always. 

"You’ve always been accustomed to succeeding, haven’t you?"

You nod, not trusting your voice to respond.

"It’s… frustrating."

 You admit, more to yourself than to him.

"And yet, in art, you are not expected to succeed, are you?" 

His tone is almost philosophical. As it normally was when he spoke on the subject. 

 "Art is not about perfection, it is about expression. Freedom, my dear."

You can’t suppress the scoff that escapes your lips. 

"Freedom? In art? That’s easy for you to say."

Hannibal’s gaze softens just a fraction, a rare flicker of something… human in his otherwise inscrutable eyes. He watches you for a moment, then stands up from the table, his movements graceful and measured as always. He walks over to where you’re sitting and stands next to you, his tall frame looming over you in a way that feels oddly comforting.

"Come." 

He says  it softly, extending his hand, inviting you to follow him. You eye his outstretched hand warily.

 "Where are we going?"

He smiles, but it’s a quiet, knowing smile, the kind that suggests he’s seen this all before. 

"To the studio."

You follow him down the hallway to the back of the house, where the small studio is tucked away in the corner, filled with canvases, paints, and other oddities of creativity. It’s a room you rarely venture into. It’s his domain—his sanctuary. 

He turns to face you as you enter, then gestures to an empty easel at the center of the room. 

"I want you to try again."

"I can’t do it. It’s… it’s pointless."

"You can’t because you believe you can’t. You’re far too accustomed to everything being within your control, to mastering things with precision. But not everything in life is mastered, my dear. Some things are felt, not understood."

You blink, confused by his cryptic words, but something about the way he says it makes you want to listen. Reluctantly, you step forward, glancing at the brushes laid out before you. Your heart beats a little faster, the frustration from earlier creeping back.

"Go on. Pick up a brush."

You hesitate but do as he says, fingers wrapping around the handle of the nearest one. You dip it into the paint, watching as the pigment coats the bristles. He watches you silently, as if waiting for something.

The brush trembles slightly in your hand as you touch it to the canvas. A small stroke. Then another. It feels wrong at first, and your heart sinks. This isn’t like sports, where you can predict every move. This is… different.

"Good. It does not have to be perfect."

You want to laugh at him, at the absurdity of it all. It’s so frustrating—this idea that things don’t always have to be controlled. But for some reason, his calm demeanor, the quiet confidence he exudes, makes you want to try. Just a little longer.

"I don’t know what I’m doing. It just doesn’t make sense."

Hannibal steps closer, his presence soothing in its own way.

"Art, like life, is not about knowing what you’re doing. It is about what you are feeling while you do it."

The words feel heavy, but something about them resonates. Slowly, you draw another line, your hand steadier this time, as though the motion is less forced. The colors blend in a way that doesn’t feel wrong. It’s not perfect. Far from it. But for once, you don’t need it to be.

"See?"

 Hannibal says, his voice a quiet whisper. 

"That is the beginning of art—of expression. The rest will come."

You stare at the canvas, the chaotic mess of colors, and for the first time, it doesn’t feel like a failure. It feels… like something. A beginning. Maybe you can get better at this. Maybe you don’t need to master it.

For the first time, the frustration begins to dissipate.

Hannibal steps back, watching you intently, and you wonder if this is some strange way of him showing affection, his odd way of teaching you that not everything has to be perfect, not everything can be controlled.

And for once, you’re okay with that.

[c-y-g-m-c-o]

"I wuz shitty.. I know Alphonce...",

"Yeah, you were rather rubbish, weren't you? -

-an' also for the love ov' satan, stop fuk'in calling me that... It's Niccals now, fuck'in strang'en the first place that ya call'd me by my middle name my whole damn life..."

"Thought tha'name 'Murdoc' wuz stupid"

"An' 'Hannibals' anybetter-?"

"Well, N-"

"-Onez a fucking actor an'tha others a fuckin fictional serial killer...-"

"..."

"-makes sense honestly, with how I'M fuCKInG FAMOUS... and you.. why yer locked behind bars..."

"..."

"..?"

"..."

"Well, are you gonna waist my fuk'in time and sit there like a mute, or whut? And don'teven try to ask me to bail you out, over my fucking dea-"

"M'proud of you Mudz, whether you believe me or not.."

"..."

INMATES VISITATION IS NOW OVER SAY, YOUR GOODBYES!

"whu-?"

"Good seeing ya Mudz, keep at it"

"w-W-Wait n-nu.. I-..."

The brotherly angst is still brewing, for the moment have some angst art WIP and little drabbble about Murdoc visiting Hannibal in jail.

