#what does will graham say when hannibal is eating him out?

[bmissyb]

hannibal reference on new (2025) coke cans? might as well scream "WE ARE RENEWING HANNIBAL" while they're at it

[gallavichsreddie1128]

Wife (Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham)

Description: Will and Hannibal have a wife that is just as crazy and messed up as they are.

Warning: Smut, Murder

Word Count: 2,556k

Hannibal and Will shared many things. The urge and like to kill, intelligence, love etc. But the best thing they shared was a wife. Y/N. She was legally married to Will but they all had a wedding together and had rings so maybe not by law but all three were married. Y/N was just as dangerous as the two as well. She knew of what they did and what they were capable of and she joined in. She loved it too. It made things so much easier on Hannibal and Will. They didn't have to force her to help or hide what they were doing, she just did it all without a complaint. Like right now: They all had a guest over that wasn’t aware of the relationship they had. Hannibal invited this guy over and he was about to be a meal. Y/N sat on Will’s lap in a red dress, her hair was up in a bun and her makeup was a basic nude look. Why wasn’t she sitting in a chair? It’s more fun this way. They all ate the food that Hannibal cooked up for them. Y/N stared at the guy Hannibal invited as he ate the food not realizing he was eating another human. It made her chuckle. She observed the guy as he put the fork of food in his mouth. She looked over at Hannibal as he talked with the guy. Will sometimes interjected to be a smartass but Y/N hadn’t said a word.

The guy looked at Y/N on Will’s lap and she waved at him with an innocent smile. He smiled at her and Will glared at the guy. The guy looked away and Y/N looked behind her at Will. His glare went away and he squeezed her hips. She rolled her eyes and went back to eating. “So Mr. Lecter, I see a ring on your finger, you have a wife?” The guy asked. Hannibal nodded and set down his wine. “That I do. She was a real beauty.” Hannibal said.

Y/N hid the blush on her face. “Where is she tonight? If you don’t mind me asking.” Hannibal shook his head. “Not at all. She’s here with us.” The guy looked confused. Poor idiot. “Right over here.” Y/N said with her hand up. The guy looked over at her and at Will. “So those two aren’t married?” He asked. “No we are.” Will said. “So she’s married to the both of you?” He asked. “I am.” She said. “Is there a problem with that?” Will asked. The guy shook his head at the dark tone in Will’s voice. “No, not at all. You just don’t see that too much.” Y/N got up off of Will’s lap and sat next to the guy. She looked over at him with her chin resting in her hand. “What makes it special, ain’t it?” She asked. The man nodded. “Yeah I guess it does.” She looked at his hands and noticed there wasn’t a ring on it. She grabbed his hand and examined it.

He looks at her weirdly as she looks at his hand. “You don’t have a ring on your finger. You aren’t married. So you gotta girlfriend?” She asked him. He shook his head No. She dropped his hand on the table. Will and Hannibal watched the scene play out in front of them. “Well I guess that makes this easier.” She says and pulls at a knife. She quickly stabs him in the head. He gasps and groans in pain as he twitches from shock. They all watch him as he freaks out. “What the fuck?” He freaked out. “When that gets pulled out you die.” She tells him and takes a seat on Hannibal’s lap this time. They all watched the man as he was breathing hard and trying not to freak out too much. “Will take it out.” Hannibal tells him. Will gets up and the guy freaks out yelling No as Will grabs a hold of the knife and pulls it out of the guy’s skull. Blood pours out and the guy falls on the table. Will looks at the knife and smirks.   

Other times when they killed people it wasn’t always a known fact that they were married or at all. Y/N set down her wedding ring and gave a deep breath. She was in the skankiest dress she had and heels. The dress was a pretty dark purple, her hair was straight and she had a basic makeup look. She walked out of the bathroom and looked for a decent looking guy she could play with and the boys could kill. She saw one about 6’4 and in a suit. He looked really good. He had shaggy hair and green eyes. She walked over to him moving her hips catching his attention. He looked at her and smiled as she approached him. “Hello there.” she said with an innocent smile. “Hey there, beautiful.” He said to her and checked her out. Will and Hannibal glared as they watched the man’s eyes drag over their wife’s body like she was meat. They watched as she twirled her hair and flirted with him. Her hand on his arm as she led him away from the party scene and to her room. He chuckled as she leaned up to kiss him, only cracking the door. Will and Hannibal followed them and watched through the cracked door. Their lips moved together as she sent the signal for the boys to enter the room.

They pushed open the door with a dark look in their eyes. “Well well well, what do we have here?” Will said. The guy pulled away from Y/N and looked behind him at the guys standing there. “Looks like these two were about to have sex.” Hannibal answered. “Get out of here you creeps.” Y/N yelled. She went up to them and tried to push them out of the room when Hannibal grabbed her. She screamed. “Okay guys let her go. We can just leave and go somewhere else.” He said. Y/N struggled in Hannibal’s arms as Will approached the guy. “No you won’t.” Will said to the guy. The guy laughed at him. “What are you going to do about it?” He asked Will. Will shrugged and pulled out a knife and stabbed the guy. The guy bent over and groaned in pain. Hannibal let go over Y/N and she walked over to the guy. “Sorry about this, my husbands are a little crazy.” She said sincerely. The guy managed to look up at her like she was crazy. “Husbands? You’re married?” She nodded and took the knife from Will’s hand. “Yes but I'm crazier.” Y/N said and stabbed the guy again in the stomach and dragged it across.

The guy screamed in pain and Will and Hannibal watched as their wife killed the bastard. The guy fell to the floor dead. Y/N turned towards them and smirked. She handed Hannibal the bloody knife. He took and smiled at her. “You did good, sweetie.”  He tells her. “Do I get a reward?” She asked them, batting her eyelashes. They look at each other and smirk. “I think she should.” Will said. Hannibal nods in agreement. “Take off your clothes and get on the bed.” Hannibal demands. She nods and looks at the body. “What about the body?” She asked. “We will take care of it after.” Hannibal tells her. She nods and starts to strip. The two watch her with their lip between their teeth as her bare body slowly starts to show. Her hands were bloody from stabbing the guy. “Are you guys going to undress?” She asked them, standing in nothing. Hannibal turns to Will and kisses him causing Y/N to gasp.

Will kissed him back and wrapped an arm around him pulling him closer. His other hand took off his blazer. Hannibal’s hands unbuttoned Will’s shirt and helped him take it off. Y/N watched in awe as her husbands kissed. She was getting wetter by the second. Once Will was shirtless his hands moved to Hannibal’s blazer and took it off. Hannibal gripped his ass through the dress pants making Will moan into his mouth. Once Hannibal was shirtless they pulled apart from the kiss out of breath. They looked at Y/N who was rubbing her clit at the sight. They smirked at her. “Come remove our pants.” Hannibal told her. She walks over to Will first and unzips the pants.

She gets on her knees and pulls the pants down his legs revealing his hard on through his boxers. She grabbed the hem of his boxers and pulled them down letting his dick spring up proudly. “Now come remove mine.” Hannibal tells her. She gets up and moves over to Hannibal and does the same thing. All three stood bare in front of each other and the dead man on the ground. “Onto the bed, bunny.” Will tells her. She gets on the bed with her legs spread revealing her wet pussy. Hannibal took Will’s hand and they walked over the dead body to their little wife. “Look at how pretty our baby is.” Will said. She looked up at them with puppy dog eyes, waiting to be touched. “Who do you want first?” Hannibal asked her. She looked between the two of them. “I want Will’s tongue.” She said. Will was amazing at sex but even better at giving her head. Will smiled and dropped to his knees. He grabbed her legs and pulled her to the edge of the bed. Her dripping wet pussy now inches away from his face. He blew on her a little, making her gasp at the cool air. He took a finger and wiped her pussy gathering her wetness. She let out a little moan at the feeling.

He put the finger in his mouth and hummed at the taste. “You taste amazing, bunny.” He told her. Her face turned red and his words. He leaned forward and licked up her pussy gathering the juices on his tongue. “Stop teasing me.” She whined. He chuckled at her plea and dove right in . Her hands immediately went to his hair. His tongue explored her craven like a maze. Hannibal watched closely at how Will licked and sucked on her. Her moans were loud and pornographic as he pleased her. His name fell from her lips like a prayer. His hands gripped her thighs as he moved his head from side to side making her gasp. Her hips started humping his face making her whine louder. Each thrust of her hips she moaned out to the boys. Hannibal dropped to his knees and got closer to the two. “Good boy, Will.” He praised.