I dunno it's just whatever my brain decided to shit out

[boy-of-death]

Masterlist of my thoughts

Started: 06/03/2023

Last Updated: 21/05/2025

Random but funny

Fandom's warriors

Teen Wolf and mental breakdown

Shadow and Bones fanart

Lessons in Chemistry

Good Omens season 2

Toxic gay man fandom survivor

Remmick from sinners, Irish baddie

Bob from thunderbolts* playlist

Fanfics recs

Hannibal

Iconic author's note

Arcane Jayvik will save my life

Arcane

Season 2 act 3 finale

Season 2 act 2

Jayce’s nightly reading

Interview with the vampire

The best meme of this fandom

Season 2 episode 8 finale

Season 2 episode 6

Call Of Duty

Headcanon for the 141

The Last Of Us

Episode 3

Should I watch it

[thebeast-dennis-etcetera]

Requests!!

Guys, not gonna lie, I’ve lost the writing ✨spark✨ lately and I just can’t seem to come up with any good prompts for the characters I write.

So with that being said, I could use some help if anyone’s willing. You can send a request anonymously or not, up to you. I do prefer more fluff/angst vibe but don’t have a problem including some smut.

Characters I write for include (xReader)

Aaron Hotchner (Criminal Minds)

OG Leroy Jethro Gibbs (NCIS)

Derek Hale or Chris Argent (Teen Wolf)

Elliot Stabler (Law and Order: SVU)

Hannibal Lector (Silence of the Lambs)

Carlisle Cullen (Twilight)

Severus Snape, Lucius, or Remus Lupin (Harry Potter)

Thranduil (LOTR)

Much appreciated and I’ll try to get as many requests as I can, sorry if it takes a while.

[k-nayee]

In the cold, vast expanse called space...

∘₊✧───────✧₊∘∘₊✧──────✧₊∘∘₊✧──────✧₊∘∘₊✧───────✧₊∘

∘₊✧───────✧₊∘∘₊✧──────✧₊∘∘₊✧──────✧₊∘∘₊✧───────✧₊∘

...you are the center of my universe.

ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ

ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀➛ CREATOR | SLOW UPDATER and I do mean s l o w. kiki, she/her, 20, enigmatic dreamer, AuDHD/Neurodivergent

ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀➛ BLACK-CODED/POC READER. as stated, this blog and any of the stories written will have connotations of a black woman (mainly no red blushing or pale skin), but can be read by any ethnicities/races <3

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ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀➛ HOME. this is an 18+ writing blog; this blog contains sfw, [n]sfw, and dark content.

ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀➛ DNI. even if wanted, cannot truly control who consumes my work, so if you are a minor read at your own discretion

ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀➛ REQUESTS. to avoid overload, will not take random requests and try to hold scheduled dates to do so

ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀➛ RECENT. recently uploaded. Like Father, Like Hellspawn Deadpool

ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀➛ STARDUST. posts with these ✩ are teasers from unfinished projects and ideas. lol told y'all imma slow updater

ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀➛ EXTERNALS. archive of our own / wattpad / quotev

ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀➛ RECOMMEND. don't mind me just showing my sister Winxanity, she writes just as much as me (even more lol) and you'll most definitely love her writing!

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ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀➛ 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑 ᵇᵗˢ | SUN ❝draw me in and set me aflame...you are the center of it all❞

ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀➛ 𝐕𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐎 ᵇⁿʰᵃ | MERCURY ❝whispering secrets of the universe...you swiftly take the cosmic stage❞

ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀➛ 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐑 ᵐᵘˡᵗⁱ-ᶠᵃⁿᵈᵒᵐˢ | VENUS ❝cloaked in mystery and allure...your beauty harbors an untamed fire❞

ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀➛ 𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐄 𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐊 ᵗʷᵈ | EARTH ❝blue jewel in the vast void...you cradle life and myriad dreams❞

ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀➛ 𝐓𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐃 ʰᵒᵗᵈ | MOON ❝closest confident...in your phases we find our reflection❞

ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀➛ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐑 ᵉᵖⁱᶜ ᵐᵘˢⁱᶜᵃˡ | MARS ❝stained by iron...your silence reveals tales of valor and endeavor❞

ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀➛ 𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐙𝐄𝐑𝐎 ᵗᵉᵉⁿ ʷᵒˡᶠ | ASTEROID BELT ❝fragments of creation…a celestial dance of chaos and harmony❞ [COMING SOON!]

ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀➛ 𝐀𝐌𝐁𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 ⁱʷᵗᵛ | JUPITER ❝majestic monarch of the skies...your storms hold hearts greater than earth❞ [COMING SOON!]

ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀➛ 𝐃𝐄𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐏𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐘 ʰᵃⁿⁿⁱᵇᵃˡ | SATURN ❝ringed maestro...your icy dance echos a symphony of beauty❞ [COMING SOON!]

ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀➛ 𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ʰᵒᵗᵈ | URANUS ❝leaning on your side, you spin...spin an axis of rebellion and uniqueness❞ [COMING SOON!]

ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀➛ 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 ᵏⁿʸ | NEPTUNE ❝from a distance you watch...gaze encompass a solitude unknown❞ [COMING SOON!]

ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀➛ 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐔𝐌 ʰᵗᵍᵃʷᵐ | PLUTO ❝though demoted, you remain undiminished...a resilence that teaches strength in the shadows❞ [COMING SOON!]

ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀➛ 𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐗 ʲʲᵏ | SHOOTING STAR ❝blaze across my sky for only a moment...but in that second, you're all I see❞ [COMING SOON!]

ੈ✩‧₊ ̗̀➛ 𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐍 ᵇⁿʰᵃ | ROUGE PLANET ❝drifting untethered through the void…a lost light still burning in the dark❞ [COMING SOON!]

⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣

── all rights reserved K-NAYEE 2020-2024. any and all fanfiction seen here belongs to me unless stated. please do not copy, plagiarize, translate, repost, or upload on any social media (tiktok, youtube, hell even facebook) without my permission.

[vamphrrr]

# vamphrrr ’ s world 🕷

✶

— victoria

they them

bisexual

genderfluid

gn, male & female writer

taking requests !!

oneshots / mini stories only

masterlist

wattpad

fandoms

⋆⋆⋆

dni

• transphobes

• homophobes

• pedophiles

• sexists

• racists

[inlovewithquestionablecharacters]

Hey,

could you please write a Hannibal (platonic) one-shot, where he finally meets Abigails best friend (the reader) and he actually approves of her. Abigail had met her through Dr.Bloom

Hannibal X Platonic!Reader: Friend or foe?

Warnings: fluff, Hannibal being protective of Abigail, no use of y/n, female reader, not proofread.

Word count: 928

Alana had told him wonders about you. She’d told him how good you were with Abigail and how your friendship was helping the girl get through her grief. Abigail never seemed to shut up about you either. Whenever Hannibal paid her a visit she always mentioned to name drap you at some point of the conversation. Even with all the positive words Hannibal had heard about you he couldn’t help but be protective of Abigail. The last time someone had become close to Abigail the girl had ended up dead and her death had sent Abigail spiraling. He didn’t want her to have to deal with anymore death. 

There was also another issue. He knew how desperately Freddie Lounds was trying to get Abigail to tell her story. There was no way to be sure you hadn’t been sent by the journalist as a spy. He wouldn’t put it past Freddie to do something like that. That's why he insisted on meeting you himself. 

“Don’t be mean.”

Hannibal turned to look at Abigail in curiosity.

“When have I ever been mean?”

“You know what I mean. Don’t act all protective and quiet. I don’t want you to scare her off.”

Abigail nibbled at her lower lip, eyes moving to look down at her shoes.

“She’s the only one who hasn;t judged me for being…well you know.”

She didn’t have to finish her sentence Hannibal knew what she meant. Being the daughter of a killer didn’t exactly make you popular, well, at least not in ways you’d want to be popular. Hannibal reached out for Abigail, placing his hand on her shoulder supportively.

“I don’t wish to scare her. I just want to make sure you are safe and that she means well.”

“You swear?”

“I swear.”

In reality there was no reason for Abigail to worry. The moment Hannibal had seen you standing at the door, Dr. Bloom next to you, a big smile on your face as Abigail pulled you into a hug he knew you were a good person. Dinner only seemed to prove his thoughts. All throughout dinner you and Abigail told him and Alana about all the things the two of you got up to. You laughed as Abigail recorded the time you’d helped her sneak out the wall so that she could go to see Hannibal. And despite the need to reprimand Hannibal once again for her actions he couldn’t help but notice how you were prepared to help Abigail, no matter the consequences. 

After dinner was over you offered to help Hannibal clean up. Despite his attempts to wave off your help you insisted. You were currently with your hands soaked in water, scrubbing at the plates with complete focus. Hannibal could hear Abigails and Alanas voices coming from the dining room but he was completely focused on you. He dried the dishes as you handed them over to him. He walked around the kitchen,placing each thing in the right place.

“You have a lovely house, Dr.Lecter. And Abigail didn’t do justice to just how good your cooking was. Dinner was delicious.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it. And just Hannibal is fine.”

You turned to look at him, a smile gracing your lips as you handed him another plate. 

“You’re not as scary as I expected.”

“Oh?”

“Sorry. It’s just that the way Abigail talks about you makes you seem like an overprotective dad.”

Hannibal made a mental note to talk about that with Abigail later.

“Were you expecting claws and fangs?”

You let out a laugh, the sound filling the room and breaking any sort of tension that had once been there. 

“No nothing like that. Actually i don’t really know what i was expecting but whatever it was you surprised me. In a good way I mean. You’re really cool.”