He leaned down and kissed the man’s neck. Will moaned into her pussy as Hannibal attacked his sweet spot. The vibration making her gasp and pull at the man’s hair. She was close. Oh so close. Her hips were going wild as was Will’s tongue. Her hole was clenching around nothing and her thighs started to shake. Hannibal pulled away from Will’s neck and looked at the girl. “Are you close?” He asked her. She nodded and moaned out a yes. He smirked and stood up getting on the bed with her. He played with her hair. “Are you going to cum for us?” He asked. She whined out a yes and gasped as she felt her climax hit. Her hips went crazy and her moans got so loud. “Good girl.” Hannibal said and leaned down kissing her neck.

Will let her ride out her orgasm before pulling away from her cunt. He had her juices all over his mouth. Hannibal pulled away from her neck and saw Will’s face. He leaned towards him and kissed him, tasting her juices. Y/N leaned up and watched them kiss. Hannibal pulled away from the kiss and licked Will’s lips, cleaning off his face. “You’re right she does taste amazing.” Hannibal says. Will stood up and switched places with Will. “Are you ready for my cock sweetheart?” Hannibal asked her. She nodded. He stood up and lined his hard cock with her entrance. Will watched as Hannibal entered her. She moaned his name as he pushed into her inch by inch until he was deep. Will started kissing Hannibal’s neck making the man’s breath pick up. He started thrusting deep and hard into her. She laid her head back and closed her eyes, moaning at the feeling of him deep inside of her.

Will was sucking and biting the man’s neck leaving hickies. Hannibal hated that and would have to punish Will for it later but right now he was enjoying the wetness and warmth of their wife’s pussy. His hips now slamming into her over and over again. “Does that feel good, Hanni?” Will whispered in his ear, biting it softly. Hannibal groaned out. His groan wasn’t loud enough for Y/N to hear over her moans. Will’s face was in Hannibal’s neck mumbling sweet nothings trying to get him to cum so he can be inside Y/N before she cums. Hannibal was so close just by Will’s words. He knew what he was doing and tried to hold off but he couldn’t. “Hanni.” Y/N screamed and that’s all it took for the older man to cum. She gasped as she felt Hannibal’s cum deep inside of her. “Yeah fill that pussy.” Will said and watched Hannibal’s face calm. Hannibal’s hips stopped after he came. Y/N looked up at him with a glare. “Relax darling we are switching spots.” He said and pulled out of her. Will quickly entered her and groaned.

Her pussy was like home to him. He loved it and never wanted to leave. Hannibal watched as he didn’t take a moment and started fucking Y/N like he waited his whole life too. Hannibal thought it was a beautiful sight. His two lovers becoming one. “Will.” She screamed as he hit her g spot over and over again. His head was back and his eyes were closed. He was making noise as well but Y/N was louder. If Hannibal didn’t know any better he would think it was a competition about who could be louder during sex. He himself wasn’t a loud person during sex but his lovers were. Will couldn’t help himself. Whether it was Hannibal sucking his dick or Y/N’s tight pussy he couldn’t help but scream. Y/N gasped feeling herself get closer to her release. Will felt it too. His hips lost their rhythm as he whined her name.

Hannibal watched the two lose their breath and shake as they cum together. Both of their eyes rolling back and hips moving as they ride out the blissful high. Both men filled her to the brink. Will pulled out of her letting their cum drip out of her hole. She looked fucked out and tired. Will collapsed on the bed next to her and sighed. “That always feels amazing.” He breathes out. Hannibal gets on the other side of her. She looks at the two men and smiles. “I love you guys.” They smile and say it back. Forgetting about the dead body until Y/N gasped remembering it. “Guys, the body.” She exclaimed sitting up.

Masterlist

[ficnation]

Chapter 10: The Big Bad Wolf

Series: “Eat Your Heart Out” Pairing: Hannibal Lecter x Female! Reader x Will Graham Word count: 5,0k+ Warnings: canon-typical warnings, canon divergence, gore A/n: I hope you enjoy it just as much as I did. This is also a bday present for my friend. Happy birthday!!! Don't freak out <3 Main Masterlist || Hannibal Masterlist

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“Every social worker enjoys certain aspects of the job more than others,” the man explains with a smile that seems almost too forced; it’s been glued to his face since the moment Alana greeted him. “There are cases that you reach and cases you don’t reach.”

You spin the pen between your fingers with a steady rhythm, your mind wandering and tuning in and out of the conversation between Clark Ingram and Alana Bloom. But something about his demeanor strikes you—the way his bright smile seems permanently plastered on his face. It’s off-putting, unnatural, as if he’s struggling to maintain the facade of a polite and helpful citizen.

“Peter’s had persistent cognitive problems. Confusion, paranoia, rage.”

“Peter’s a sheep,” you mutter to no one in particular. “He can’t hurt an animal, let alone a human being.”

“You really like sheep, don’t you?” Jack jokes, reminding you of your choice of words from not long ago.

You look at him with a raised brow before nudging him in the arm with your elbow. “And you don’t? At least sheep don’t bite.”

Jack chuckles at your retort, but his expression quickly turns serious as he turns his attention back to Clark Ingram. “So, what do you think, Agent Avant? Is Peter Bernardone capable of violence?”

You pause, considering the question carefully. “It’s hard to say,” you reply, your tone measured. “But based on what we know so far, it doesn’t seem likely. His cognitive issues suggest a lack of capacity for such brutal acts. If he was ever violent toward anyone, it’s likely he was pushed to his limits and lashed out.”

Will and Hannibal stand to your left, listening intently to the conversation between you and Jack, as well as the one taking place on the other side of the thick one-way mirror. Their expressions are unreadable, betraying little of what they might be thinking or feeling.

They’re silent until the moment when Alana reaches out to touch Ingram’s hand. The social worker does nothing to hide his discomfort as he quickly shifts his hands away and leans further into his chair.

“That’s smart,” Will explains, hands tucked into the pockets of his pants. “She keeps pushing him on his feelings, not on the facts.”

Hannibal nods in agreement, his gaze focused on the interaction between Alana and Ingram. He casts a fleeting glance in your direction every now and then, his eyes catching your presence in his peripheral vision before returning to the scene before him.

“She’s trying to gauge how comfortable he is with emotion, if he has any,” Will adds, glancing at you too, curious to know your thoughts. “He couldn’t bear being touched by her.”

“It’s a telling reaction,” you remark, your voice calm and measured. “It suggests a deep-seated discomfort with emotional intimacy. Perhaps indicative of a psychopath?”

“Yes, his responses are typical of psychopaths during interviews, but could also indicate resentment,” Hannibal agrees.

“No, I don’t believe it’s resentment or hatred towards women,” you assert, your tone firm. Your eyes narrow thoughtfully.

“No, his eyes are dead,” Will concludes. “He’s a predator.”

“It’s the absence of empathy, of any real connection to the people around him. That’s what makes him dangerous.” You glance over at your husband, seeking confirmation or perhaps an alternative perspective, he acknowledges your words with a nod of his head.

The conversation between Ingram and Alana continues for a while longer, but your mind is too preoccupied to fully focus. You’re aware of their words, but your thoughts are elsewhere. You can’t shake the feeling that Ingram is hiding something. It’s the way he recoils from her touch, the way he conceals himself behind smiles and warm words. There’s an eerie resemblance to your father that sends chills down your spine; something in his demeanor triggers warning bells, a deep and primal instinct for danger.

You attempt to refocus on the conversation, but Ingram’s subtle gestures and body language keep drawing your attention. There’s something sinister about him, a feeling that resonates deep within your bones.

Suddenly, Jack’s voice pierces through the room, pulling you away from your thoughts. “Let him go,” he commands.

The panic in Will’s eyes prompts you to react, and you turn towards your boss with an annoyed expression. “Jack, don’t do that. You know he’s the one.”

“I’ve got nothing to hold him on,” Jack responds calmly.

“We can still get something out of him,” you insist, your eyes pleading. You couldn’t care less about the killer on the other side of the glass, but it’s evident that Will is invested in this case.

“Peter Bernardone is psychologically disadvantaged. He’s been manipulated,” Will argues, his hands clenching into fists by his sides. “As his social worker, this man is in a position of trust, and he has betrayed that trust.”

The realization hits you like a brick—this is personal. In a twisted, complicated way, this is no longer about catching the man responsible for killing sixteen women in cold blood. It might not even be about Peter anymore. The next sentence coming out of Will’s mouth confirms it.