Hannibal raised his brow as your words. You didn’t notice it, far too focused on the stubborn smudge that didn’t seem to wash off no matter how hard you scrubbed. 

“Cool huh?”

“Yeah you know like, old person level cool. I guess you seem wise and cultured.”

Hannibal ignored the fact you’d just called him old, opting to focus on the complements instead.

“You surprised me too.”

“Oh yeah? How so?”

Hannibal went quiet for a moment, trying to put what he thought of you into words. You turned to look at him in expectation. 

“You’re bubbly”

“Bubbly?”

“I think that's the best way to put it. You’re a direct contrast to abigail. She’s always had a somber quality to her.”

He met your gaze giving you a smile.

“You bring out her briter side. It’s a good thing. You’re good for her, i think.”

“She’s a nice girl. It’s not her fault what her father did. And if she helped him or not, well who cares?”

“A lot of people.”

You let out a shrug turning your attention back to the plate in your hand.

“Well, I don't. Can’t judge someone for wanting to survive.”

Hannibal observed you for a moment, watching you in comfortable silence. They had been right about you after all. He felt bad for having doubted their words but now, seeing it for himself, he could tell you were a good person who wanted good things for Abigail. Later that night he and Abigail sat on the sofa, watching some random movie that was passing on TV.

“I like her.”

Abigail turned to look at him. He met her gaze.

“Really?”

“Yes. She’s one of the good ones.”

And he meant it.

[liennka]

Hello loves!

Hi guys, i love writing and im thinking of putting some of my work here :)

Something about me:

I am a slavic teenage girl

I like fantasy and adventure genres

My fav artists are Lana Del Rey and TV girl

I get obssesed with a show/movie for like 4 months at a time (I need social life fr)

Current obssesions: IWTV, Hannibal, Hunger Games, Harry Potter, John Wick, Twilight ;), Hobbit and LOTR...

And lastly I am so sorry but I only post when I have some super detailed idea so I come back from dead once a year

[s-i-ll-y-w-i-ll-y]

Stalking

Hannigram x teen!reader

Summary: On their walk home, Y/N decides to help a cute couple with directions to a nearby hotel. However, this act of kindness is proof that what goes around does not come back around.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The bus screeched to a halt on an empty back road less than a mile away from your house. Your shift was finally done and you could relax until the cycle repeated tomorrow. A meek ‘thank you’ slipped from your mouth as you walked off the bus, a small smile on your lips as you turned your music up.

Gently bopping your head to the tune, you made your way across the road, lifting a hand to silently thank the car that had stopped to let you cross. The clouds slowly drifted across the navy sky, small specks of light tucked themselves behind the clouds then peeked back out as the obstructions moved along. The moon shone down and illuminated the wide road and dusty trail you stood on, the outlines of trees cast onto the ground below you.

God, it was beautiful.

Despite how eerie it was, it was beautiful.

The road seemed calm tonight, usually it was busy because it was a way to get to the city you just came from. Not tonight.

Thank god.

As you continued to walk down the path, cars whizzing past you at a million miles per hour, you couldn’t help but feel a small creeping sensation that something was wrong.

Something was going to be wrong.

But, for some strange reason, you ignored it. Why you ignored, you had no idea why you did, but you did.

You kicked up dirt as you walked, loving the way it looked on the ground, dancing in the gentle breeze. That gut feeling plagued you, growing more and more until-

“Hi, excuse me?”

A soft voice made you peel off your headphones, letting them fall to your neck, and look over to the road. You planted your feet and settled your eyes on the man who was still rolling down his car window.

You stepped slightly closer and put your hands in your pockets. “Can I help you, sir?”

The man was thin and pale, his features hardly in the poor light of the car. The man wore a flannel shirt and dark jeans, a brown belt holding them up. He had brown, curly hair that draped over his forehead, he had a button nose and slightly stubble. The man cleared his throat and gave a small smile, “Me and my husband were wondering if you could give us directions to hotel…hotel…Hannibal, what was the hotels name again?” The man turned to the man sat beside him.

“Cecilia. Hotel Cecilia.” The man’s husband, Hannibal, gave a thin lipped smile as he spoke to his partner. His husband looked older than him, not by a lot but enough to see the difference. He had mostly grey hair with spots of brown sprinkled about, his eyes were a hazel colour, his nose arched up in the middle but it suited him. He wore a clearly rich and tailored suit; red with a black pattern stitched into it, a black shirt and a red tie.

You listened as the man thanked his husband and turned back to you. Thinking as fast as you could, you tried to remember the way there. Then it clicked. A gentle grin slipped onto your lips as you spoke, watching the man in the drivers seat take a mental note of everything you had said. As you stopped, you looked back at the road, the headlights were the only thing stopping the inky blackness from enveloping the car and you. It was going to be such a trek and your parents wanted you home by ten.

“Thank you so so much.” The man said, “We would’ve used our phones but they’ve both gone and died, thanks to our luck.”

You chuckled along with the man’s slight attempt at a joke. “It’s no problem, I’m happy to help.”

A few thoughts ran through the man’s mind before he stopped thinking and said the first thing we could think of:

“Do you want a ride?”

That feeling crept up your spine, making you feel queasy. As nice as it was for him to ask it was still odd. You didn’t know them, they didn’t know you. “It’s fine, my house isn’t too far-“

“We insist. We would be lost without you.” The husband chimed in. “And, it is getting late, your parents would want you home, wouldn’t they?”

That feeling in your stomach reached the back of your throat, urging you to turn and run. For once, you decided to trust your gut feeling-

“Thank you but I’m alright.” Politely, you stepped away from the car and turned to keep walking. The men shared a look then looked back at you as you began to walk away.

You heard the engine stall before starting, then they took off down the road and that was the last you saw of them.

~~~

Around twenty minutes later, your trail lead you in front of a gas station. The neon lights from each sign shone onto the bleak road, painting it in hues of orange, green and white. The pale light reflected off of car windows and side view mirrors, hitting your eyes sharply.

You hadn’t drank anything in a while, plus you would have to wait an extra ten minutes to heat up your dinner when you got back home so what’s the big deal with a quick snack stop?Glancing away, you tried to check for oncoming cars and, luckily, there was nothing. Then you crossed the gravel, eventually reaching entrance to the gas station.

A satisfying ding announced your arrival to the pimply clerk behind the counter who gave you a less than enthusiastic look. Ignoring him, you browsed the aisles, trying to find anything that would be easy to eat and drink on the go. You swore to yourself; no sandwiches, no fiddly wrappers or bottle caps, just easy to open things.

Needing to keep yourself awake, you bought yourself an energy drink then you made your way over to the snack aisle which stood in front of the main entrance. As you scanned over your options, the bright, white headlights outside blinded you. Although it was a minor inconvenience, you scowled at the car, still unable to see who was driving, and internally swore at them for their accidental action.

After finally deciding on a snack, you walked over to the counter and placed your things down. You slipped your headphones down and around your neck, music paused, casting an odd silence which was subtly interrupted by the radio station which echoed from the broken speakers.

The cashier huffed and scanned the items slowly, as if even the thought of doing his job was strenuous. Your eyes wandered back out the window, tuning out the cashier slightly as your eyes scanned over the few cars that were refuelling, one was the car those two men had driven earlier.

That’s odd.

Didn’t they go flying up the road? How were they here at the same time as you if they did?

The clicking of the cashier’s fingers snapped you back to reality. “Sorry.” You mumbled halfheartedly, scrambling to grab the money from your pocket. In the midst of the scramble, you tried to pick up your drink, only for it to fall and burst on the floor. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry, d’you want me to-“

The cashier sighed loudly, “No, it’s fine. I’ll get it.” Then he walked to the back, returning with a wet floor sign in hand. You listened subtly as an array of swears left his lips as he slammed the sign onto the floor and trudged over to the drink aisle, grabbing another of the same drink for you.

As this happened, and while your mind was distant from your body, the same satisfying ding rung out again. When your mind finally snapped back, you registered that someone had walked in and you glanced over your shoulder.

Then you saw them.

The two men were tall, taller than you thought and taller than you by a mile.

When you realised you were staring, your head whipped back around to the counter, fingers rhythmically tapped against the cool, grey countertop.

As the cashier you had walked back over, another from the back room walked out to help the two men. The moved to the counter beside you, only paying for a bottle of water and their gas. The cashier helping you handed the new drink to you, a forced smile plastered on their face. A small thank you left your lips as you turned and left, avoiding the men at the counter.

The cold night air enveloped you, an unwelcome sensation slivering up your spine. You glanced over your shoulder and watched as the two men walked out the gas station, their silhouettes ominously still, the light from the gas station surrounding them entirely, making them appear ethereal.

That sinking feeling slipped down your throat once again, making you start walking faster. The headlights from the car slowly trailed behind you before catching up and going just fast enough to keep you in the rear view mirror.

Maybe you were just paranoid? Who knows. At this point you were not willing to see if your gut feeling was true.

~

Your feet carried you for another fifteen minutes, leaving you with only fifteen more until you reached the safe warmth of your home and the welcoming embrace of your parents.

The turn for your road came eventually, just a small dirt path off the side of the road with pine trees boxing in each side of the road. Quickly, you made the turn, gazing over your shoulder to see if the car had kept driving.

It did.