“I know what it’s like to point at a killer and have no one listen.”

“You pointed in the wrong direction.” It’s all Jack says before leaving the room.

Your gaze instantly finds your husband’s face—his expression a mix of disbelief and powerlessness. You reach for his hand, and he doesn’t resist at all as you squeeze it reassuringly, nails gripping into his skin to keep his mind in the room with you and Hannibal. God, Hannibal. You almost forgot about his presence beside you with how quiet he’s become.

“We won’t let Peter Bernardone suffer for all of this, Will,” you assure him. It’s all you can offer—a useless promise that you might not be able to fulfill.

You find yourself in the BAU’s headquarters not long after, walking through the almost-empty corridors leading toward Crawford’s office. You can’t shake your husband’s heartbroken expression from your mind. It lingers hauntingly in the back of your thoughts, refusing to be forgotten.

The atmosphere is uncomfortably quiet, with only the echo of your footsteps breaking the silence as you make your way through the corridor. Your focus is consumed by the folder in your hands, flipping through its pages absentmindedly for at least half an hour. The world around you becomes a misty haze as you try to concentrate on the contrasting words printed on the white paper.

Suddenly, you’re snapped back to reality as someone grabs you by the arm and forcefully pulls you into the nearest room. The sequence of events unfolds so rapidly that it’s all just a massive blur.

“Hey, what the hell!” You react instinctively, swinging blindly at your assailant. Your hands make contact with their face, nails poised dangerously close to their eyes. It’s not the most efficient form of self-defense, but your reflexes have dulled since you’ve been out of the field.

As your vision clears, you recognize those dark, menacing eyes, though you’ve never seen them so up-close before. Their gaze is hypnotizing, compelling you to loosen your grip on their jaw. Despite the danger, you can’t bring yourself to let go entirely.

“It’s just me,” Hannibal’s voice cuts through the tension, tranquil and unaffected by the threat of your fingers near his eyes. His hands grip your elbows firmly, though not painfully, as he meets your panicked stare head-on.

“Why did you grab me like that?” you question him, a hint of vexation in your tone, though you notice how soft his skin feels under your palms.

“Do you prefer a gentler approach?” Hannibal responds calmly, his demeanor unruffled.

You blink slowly, confusion replacing your initial anger. You glance around the empty conference room behind him. “Why are we here?”

Hannibal’s grip on you loosens slightly as he looks over his shoulder before acknowledging your question. It appears he only just became aware of your location himself. “Coincidence.”

Hannibal’s eyes find yours again, and you both stare at each other in silence, unmoving. The tension between you is palpable, each moment stretched taut like a drawn bowstring. You’re not even sure if either of you is breathing, but you can still detect the faint fragrance of his cologne—notes of leather, cedarwood, and a hint of something darker and more mysterious, perhaps oud. The stillness of the air crackles with anticipation, and your shared curiosity poses the question: “who moves first?”

“Would it be rude of me to ask you to release me?” he finally breaks the tension, his tone almost reluctant, as if he secretly wished you would hold onto him a little longer.

You release him, albeit with some apprehension. “You wanted to see how I handle sudden threats, huh?” Your words are more of a statement than a question, delivered with a certainty that seeks confirmation.

“Yes,” he replies simply, catching you off guard with his honesty. It’s almost unnerving how straightforward his answer is.

You watch as a tiny smile quirks one corner of his mouth, the faintest twitch of his lips. It’s as if he was born to be intimidating yet effortlessly charming at the same time. Everything he does seems so well thought-through to the point of being eerie.

“And what conclusion did you reach?” you ask, striving to keep your voice steady. There’s an undercurrent of tension flowing between the two of you, and you can feel his eyes scrutinizing you, taking in every detail.

“More of a confirmation, really,” he replies, his gaze traveling from your face to your hands and back.

You know he noticed your hesitation before you let go of him. You know he’s still analyzing you, taking in every detail, every little movement you make. You can feel his eyes weighing you, measuring every ounce of your reaction, your breath, and your pulse.

“You reacted almost instinctively,” he concludes, not asking a question or suggesting that he expected anything less from you. “It’s a sign of strength.”

You can’t tell if he’s being serious or just saying that to be polite, and you feel compelled to challenge him on that statement, so you do: “And what would’ve been a sign of weakness then?”

“Not fighting back,” he replies simply, his eyes never leaving yours. “Not putting up a fight.”

Your mind struggles to process his answer. “So, what you’re saying is that someone showing weakness by letting themselves be attacked and possibly killed is worse than someone who reacts and fights back?” you reply, not hiding your disbelief at his words.

His response is almost immediate. “Precisely.”

You almost laugh at the straightforwardness of his reply. His words are as chilling as his demeanor. You want to challenge him, to call him out for his bluntness. But you can’t summon the energy, and your gaze falls away.

“What if someone doesn’t have it in them to fight back?” you ask, curious to see how he’ll respond. “Maybe they’re not capable of it.”

He considers the question for a moment, seeming to weigh a myriad of variables in his mind before giving you an answer. “The instinct for self-preservation is primal, ingrained in every living being. It doesn’t matter if they don’t have the physical ability to fight back; the urge to live overrides everything. Even a child will fight when pushed against the wall. Only the weak would let themselves be slaughtered without at least attempting to survive.”

You feel almost appalled by his words, their harshness sinking in. There’s a hint of sadness in your voice as you ask, “So you believe someone who doesn’t fight back is weak?”

“I don’t believe it, I know it,” he replies with a coldness you’ve never seen in his eyes before, a spark of something dark igniting in his pupils.

He’s serious, there’s no underlying joke or hidden meaning behind his words. You feel a chill run through you, the tiny hairs on your arms standing on end.

Hannibal raises his hand toward your face, dragging his knuckles over the skin of your jaw. He seems almost impressed that you don’t flinch at his touch.

“You’re as strong as they come, my dear,” he murmurs, his voice so low it almost blends with the hum of the wind outside the windows. He leans in, his soft lips pressing against your forehead, and then he leaves the room without another word.

You’re left there alone and stunned, your eyes staring ahead but not really seeing. Your body trembles, but instead of pure fear, there’s a hint of excitement running through your veins. Adrenaline rushes through you, and the feeling of his presence lingers in the air, both comforting and unsettling.

You wait in the conference room for a few minutes, trying to collect yourself, half-hoping that Hannibal will return. You feel like you’ve just been through a whirlwind of emotions, thoughts, and sensations.

But all you’re left with is the memory of his scent lingering in the room and the soft touch of his lips on your skin.

“You look like a man who has suffered an irrevocable loss,” Hannibal’s voice breaks through the quiet melody of the aria playing in the car. The psychiatrist’s choice in music doesn’t surprise Will in the slightest; he’s gotten used to his refined tastes.

“I’m trying to prevent one,” Will counters, gazing over his shoulder at your sleeping form curled up in the backseat.

“You look so peaceful—far more relaxed than he imagined you would be. Hell, just ten minutes ago the thought of you sleeping in the presence of Hannibal Lecter didn’t even cross his mind. It was different from the last time; this time you didn’t have anything to drink or soothe you—nothing. You just let your guard down so easily as if you didn’t see a threat in Hannibal anymore. Will didn’t like that at all.

“Do you think if you save Peter Bernardone, you can save yourself?” Hannibal’s voice breaks the silence, his words carrying weight in the confined space of the car.

“Save myself from what, Dr. Lecter?” Will asks, his eyes staring ahead yet again, but there’s a hint of annoyance in his voice—barely detectable.

“From who you perceive me to be,” the psychiatrist responds, his eyes briefly leaving the road to glance at you through the rearview mirror. Will swears he sees a subtle quirk of the man’s mouth at the sight of you.

“I’m afraid I need to be saved from who you perceive me to be.”

“Many troublesome behaviors strike when you are uncertain of yourself,” Hannibal observes, his focus returning to Will. Perhaps he senses he’s been caught. “Peter Bernardone lies in the same darkness that holds you.”

“No, I’m alone in that darkness,” Will replies without hesitation.

“You’re not alone, Will. You have me and her, standing right beside you through all of this.”

Will’s eyes find your figure again, and he bites the inside of his cheek, lost in thought. “I’m not sure if I want her to be. I don’t want to scare her off.”

“You won’t, Will. She’s not going anywhere, trust me.” Hannibal reaches for the other man and squeezes his arm gently—it’s strangely comforting, though it shouldn’t be.

When you reach Peter’s place, it’s eerily empty. All of the cages have been left open—no animal in sight. You can’t imagine the agony Clark Ingram must have put him through. The sight breaks your heart into a million pieces because you know Peter Bernardone has been pushed to his limit.

The three of you rush toward the stables, ready for the worst. Will is panicking inside and out, his hands trembling and breath coming out in shaky puffs of air, while you and Hannibal remain fairly composed. The contrast in your behaviors is visible from miles away.

As you find Peter, he’s kneeling on the ground beside the body of a dark-coated horse, his work nearly finished. The needle slides through the animal’s skin effortlessly, like gliding through soft butter.

Will is the first to break the silence as he steps toward the kneeling man slowly, with apprehension evident in his movements. “Peter…” he whispers hoarsely, his eyes glued to the sight of the blood-soaked animal before him.

The scene takes a while for your mind to process. The image of that defenseless horse lying lifeless on the stable floor, the smell of blood lingering in the air along with the subtle scent of death. All of you already know what has happened here—it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.

Hannibal catches your gloved hand in his and pulls you closer to himself. You feel his steady presence beside you, a calming force amid the turmoil. His touch is unexpected, yet it speaks volumes.

“Is your social worker in that horse?”

“Yes. I used to have a horrible fear of…” Peter speaks up, his voice trembling slightly but not out of fear. “Of hurting anything.”

You glance at Hannibal to gauge his reaction to the situation, but instead, you find him already looking at you—his eyes filled with a strange admiration. You were right after all; Peter couldn’t hurt a fly unless he was pushed to his limits.

Weirdly enough, this twisted reverence makes you feel just a little bit sick to your stomach. You shuffle forward, seeking proximity to Will and distancing yourself from Hannibal, forcing him to release his grip on your hand.

“But… He helped me get over that. Feels so abnormal.” Peter lets out a pitiful chuckle, tears rolling down his bony cheeks.

“An abnormal reaction to an abnormal situation is normal behavior,” Hannibal concludes, his eyes now cold and distant. You’re unsure whether it’s due to the situation before you or your withdrawal from his affectionate touch.

“I think he deserves to die,” the kneeling man says, his voice filled with helplessness as he looks between the three of you.

“He does,” you mumble, more to yourself than anyone else. You’re relieved when there’s no immediate reaction to your words, but the way Hannibal’s eyes bore into your back tells you he heard.

“But you didn’t deserve to kill him, Peter,” Will says, shaking his head. He crouches beside the man, offering a reassuring hand that rests gently on his back as Peter stares at the dead horse. “I want you to come with me.”

You and Will help the man stand up as his legs shake, threatening to give up beneath him. Only now do you see how much damage this situation has done to the poor guy. He didn’t deserve any of this, but the world has always been a cruel place—evil humans’ second nature.

When Will and Peter head toward the barn door, you and Hannibal linger behind. Will’s uncertain, but not worried glance your way is a testament that something has shifted between the three of you. You just have to figure out what.

“Cruelly poetic,” you say, standing a safe distance away from the man and the corpse.

“He’ll be just fine,” Hannibal murmurs in response to your statement as he watches Peter and Will slowly make their way out of the stable. His gaze is calculatingly cold, the smallest twitch of a muscle in his cheek betraying the emotions underneath—the genuine emotions he rarely lets others see.

“It was necessary,” he adds softly. “He needed to rid himself of that darkness within.”

“Necessary?” you question, your eyes still glued to the two men walking away and not the psychiatrist standing before you.

Hannibal’s eyes move from Peter and Will to you, the corner of his mouth twitching into a slight smirk. You feel like he’s expecting you to say something more, but you can’t think of anything to reply.

“Necessary,” he repeats, and now his eyes find yours with that same calculating stare.

“The way you view life and the world itself... It’s peculiar,” you notice, sticking your hands into the pockets of your coat.

Hannibal’s gaze never leaves yours, and he doesn’t reply at first. There’s a slight smirk playing on the corners of his mouth again, and for a brief moment, you wonder if he’s judging you or if he agrees.

“I find my way of viewing life perfectly reasonable,” he finally says quietly, the words almost whispered. You notice a small twitch of the muscles beneath his eyes, and you wonder if you said the right thing or not.

“You do?” you ask, still searching for his gaze, but you can tell that he’s no longer looking at you. He’s staring at something in the distance instead then heading toward one of the stalls that holds white sheep.

“In life, we need some form of guidance to help us navigate the unknown,” he adds quietly as he pets the woolly animals. They’re not afraid of him. “I’ve found mine. What about you?”

Before you have a chance to respond, you notice Clark Ingram’s bloody fingers, ripping the stitches on the dead horse’s stomach. He tears through them from within, letting the guts spill out of the corpse as he crawls out of it.

Hannibal strolls toward him so casually, his hands dipped into the pockets of his perfectly pressed pants as he looks at the man’s struggle. You join him by his side as an involuntary smirk crawls up your face at the sight of the social worker coughing out blood and stumbling over his own legs. It’s amusing.

The psychiatrist admires your expression, slightly astonished by your reaction. He certainly didn’t expect you to show your true colors so fast. Not a care in the world of how your satisfaction might come across to others.

When Ingram reaches for the bloody hammer, you feel Hannibal’s hands tugging you closer yet again. You let him, leaning on him like an old friend—hip to hip. The warmth of his body is comforting, stirring something insatiable deep inside you.

“Mr. Ingram. Might want to crawl back in there if you know what’s good for you,” Hannibal says casually as he steps aside, taking you with him.

You didn’t even realize that Will had entered the stables. He holds a gun steadily in his hands, pointing it straight at Ingram’s head. Your smirk disappears just as quickly as it appeared, slight shock taking its place on your face.

“Will…” you mumble breathlessly.

You try to reach for him, but Hannibal doesn’t let you step away from him as he tugs you even closer into his side. He presses his lips to your temple and whispers, “He won’t do anything. Don’t worry.”

You’re not sure you believe him. You’ve seen how personal this was to Will, how panic and pure anger took turns in taking over his body since the moment he met Peter. The emotions were controlling him in a way nothing and no one else could.

Ingram drops the sledgehammer to the ground, falling to his knees with arms open and raised like wings—like a blood angel. “Officer… I’m the victim here,” he breathes heavily, but the smile that flashes over his features tells a different story.

“I’m not an officer. I’m Peter’s friend,” Will counters, ignorant to your begging eyes.

Don’t do it, Will. Please, don’t do it.

“Peter’s confused.”

Will feigns hesitation as he lowers the gun just slightly. But the way he grips the weapon tells you easily that he’s far from done with Ingram—his hold doesn’t loosen even for a mere second.

“I’m not.” He raises it back up with an air of palpable confidence. He knows what he wants. He wants to see Clark Ingram begging for life, drowning in the pool of his own blood, choking on it.

You squeeze Hannibal’s fingers so tightly, you’re surprised when he doesn’t even flinch. He just observes Will expressionless.

“Please, Hannibal,” you beg him under your breath, barely audible. You know he hears you, even if he pretends otherwise.

“Pick up the hammer,” Will throws the command, gesturing toward the bloody object that was just thrown to the ground moments ago.

Hannibal glances at your horrified expression, then at Will’s lips pressed tightly in anger. “Will,” he finally interjects with so much stoicism in his voice. His stare alone is insistent enough to make just about anyone listen to him.

But not Will. Will is deaf to Hannibal’s words—especially right now. He doesn’t want to hear him, he doesn’t want to be heard by him. He has a chance to make it right for Peter’s sake, maybe even for his own sake.

“Pick it up,” Will keeps insisting, now, even more agitated. He pops the safety off and puts the pistol almost directly in front of Ingram’s face.

“It won’t feel the same, Will,” Hannibal tries again, stepping toward Will. “It won’t feel like killing me.”

“It doesn’t have to.”

“You did the best anyone could do for Peter, but don’t do this for him. If you’re going to do this, Will, you have to do it for yourself.”

You blink slowly in shock before you push Hannibal away from your husband. You take his place and move so close to Will, you can almost feel his shaky breath on your skin.

“Will, please,” you beg softly, “don’t ruin your life. This isn’t going to fix anything.”

“How do you know, huh?” he spats out, his voice mean—meaner than he ever was toward you.

The adrenaline and the rush of the situation are threatening to derail any semblance of calm you’ve managed to keep over the past hour. You grit your teeth and murmur so quietly, in hopes only he can hear you, “Trust me, I know.”