Despite the relief you felt, that underlying tone of worry had settled in the pit of your stomach. This refused to let you calm, keeping you in a horrible fight or flight state.

As you walked down the road wearily. Your headphones stayed on, helping you tune out some fear you had. Although this worked for a while, the feeling of being watched slipped into the back of your mind. You pushed that thought down, reminding yourself you had ten minutes left until you were home, until you were safe. As hard as you tried, nothing could keep this feeling down.

Suddenly, as if out of your control, you whipped your head around. Your face dropped.

There, following you from behind, was that car, it’s headlights turned off. You hadn’t heard the engine over your music. Then the car stopped, your heart sank. Their doors opened and the men stepped out, slowly making their way over to you cautiously, as if trying to keep an animal calm. Every step the men took was calculated, deciding what would keep you from freaking out and doing something drastic.

Nothing could at this point.

You took off down the road, leaping over potholes and racing through puddles. Your clothes were ruined and you were freezing.

With trembling hands, you reached for your phone, your legs moving as fast as they could. The sound of the men’s footsteps grew louder amongst the sounds of the forest which, despite being a few feet away, sounded so distant over the sound of your heart. Your eyes moved down to your phone screen, hands racing to dial your parents or 911.

In a blur, your phone flew from your hand as your shoe caught on a rock in the road, sending you flying onto your front. You lay there for a minute, your head spinning as you thought about everything. In an instant, you snapped back, getting to your feet, ignoring the stinging pain from your knee.

From then on, you staggered down the road, your injured knee making it neatly impossible to run. That would be your demise.

The heavy weight of a blunt object, you assumed to be a crowbar, smacked against the side of your head, knocking you to the floor and leaving you partially unconscious. The immense feeling of dread spilled up and went out your eyes. Tears flowed down your flushed cheeks as the man got up and flung you into his arms, holding you against his chest, his firm hands cracking your head as if it were fine china.

“Will,” the man spoke, his voice smooth due to his prominent accent, “do you believe they will suffice?”

The other man, Will, paused and walked over, tracing a gentle hand over your face, his palm lingering on your chin as he began to brush away stray tears. “Certainly more flighty than the last one but we can deal with that later, wouldn’t want our child escaping us first thing.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Finished Saturday October 5th 2024, 03:14.

5/10/24

[cece693]

hello^^ i have a slightly odd request

would you be willing to do something with Hannibal where like the reader is just off-putting constantly? like always has a blank expression and is just really morbid to the point of weirding out other people- (also whether or not reader is another killer and their relationship is up to you :]) ((and if possible could reader have an obsession with rats? if not its fine!^^))

thank you and no pressure!!! :3

Birds of a Feather (Platonic! Hannibal Lecter x GN! Reader)

Thanks for the request. Since you gave me creative liberty with what relationship the reader has with Hannibal, I'm expanding my creativity and trying to write platonic fanfics. Due to this, and my heart belonging to Hannigram, Will makes an appearance (not Abigail though, never got into her character.) Hope you enjoy it!

Hannibal Lecter had long believed himself immune to the bonds of familial connection. His life was one of solitude by choice, his relationships shallow performances for an unknowing audience. Yet with them—the peculiar, morbid teenager now under his guardianship—something had shifted. He hadn’t planned for this. He had taken them in because he saw a reflection of himself, unpolished and raw, with the potential to be something extraordinary. What he hadn’t anticipated was how deeply he would come to care for them, not as a mentor or an observer, but as a father.

They had first come to Hannibal at their parents’ insistence, dragged into his office under a banner of concern that barely masked their parents’ disdain. They hadn’t even tried to soften the language of their complaint: “They’re morbid. Obsessed with disgusting things like rats and death. They don’t have friends, they don’t smile. They’re weird. Can you fix them?”

Hannibal had known immediately what kind of parents they were—shallow, image-obsessed individuals for whom their child’s uniqueness was an inconvenience to be smoothed over, rather than a gift to be celebrated. He despised them almost as much as they seemed to despise their child. The teenager, however, had been fascinating. When Hannibal asked why they were there, they answered with a flat, emotionless voice.

"Because my parents don’t like me. They think I’m broken."

"And are you?" Hannibal asked, his tone warm, though his eyes studied them sharply.

They had tilted their head slightly, their gaze piercing and calm. "I don’t know. I don’t care if I am."

That first session had been an exercise in subtlety. Hannibal, as always, sought to probe beneath the surface, to see the layers of a person’s mind unfold before him. But with them, there were no layers—no artifice, no carefully constructed mask. They were disarmingly blunt, their morbid interests laid bare without shame.

"I like rats," they said when Hannibal asked what brought them joy. "I have nine of them. Bubonic’s my favorite."