That seems to awaken him temporarily as he looks at you for a second, confusion written all over his face. His eyes are wide open, searching your face for answers—he finds nothing.

Hannibal’s gaze never leaves you two, watching you carefully. Will is so focused on this mystery, he doesn’t even notice when you take the gun out of his hands and point it at Ingram yourself.

“What?” Will asks, his eyes snapping back to you as you push the gun towards Ingram.

“P-please… Please don’t,” the social worker begs as you step closer and press the gun harshly to his left temple.

“Oh, would you like me to be gentler?” you ask, tilting your head. There’s something deeply attractive about the way you hold the gun with unwavering determination, a fierce protectiveness radiating from you. There’s not an ounce of doubt in your expression; you really do look like a cop now.

Will, amidst the chaos of his thoughts, finds himself strangely drawn to you in this moment. His gaze is fixed on your face, and he can’t help but admire the way you look with that gun in your hand. It’s such a contrast to the innocent woman he married—it’s a side of you he never knew existed. There’s a primal allure to your fierce stance, a primal instinct that resonates with him on a level he can’t quite comprehend.

Hannibal notices the expression on Will’s face, and a smirk plays across his lips. He understands the magnetic pull that emanates from you—the allure. He shares the sentiment with Will, recognizing the primal attraction you exude as you hold the gun with a steady hand.

Your complexity intrigues and captivates them, drawing them in despite the inherent danger. They find it both thrilling and unsettling. The darkness hiding in them stirs with your presence, awakening that primitive instinct that’s been lurking in the depths of their souls. You have them completely entranced, and they can’t tear their eyes away.

Will once thought you were quite simple. He learned to read you like a book, then you disappeared and came back after almost ten years with no contact and he still felt like he knew you well enough. But lately? You’ve been unpredictable, complicated and twisted in your own particular way.

All of them hold their breath, the tension thick. The only sound heard is Will’s breathing—heavy and slow.

Ingram’s eyes are glued to yours. Something in the look he gives you makes all the anger and resentment wash away from your mind, and it takes you a moment to remember why you’re standing there with the gun.

You lean over Ingram and whisper something in his ear that no one else other than him can hear. Judging by the puddle of his own piss that pools on the floor, no one else would want to hear it. His eyes bulge with fear and shock, and he can’t make a peep in response.

Then, you pop the safety back on and hit the social worker in the temple with the butt of the gun. He tumbles over to the floor with a thud.

“Temporal region,” you conclude, straightening up. “You hit it with enough force and you can either kill someone or make them pass out.”

“Good to know,” Will mutters, looking at you again with newfound appreciation and respect.

Hannibal is also staring at you, with a newfound sense of admiration. He’s suddenly aware of your own power over others. As a psychiatrist, he’s learned what kind of tactics are used to break people down, and he knows that you used them against Ingram with devastating precision.

“What did you say to him?” he asks quietly, the rage still lurking just beneath the surface.

Hannibal watches as the two of you stare at each other intensely. He can’t help but feel a strange excitement rising inside of him as he watches the two of you square off against each other.

Will’s intensity is almost palpable—there’s a primal instinct within him that craves power, and he’s fascinated by the way you wield yours.

“Nothing that you need to know,” you reply simply, not about to divulge the details of your threat.

When Hannibal sees the intensity in both of your gazes, he can’t help but feel a strange stirring within him. He’s never seen the two of you so intense about anything before.

Will’s eyes narrow as he stares at you. He wants to know what you said, he wants to know the darkest depths of your mind. But he respects that it’s something you don’t want to share and lets it go.Hannibal can’t take his eyes off the two of you. It’s almost like he’s staring at a trainwreck he can’t look away from. He might just be right.

Taglist (I tag ppl that leave a comment or ask me for it): @strrvnge @raininhell @crowsoundsonly @gabriella-aesthetic @gayschlatt69 @russian-soft-bitch @lokittyy @hellouseemc00l @justaproudslytherpuff @it-s-tickety-booh @r4diocabeca @sanriogarbage @zoleea-exultant @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @emily-roberts @unsolvedghoulboyz @00hellohello00 @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @jadenblueberry @slashercupcake @octobermania @magdalenmillicent-blog @unsolvedghoulboyz @gabbyonjupiter @lanklr @oliviathecat06 @fatkissers

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER TEN: RABBIT

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

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, implied child abuse, self harm, fatphobia, body dysmorphia

This is chronologically the tenth chapter in the series.

Read beneath the cut...

Napalm is the slow fire of waking from a terrible dream, blind, gasping, burnt. The pain, though delusive, is made actual by the action of nerves.

Only a hand at your shoulder, vigorous in its attentions, hauls you up from the putrescence of slumber into the light-dark of four in the morning. You find Hannibal's shape through lashes gummed with sleep's adhesive.

His face is as impassive as a star, but his hair, ever coiffed, is displaced from the friction of his pillow.

“You were screaming,” he says, as you sit, stunned, in his arms. “What were you dreaming about? Do you remember?”

“No,” you say, although the scenes remain briefly in your vision, doubling like silk screen prints upon the walls.

Hannibal fills up a glass with fresh water and bids you to drink, his eyes pensive, unconvinced.

Only the notion that he may suggest you share his bed or else intrude upon yours impels you to honesty.

“I dreamt that I was trapped in one of the Silicone Lover’s dolls. That he was trying to squeeze me inside, and I wouldn’t fit. He said, ‘You’ve gotten so big since I last saw you. I’d better do something about that.’

“Then he started cutting me up with kitchen scissors, and I couldn’t stop him.”

You pause, choking on a breath, a verbal stagger.

Dr Lecter offers you the water again, which you take in both hands and drain to its end.

“Take your time,” says Hannibal. “When you’re ready, go on.”

Lying will fail you before the all-seeing eye, so it is with a flat honesty that you say, “It wasn’t what the Lover did in my dream that scared me. It was what he said to me. Because he was right.”

You reach down to pull the quilt up across your stomach, which Hannibal, with a subtle gesture, prevents.

“To agree with such a statement there must be some basis of comparison for you,” he says. “You knew the person standing in as the Lover in your dream. Can you name him?”

Hannibal could guess it, from the little you’ve told him of your unclean past, but if memory conjures the name from the gully of silence he does not say so.

Instead, he comments, “I think it’s unwise for you to sleep again until your mind is settled. Perhaps we may take advantage of the hour to continue your therapy, in an informal fashion.”

He sits in a chair by your bed, producing a notepad and pen from a pocket of his dressing gown.

You see that he will not move.

"What if I don’t talk?” you ask, softly. “What if I say I'd rather take the punishment?"

Hannibal's slender lips upturn.

"I wouldn't be inclined to take such a claim seriously.”

In sullen defeat you flounce back against the pillows.

Dr Lecter takes his cue.

“I’m curious about the friendships you’ve formed throughout your life. Have there been any notable examples?”

“Not many,” you answer, looking at the raw edges of your fingernails. “I was kind of the weird kid. It was like looking through a dusty museum window at everybody passing by, not really knowing how to get out there and talk to people. Like I was too old and too young at the same time.

“I got bullied, kind of. Nothing worth talking about. Just dumb kid stuff.”

“Even persecution of a childish nature bears painful resonance in later life,” Hannibal comments. “Moreover, isolation from one's peers may disrupt development in those vital years.”

You think of dolorous hours patrolling a fallow playground alone, three hundred children staring through you with adult hostility.

“I did make one friend,” you say. “First year of high school. Amy Glass. She was a weird kid, too.”

Hannibal scratches deftly on his notepad.

"Describe how you met."

Closing your eyes, you find your way back through the forests of the past to a corridor whose tiled floor squeaks under your shoes. You smell textbook paper and saccharine body spray. The sweat of young bodies, and the stale cafeteria fare you’d never tasted throughout your time there.

“Between classes Amy would sit in a window listening to music, or reading,” you say. “Stephen King, usually. Sometimes Anne Rice. She seemed to be up there all the time. I don’t think she was getting shit from the other kids or anything; she just preferred hanging out on her own.

“I wished I was like that, not caring. I wished I was her, period.”

“In what way?” asks Dr Lecter, and in the hallway of your mind a slender figure appears, brown of skin and eyes, blue hair cut roughly to the chin, its roots seeping in atop it like a stain.

Amy.

“A lot of ways,” you say. “Before I really knew her, it was about how she looked. She had piercings— ears, lip, nose, eyebrow. Teachers would tell her to take them out, then the second she was out of their eye-line she’d put them right back in. And even back then she had these awful stick and poke tattoos of bats and crosses she covered up with band aids for classes.

“She did all of them herself with a safety pin. God knows how she didn’t get an infection or anything.

“Then there was the fact I knew we liked some of the same music because of the patches on her bag, and her t-shirts and stuff. Nothing you’d approve of,” you add, as interest touches the face of your listener. “Jesus, I can’t even imagine playing stuff like that in this house. Anyway, I didn’t want to just be like, ‘hey, you like that band, too’. It would have been too weird. Stalkery, maybe?”

“Music isn’t such a terrible way to form a connection,” says Hannibal, amused. “I was once approached in friendship through a shared taste in cheese.”

Picturing his restrained derision you cannot help but laugh.

“Oh, god,” you say. “What were they thinking?”

“It was a naive assumption of commonalities. Besides, my commitment to professionalism would never have allowed us to be as close as he would have hoped.”

You give a little start of affront.

“You’ve made friends with other clients.”

Dr Lecter’s smile remains.

“Only with those whom I feel my presence benefits.”

“Benefits you, you mean,” you say, pettishly. “Whoever it was, you just didn’t like him that much. That’s why you turned him down. Or maybe he was too like you.”

Without appearing offended, Hannibal turns a page in his notebook.

“I'm unconcerned with debating my personal relationships, little one. Let’s return to Amy. Who initiated the friendship between you?”

“Amy,” you say. “It was after this councillor was trying to get something out of me, and I didn’t want to talk. I walked out that room feeling so... heavy, and grimy, and embarrassed. Then there was Amy, heading to the same office I just walked out of. She looked at me, scrunched her face up, and said, ‘Wish me luck.’ Next time I saw her I made the same face back and asked, ‘how was it?’

“‘The worst, just like always,’ she said. ‘Where’d she get her certificate, anyway? Clown school?’

“I burst out laughing. ‘She’s so bad, right?’

“And that was it. Friends. We went everywhere together. Amy really liked me. I don’t know why. I think maybe she thought I was sort of mysterious and interesting rather than just depressed, probably because I didn’t want to talk about what was going on with me.

“She told me everything about her. How her dad didn’t believe in mental health issues even though he was just like she was, and how her mom just ignored everything, hoping it’d just... go away. But I didn’t tell Amy even one little thing about me, really. Not one.”

Guilt you’ve never truly confronted falls like a petal from a late summer bloom, cloying the dark with its flavour.

“Did Amy ever indicate that she’d recognised your particular illness?” prompts Hannibal, and you shrug glumly.

“A couple of times. I ignored every hint. Changed the subject. Acted like it wasn’t a thing when it obviously was. I knew that she knew. That was the dynamic. She was softer, around me. She got it. She got me.”

Suddenly your breath feels very high in your chest, catching on a rib.

“I can’t help but notice your use of the past tense,” says Dr Lecter. “Might I assume that you are no longer friends?”

“We grew apart after school,” you mutter. “I think she would have liked it if I stayed in touch, but then sometimes I wonder if that’s just wishful thinking, and maybe she didn’t care all that much when we drifted apart and stopping talking.

“I have her on Facebook. That’s all, really. She was never a social media person anyway, but still. I could have tried harder. I don’t know why I didn’t.”

Hannibal allows the silence between you to ferment before he speaks again.

“Looking back, what do you think prevented you from maintaining contact?”

“I felt like after school was over she’d find other friends, and I’d just end up being left behind. So I got out of there before I had to see it happen.”

"You abandoned a friendship on the basis of a prophecy that might never have come to fruition."

"It would have,” you insist. “All my life I've had senses about things. Like, if I get a feeling something will or won't happen, I'm always right. Like I was right about you."

Swanlike, Dr Lecter’s hands move across his notebook, tactfully punctuating a note.

"It's common for sufferers of complex post-traumatic stress disorder to misinterpret their hypervigilance as psychic premonition. A heightened awareness of your surroundings and the behaviours of people in your vicinity develops in order to predict danger before it occurs. Pattern recognition is more mathematical than clairvoyant."

"What about my dreams?" you ask, sharply. “Are they math, too?”

"You've had other nightmares?” asks Hannibal, and leans forward, poised to digest you answer.

Canny, you hoard the matter like a serpent its glittering lair.

Hannibal accepts his defeat with grace.

Gathering up his notebook and the empty glass, he says, "That's enough therapy for now, particularly so early in the morning. I'll make you some tea, and you may return to sleep. Peacefully, this time, I hope."

*

Later, there is a meal that sits, sinking in a bath of bronze on Dr Lecter’s dining table, so much of it that you’re gorged merely from the arithmetic of its makeup.

“Arroz de Cabidela,” says Hannibal, as he pulls out his own chair. “A Portuguese dish made with rice, chicken, or rabbit cooked in its own blood. Today I’ve chosen rabbit. Have you ever eaten it before?”

It occurs to you that he expects you to be disturbed by the notion, but you are not. Meat is meat, all of it equally cruel. That life must end for the furthering of your existence has driven you to veganism many a time.

Little chance of sustaining such a diet now that you sleep in the devil’s slaughterhouse.

“No,” you say. “I’ve never tried rabbit. I heard it’s really... gamey.”

Your palate is scarcely educated enough to comprehend the statement. Still, it is apparently accurate, for Hannibal makes a low hum of agreement.

“It has similarities to poultry, in flavour, though it’s rather lean and dry. The blood stew adds a richness you’ll find complimentary, however.”

The scent is certainly inviting, but you are so committed to rejecting whatever is served to you that you feel lightheaded, succumbing to the altitude of starving heights.

“Couldn’t you have given me a smaller portion?” you ask, piteously. “I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s so... much.”

Hannibal glances from your plate to his own, his visage neutral.

“I’ve served you a great deal less than I’ve given myself,” he says. “That said, I’m sure we can settle our differences. I’m not unyielding, if I can see some effort is being made.”

You look him in the eye, hoping you appear more bold than frightened.

“Dr Lecter, you make me all these courses, and they’re crazy even for a normal person. I feel like you do it on purpose. And afterwards my stomach hurts.”

“That’s normal, after a period of fasting. Your body will adjust. Now, please eat.”

You don’t. The cut on your plate makes you think of the Lover’s dolls, how even at your slightest you wouldn’t have fit into such a shell. How, changed as you must be through Hannibal’s cooking, you would ooze over every edge.

“I could use the feeding tube, if you’re unwilling,” says Dr Lecter, rising from his chair to stand at your back. “It would be relatively easy for me to administer. But I’d hate to sour an otherwise pleasant meal with brute force.”

He cups your throat in his smooth hand, and you envision how lovingly he’d coil about you in restraint, guiding the pipe down through you as you choked and flinched in his grasp.

“I’ll eat a quarter,” you say. “That’s it. Then... then nothing else until tomorrow. I won’t sneak out of bed, and I won’t do anything that breaks the rules. Please, Dr Lecter. Uh... Daddy?”

Your confusion between roles endears you to him, as does your breathless, eager willingness to beg.

“Should I allow you to barter?” Hannibal muses, still caressing the wand of your stiff neck. “It’s a symptom of your illness, after all.”

“Just let me choose how much and I’ll try anything you offer me.”

Dr Lecter releases a small breath of laughter.

“I wouldn’t like you to eat your words, little one.”

Gnashing your teeth, you say, “I won’t. I can do it. Please let me. You’re supposed to dote on me, aren’t you?”

You feel Hannibal’s lips against your hair in a kiss of paternal indulgence.

“Always so spirited,” he says. “Very well. I cannot deny my little beauty her request.”

What beauty does he refer to? You’ve only recognised it in the mine shafts of furthest hunger, mistaking a shadow for some precious stone.

Yet clearly you are not so low quality as you believe if both men have fucked you so freely over other women, whom they could conceivably draw into the net of the house.

Then again, there is no accounting for the tastes of madmen, and mad they both are, even Hannibal in his gelid divinity.

From the topiary of his language and flippant games you are beginning to see that you interest him in your very opposition to his being. Were you to succumb completely you would not be so worthy: all men bow to Hannibal, after all, seduced and deceived until they’d lick his fingers like lambs for the milk of his approval.

You, like Will, resist and evade enough of his passes to set yourself apart from the flock.

You may yet throw a halter over the head of the horned man, if only in as much as he allows himself to be reigned.