"And why rats?" Hannibal inquired, his curiosity piqued.

"They’re smart. Loyal. They don’t care if you’re weird. They’ll eat a corpse if you leave it there, but it’s not personal. It’s just what they do. Survival instincts."

Their answers were a study in pragmatism, unvarnished and unfiltered. Over time, Hannibal learned more about their life—how their parents had ridiculed their passions, belittled their intellect, and dismissed their feelings as irrelevant. How they had found solace in the company of creatures most would find repugnant, and how they had begun to retreat into themselves, building walls not out of fear but out of indifference.

"My parents said they’d throw them out if I didn’t stop," they admitted one day, their voice betraying the faintest tremor. "The rats. They don’t like them. They don’t like me."

"And how does that make you feel?" Hannibal asked.

They paused, their blank expression unchanging. "I’d kill them if they touched my rats."

Hannibal had smiled faintly at that, sensing not a hollow threat but a declaration of what they believed was justice. Hannibal saw his relationship with the teen as one purely beneficial to him—some form of entertainment during the stagnant moment his life had fallen into. But when the teen arrived one day in session visibly shaken and on the verge of tears, Hannibal felt immense anger.

"Tell me what happened." he said, his voice calm but edged with steel.

The teen sat down at the chair and looked at their hands, fingers trembling. "My dad killed Bubonic," they said quietly. "He was going on again about how weird it was for a person my age to be such a recluse, how disappointed he was in me for not being the child he envisioned. I didn't care, I screamed at him to leave me alone. That all I needed was my rats, he didn't listen," They sputtered, tears finally escaping their eyes.

Hannibal's hands rested lightly on the arm of his chair, though his grip tightened imperceptibly as the teen’s words sank in. Their voice, typically steady and detached, was cracking under the weight of their grief, and Hannibal found himself unprepared for the surge of emotion it evoked in him.

"What did he do?" Hannibal asked, his voice gentle, though his mind already painted the scene in vivid detail.

The teen sniffed, struggling to steady their voice. "He grabbed Bubonic. Said if I loved those 'vermin' so much, then I’d learn what happens when I waste my life on them. He threw him. Against the wall." Their hands trembled in their lap, and then clenched into fists. "I couldn’t stop him. I tried, but I couldn’t—"

Hannibal interrupted softly, his voice firm yet soothing. "It is not your fault. Bubonic’s death lies entirely with your father. You mustn’t take the blame for his cruelty."

They nodded, though their tears continued to fall. For a moment, the room was silent, save for their quiet sobs. Hannibal remained perfectly still, his expression a mask of calm, though inside, a storm brewed. He had long mastered the art of restraint, of hiding the depths of his emotions behind a practiced façade. But now, the threads of that mask were straining.

His anger was not the fiery, impulsive kind that consumed lesser men. It was cold, methodical, the kind that calculated every step of its revenge with precision. He had no doubt about what he needed to do. Bubonic’s death was an affront to the teen’s spirit, an insult to their resilience and individuality, and Hannibal would not allow such an act to go unpunished.

He rose from his chair, moving to kneel in front of them, a gesture of rare intimacy. Gently, he placed a hand on their shoulder, grounding them. His touch was firm yet comforting, like the anchor they so desperately needed.

"You loved him," Hannibal said quietly. "And that love was real. It is not diminished by what your father did. Bubonic mattered, and his memory will not be forgotten."

They looked at him, their tear-filled eyes meeting his calm, steady gaze. For the first time, Hannibal saw a flicker of something beyond their usual detachment—trust, fragile and hesitant, but there. He gave them a faint, reassuring smile, careful to keep the rage simmering inside him hidden from view.

That evening, as Hannibal sat alone in his study, the weight of his decision settled over him like a second skin. He had already made up his mind; there was no room for doubt. The teen’s father was an unworthy man, cruel and petty, whose actions had irreparably harmed his child. The wife was not better, for who would allow such affronts to happen to your child? Hannibal would ensure neither had the opportunity to inflict such pain again.

The deaths were orchestrated with Hannibal’s usual elegance. The scene was staged as a tragic home invasion, violent enough to mislead even the sharpest investigators. The teen’s parents were swept away as easily as pawns on a chessboard, leaving Hannibal free to step into the role of guardian.

It was an arrangement he presented to the authorities as a matter of practicality—after all, he was their trusted psychiatrist, a respected member of the community. And with no other family member willing to take in the 'troubled' youth, Hannibal was seen fit as a caregiver. But in truth, it was far more than that. It was an act of reclamation, a way to give the teen a life they needed and deserved.

Under Hannibal’s guidance, they began to flourish. What had once been a life of isolation and condemnation was replaced with warmth, curiosity, and purpose. Hannibal nurtured their sharp intellect, encouraging them to explore philosophy, art, and science. He fed their fascination with decay and life cycles, finding ways to weave their morbid interests into lessons that expanded their understanding of the world.