Quartering your meal as neatly as you're able, you glance up at Dr Lecter, afraid that, by some caprice, he’ll break his code and force you to eat down to the bare plate. But he merely stands by, retaining his honour, and as you look at him you picture his mild hands breaking the neck of the rabbit to drain as though for a ritual of blood.

*

Frequently through your days with Hannibal he immerses himself in hobbies and work about the house, cultivating a necessary solitude after the long hours of ingesting others’ anxious thoughts.

He reads, or writes music, sketches, telephones his friends and past lovers—of whom there are many—or else sets his pen to journals, having seen you safe to your locked room, where he need not prepare for misdemeanour.

In this way your residence in Hannibal’s home does not impede upon his individual pursuits, but rather compliments them, an accent of his sempiturnal glamour.

You are, after all, but one of his many pastimes. It is indulgence, then, when he insists on attending your evening bath.

As he kneels beside the tub to dampen a washcloth his intentions surface, another infringement upon the flesh.

“I don’t need you to help me,” you mumble, arms taut across your chest. “I’m not your baby.”

“Your inner child wails for the tenderness your illness has long obstructed,” says Hannibal, calmly. “Your independence would have you die like an infant abandoned to the forest. Let me carry you, at least in this small act of service.”

You look at him with eyes as dull as old blades and picture the futility of your struggle, his lithe arms holding you, kicking and airless, beneath the foam.

“Don’t you have your own daughter you can do all this with?” you ask; you’ve not yet needled him on his familial relations, and feel yourself more than entitled to know.

Hannibal begins to work the flannel over your naked form, paying no heed to your twitching affront.

“Abigail would have served the role admirably,” he says. “But it wasn’t to be. As for my own children, I have none.”

The revelation passes you without surprise. It’s only possible to imagine him having elegant, adult offspring, absent of the soiling indignities of rearing an infant.

“So you took me away for you and Will to raise,” you say. “Guessing he doesn’t have kids, either.”

The washcloth folds beneath the water, and you gaze studiously at the opposite wall so as not to think about the hand behind the fabric, how it has touched you in other ways, pleasantly, horridly.

“Will is also childless,” says Dr Lecter. “He has never known family, as you have. His mother left him when he was only an infant, and his father was a distant figure, though present. Now it seems that they’re estranged from one another. One can only imagine the loneliness Will has known in his life. Perhaps, with your assistance, this will change.”

Cloth, skin, hands, touch. Gentle and beguiling their trap, to distract from the permanence of this suggested triptych as fingers play against you underwater.

Unsteadily, you ask, “Is Will your boyfriend?”

Hannibal turns you an indecipherable look.

“Do you perceive our relationship to be romantic?”

A strange question, considering the violation with which you were inducted to their company. But not once did either man kiss or grasp the other— a technicality, certainly, yet one, it seems, that holds weight.

“Yes,” you say. “For you, anyway. I don’t know about Will. I know he thinks highly of you. He just sees me as something that’s in the way.”

You kick a foot testily, splashing water over the rim of the bath.

“What are you in the way of?” asks Hannibal, as he begins to lather your hair.

“Not sure. Your friendship, I guess.”

“Do you believe him when he implies that you're only an obstacle to him?”

Water pours over your head, and you close your eyes, enduring the sensation.

“He told me I’m unwanted,” you say.

“When you attempted to kill him?”

Fear bowls over you with a black suddenness.

“He told you?”

“I came to my own conclusions. You weren't quiet, either of you, that night."

You look at Hannibal, at the stag man of your dreams, and taste something like dirt, something like blood, at the back of your mouth.

“Had you seriously injured him or succeeded in your bid to end his life I would have been forced to conclude our treatment,” he says. “But you did not. I’m thankful to have been provided with a truth I hadn’t yet drawn from you: I know that you are not a killer, at least not at this present moment.”

In a strengthless whisper, you ask, “What do you mean?”

Hannibal draws a comb through your hair, unmoved by the conversation.

“As time changes the continents, people come apart through circumstance into new being. That shift may one day lead to the birth of murder’s country.”

A thought stings you like the cold: Will and Hannibal want you to be capable of killing, if not of them, then someone of lesser consequence, the hereditary illness emerging in the child.

That is the secret under this house, the whisper in the walls, its present haunting.

“I hope that never happens,” you mumble. “Never. No matter what you do.

“And yet the whetting of your blood thirst didn’t begin with Will and I,” says Dr Lecter, mildly. “Until you admit your liking of its flavour you will remain unsatisfied, little one.”

You do not ask how he knows you’ve thought of killing, once before, which you yourself had forgotten; having been in your home, the chill sanctum of your childhood bedroom, he may have learned, of you, a myriad, his interrogation merely a practice in contextualising his findings.

“I’d rather starve,” you say, at last, and sink your chin beneath the water.

Dr Lecter takes a razor from a nearby cabinet and begins to shave you with slow precision. He does not ask if you wish for it, only glides the razor across your underarms, groin, and each leg until you run silken beneath his hands.

That done, Hannibal rises, brushing unseen dust from his knees.

“I’ll bring you some fresh clothes,” he says, and leaves the room, a ghost departing the stage.

You look at the razor, entrapped in its plastic guard on the rim of the bath.

Had you a pair of scissors you might have cut the metal free to make a weapon, or else an escape into realms unknown to the living. Though its edge is still wickedness manifest, it would take a great deal of pressure to pursue death by this angle, though it would not be impossible.

It is not death you want to meet, however, but another, nameless coward.

You take the blade to your arm, and the pain is like eating, a sin that sates the freak of misery.

The bathwater turns like a devil’s baptism, and though they are but shallow cuts you feel suddenly faint. Lying back, you lay your arm against the porcelain, thinking murky thoughts of your mistake.

Hannibal returns carrying a muted lilac dress and pale stockings, stilling at the sight of you, of the water, red as autumn mud.

He sets down the clothing and kneels beside you again.

“Let me see.”

You let him take your arm and touch the crude little gashes softly.

“Shower, quickly. Then I’ll treat your wounds. Fortunately, they aren’t so deep.”

How gentle he is with you, this beast dressed as a man in his pressed shirt and waistcoat, guiding your numb form about with a soothing authority. You’d once yearned to be handled like this, to be absolved and set free of any and all expectation. That it comes from him is like being spit in the eye by the Fates, one after the other.

Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos: what have you done to so offend them?

It’s only after having bandaged your forearm and settled you, dummy-like, upon his bed, that Hannibal speaks again.

“What motivated you to do this?”

“You know.”

“Elaborate.”

You lie, face down, in the pillows. The cotton smells like him.

“To feel better,” you say. “Amy said it helped her, sometimes. Cleared her head.”

The mattress tilts slightly as Dr Lecter sits down beside you.

“You mirror her pain to feel closer to love lost. Has it helped you?”

“No. I feel stupid. I feel—”

Restless, you turn onto your side and feel a tear, compelled by gravity, mark your jaw.

“I feel like a kid,” you say. “It’s humiliating. I hate that I always feel this way. Don’t make me live like this.”

Dr Lecter presses a tissue into your hand, as much to save his bedclothes as to comfort you.

“Fighting the expression of necessary emotions will only stunt them further, little one. Will and I would dearly like to see you flourish. Amy would surely wish that for you, too.”

Cradling your wounded arm to your chest, you flick the used tissue to the floor with the other.

“Screw you,” you say. “Both of you. That’s what Amy would tell me to say to you, Dad.”

Hannibal stares at the tissue, and you sense the inward twitch of his irritation as he bends to pick it up from the ground.

“Your parents called again, this afternoon,” he says, offhandedly. “I informed them that you were struggling with your treatment. I advised that we continue your residence here a month longer than previously agreed.”

He casts you a pitying look, and you’re reminded of the futility of going to war with Hannibal Lecter.

“It seems that I made the prudent choice,” he says. “Don’t you agree?”

[i-arch-my-backula]

Make him dog food: Hannibal x gn reader

This is more of a personal thing based on a non-fan fiction thing I'm writing. I've been thinking and processing a lot of stuff and I am just feeling a lot of things. I love horror revenge stories so I felt this fit well.

Content warnings: Talk of cannibalism, murder, mentions of past abuse and sa, dogs being fed human meat, reader is kinda unstable, reader breaks down a bit

"Y/n. What are you doing here?" Hannibal asks, seemingly ignoring the fact you're covered in blood, but he knows it's not yours. Your face is tear stained and bloody along with the rest of your body.