Their rats, once crammed into a small cage hidden away from disapproving eyes, now thrived in a custom-built enclosure—a miniature ecosystem of tunnels and habitats that Hannibal had crafted himself. The teenager spent hours tending to them, speaking softly to each one as though they were old friends. Slowly but surely, they grew more confident, their once-detached demeanor softened by the security of knowing they were finally, unquestionably accepted.

So, when Will Graham entered their lives, Hannibal saw an opportunity to complete the family he hadn't realized he was building. At first, Will’s presence unsettled the teen. He was different from Hannibal—more empathetic, less polished. But there was something grounding about Will’s quiet intensity, his ability to understand without needing words.

Their relationship began cautiously, with the teen watching Will from the corner of their eye during his visits, studying him as though he were one of the rats they loved so much. But Will, ever patient, allowed them to come to him on their terms. Over time, the cracks of their tentative bond filled with shared silences and soft-spoken observations.

"You remind me of my rats," the teen said one day, tilting their head at Will as they sat together in the study.

Will blinked, unsure if it was meant as an insult. "How so?"

"You’re always watching. Thinking one step ahead compared to everyone else."

Will glanced at the teenager, amused. "I don’t know if I should be flattered or mildly offended."

They shrugged, their gaze steady and calm. "It’s a compliment. Rats are survivors. They’re smart, and they don’t waste energy pretending to be something they’re not. You’re like that."

Will leaned back in his chair, folding his arms thoughtfully. "Smart and a survivor, huh? Could be worse."

"Definitely worse," they replied, their tone so matter-of-fact that it made Will laugh softly. "You’d be terrible at being fake, anyway."

SMALL TIME SKIP

Hannibal leaned back in his armchair, his fingers lightly drumming against the armrest as he observed the scene before him. It was a tableau of quiet intimacy—his beloved Will Graham, seated cross-legged on the floor, and the teenager sprawled out beside him, their rats darting around like tiny, mischievous shadows.

Will had one hand resting lightly on the floor to keep himself steady while the other hovered hesitantly near one of the rats. "So, uh," he began, his tone unsure but willing, "what happens if I try to touch it? Am I going to lose a finger?"

The teen smirked faintly, their usual neutral demeanor softening just enough to give away their amusement. "Maybe. Cholera’s got a temper, but the others are fine. You just have to be calm."

Will huffed a quiet laugh, his tension easing slightly. "Calm, huh? Should be easy enough."

"You’re always tense," the teen said bluntly, tilting their head as they watched him. "The rats can tell. You should probably breathe or something."

Hannibal’s lips curved into an indulgent smile at their candor. He adored how effortlessly they spoke their mind—so different from the guarded subtleties most people employed. And Will, bless his complex mind, seemed entirely charmed by it.

"I am breathing," Will retorted, his tone carrying a note of mock indignation. "Maybe I’m just…different from rats."

"That’s debatable," the teen quipped, though their smirk grew into something warmer as one of the bolder rats sniffed at Will’s hand before scampering up his arm.

Will froze, his eyes wide, and Hannibal chuckled softly. "It seems you’ve been accepted," he remarked, his tone rich with amusement. "An honor not given lightly, I assure you."

The teen nodded solemnly, as though Hannibal’s words were gospel. "Yeah. If Cholera likes you, you’re okay."

Will glanced between them, his lips twitching into a bemused smile. "Well, that’s a relief. I’d hate to be rejected by…Cholera."

The rat in question perched on Will’s shoulder, chittering softly, and the teen gave a rare, genuine laugh—a sound that caught both Will and Hannibal off guard. Hannibal’s chest swelled with warmth at the sight of the two bonding, the sharp edges of their respective personalities softening as they found common ground.

For Hannibal, this was more than he could have hoped for. Watching Will, the man who had captured his heart with his brilliance and empathy, and his ward, the child who had become the unexpected center of his world, grow closer felt like the culmination of something profound. He had orchestrated many things in his life, but this—this was pure serendipity.

Will, still adapting to the chaos of rats scurrying across him, glanced up at Hannibal. "You’re awfully quiet over there," he said, his voice light but curious. "Enjoying the show?"

Hannibal’s smile deepened, his eyes warm as they met Will’s. "Immensely," he replied. "It is rare to witness such harmony. You’ve both surprised me."

The teen, still laughing softly, looked between them and said, "You’re both weird, but I think that’s why this works."

Will raised an eyebrow, glancing at Hannibal. "Weird, huh? I guess I’ll take that."

"As will I," Hannibal added smoothly, his tone affectionate. "Weirdness, after all, is simply a deviation from the ordinary. And I would have no other way for our family."

The word hung in the air—family—and for a moment, all three of them sat in a comfortable silence. The fire crackled, the rats chittered, and the connection between them felt solid, unshakable. Hannibal, watching the two people he cared for most in the world bond so effortlessly, allowed himself a rare moment of unguarded happiness. This was it. This was home.