"I killed him." You say cryptically walking into his house. He shuts the door behind you and guides you to his bathroom.

"Who did you kill?" He asks calmly, sitting you down and taking off your shoes.

"My ex-boyfriend." You say, running a hand over your hair. You look down at your hands covered in dry blood and just stare at them while Hannibal takes off your socks. "I've told you about him before. He's the one who never took no for an answer, you know who I'm talking about." Hannibal nods.

"Did it feel good?" He asks, standing back up and looking at you. He knows what your ex-boyfriend did to you when you were dating. How he abused and assaulted you over and over again. You'd mentioned your feeling about what should be done to him, Hannibal only encouraged them. "Did killing your ex-boyfriend make you feel like you finally got justice?" He asks, turning on the shower.

You shake your head and look over at him, finally picking up on the scent of the dried blood all over you. Before you killed him you paralyzed him. You took your time killing him. He didn't deserve a quick, painless death.

"It made me feel better. But it's not justice. I brought the body here. It's in my car. I know you eat people Hannibal. But eating him is too good for his body," You say, standing up, "Are you visiting Will Graham anytime soon? At his house in Virginia?" You take off your coat and hand it to Hannibal.

"Yes I am, in a couple days." He smiles slightly and motions for you to go into the shower. "What does Will Graham have to do with your plans?" You put your hand under the shower head and feel the temperature of the water.

"Let's feed him to dogs. I want to make him dog food." You say, watching as the dried blood starts to wash away from your hand slowly.

Hannibal nods and opens the bathroom door. "I can have that arranged. Shower first, I'll get the body ready." He shuts the door and you peel off your bloody sweater and pants. You get fully undressed and walking into the shower, the run off water going from clear to pink.

You start to clean yourself with soap when some tears roll down your cheeks. You got your revenge, he can't hurt anyone anymore, but it still hurts to even think of what he did. You start to quietly sob as you keep washing yourself, scrubbing your skin harder and harder, maybe hoping you'll reach a layer of skin he never touched.

When you leave the shower your skin is hot and irritated from the water and the scrubbing you did. You wrap yourself in a towel and gather your dirty clothes before leaving the bathroom. You find clothes laid out for you from Hannibal. You put your dirty clothes in the hamper in the room and put on the clean ones. You dry off your hair and take a couple deep breaths when it all hits you.

This entire time you've felt detached from what he did to you but now, after killing him it's all coming back. You start to break into a sob, a loud, guttural sob. Hannibal comes back into the room and helps you stand up. He holds you in his arms while you sob, your head throbbing with pressure and your cheeks becoming wet.

After a good ten minutes of you sobbing you finally calm down. You wipe your eyes and pull away from Hannibal.

"Make him dog food." You say seriously to him, your voice still choked from the sobbing. Hannibal just smiles slightly and nods.

"I will." Is his reply.

[thatswhatsushesaid]

ok so i understand why it's appealing to read junlian (like i'm literally in that camp with all the respectable fans with impeccable tastes) but. but i think it's Important for the sake of fully Understanding their dynamic and representing it in the most accurate way to keep in mind - at all times - that it was always meant to be a (pseudo)parental relationship first and foremost.

JW is not the representation of a toxic jealous ex. he's the representation of a toxic parent who will traumatise you in the most horrific ways while saying (and genuinely believing in his own mind) that he's only doing it for your own good. he loves you because you remind him of all the good parts of himself. he can't stand seeing his own reflection in you. he won't ever let you go. it breaks his heart to have to break you, but what choice does he have? the outside world is cruel and it's his job to prepare you for suffering.

yeah i don't think the source material supports a read of jun wu's relationship with xie lian as an ex of any kind tbh, that's not the vibe i got at any point while reading the books. my shipping goggles aside, i hope i haven't conveyed that through my of my commentary, and if i have--oops! was it the comparison i drew between junlian and hannigram in my meme? i mean, even though by s3 the question of hannibal being explicitly in love with will graham is broached on screen by bedelia du maurier (to say nothing of their overtly intimate embrace before they tumble off the cliff together), s1 is where the comparison between the two dynamics really works for me. because imo hannibal's fascination with will at that point is at its most paternalistic, and will's rejection of him at the end of s1 when he finds out (or believes he's found out!) what hannibal did to abigail is analogous to xie lian's complete rejection of jun wu the moment he sees his reflection in the sword. end-of-s1 will is about as interested in hannibal romantically as he is in voluntarily eating abigail's ear: he isn't, he didn't ask for this, he's in hell, etc. similarly, xie lian's entire understanding of his relationship with jun wu, the rock and fundament of his time in the heavenly court, has just been irreparably destroyed. from his perspective, everything he thought he knew and understood to be true about their relationship was built on lies, and he's not wrong.

all that to say, while i do think that the text can support a romantic read of jun wu's feelings towards xie lian without ever explicitly confirming it as such, i for sure agree with you that that wasn't mxtx's intention when writing the dynamic. she's pretty clear, again and again when describing how xie lian sees jun wu, that his behaviour is seen and interpreted as parental and fatherly.

[most-screwed-by-writers-tourney]

Propaganda:

Hannibal: Immediately takes interest in will graham upon meeting him, and during season 1, he plans an elaborate way to frame will for murder for his Becoming, and believes he's doing what's best for will to bring out his dark side, via gaslighting, manipulating, drugging him, enducing seizures, making his encephalitis symptoms worse etc. He forcibly shoves a tube and a ear down will's throat while sensually caressing his face and neck. In season 2 hannibal constantly encourages will to embrace his violent side, and gets delighted when will says he wants to kill hannibal. He sends a guy to kill will so will can kill that guy with his bare hands, like a courtship, and then tenderly bandages will's bleeding knuckles. Will and hannibal planned to flee the country together, but after hannibal senses will's betrayal, he gets heartbroken. He holds will's cheek before he guts him, and then embraces him and strokes his hair, and then kills their adopted daughter figure in front of him. In season 3 hannibal flirts with a guy that looks like will and then kills him and mutilates him into the shape of a broken heart for will to find. Hannibal drugs will(again) and attempts to saw open his skull to EAT HIS BRAIN. When will rejects hannibal he turns himself in so will would know where to find him, and then proceeds to stay in the mental hospital/jail for three years waiting for will to visit him. Sometime during the years will was married, and hannibal got upset that will has a new family, so he sics a guy after will's family to kill them. He's absolutely ecstatic after he and will kill someone together in cold blood and lets will pull them off a cliff in an embrace. (And that's just the baseline of what he does, he is literally the definition of a yandere, albeit his character is a lot more complicated than that) TLDR: Hannibal is Obsessed with Will and has the most fucked up ideas of love and courtship

[littlespacereader]

hai! saw that you write for hannibal, could u do headcannons of him with a baby regressor reader?(i'll lead the details to u ofc i'll read anything u write!♡) i feel like he would be the most gentlest cg ever!!

A Hannibal request!! You have no idea how excited I was to write this! I’ve always felt Hannibal would be the sweetest and gentlest Caregiver ever just like you said! Definitely gonna have to make a Will one or a Hannibal and Will couple one after this. If that’s something you want to see let me know! With that being said, please enjoy!

Caregiver! Hannibal Lector Headcannons (Sfw)

Tw - (I’m making him not the criminal he is in the show so no cannibalism at all), mentions of diapers, mentions of pacifier.

After looking over his sister when he was younger he knows perfectly how to be the gentlest and softest Caregiver anyone has ever known.

He is all for his little one. He says he doesn’t spoil them…but of course he does.

He NEVER judges his little ones needs. You want a pacifier? Of course! You want to wear diapers? He’s all for it. Whatever you want or need he’s all for it. Never once judging you or seeing you differently. He loves you unconditionally.

He takes them with him everywhere, to the opera, to his office, but he also loves to take you out on little outings like the museum or the aquarium.

While he is strict with his rules, he’s also a softie when it comes to his little one. The puppy dog eyes are his weakness.

But when he does have to correct his little one he NEVER raises his voice. He calmly explains what they did wrong and what they should do instead next time.

He LOVES having his little one in their high chair in the kitchen with him while he cooks.

He ABSOLUTELY DIES when his little one wants to help him out with the cooking. He makes sure their utensils are safe, or he just lets them mix the ingredients in. Always closely watching and making sure they’re safe.

He always sits across from you at the table. While he is very neat and clean when he eat, he doesn’t mind you making a mess eating. He just smiles at you, honored you love his cooking so much.

He’s always super gentle when it comes to bathtime. He gives the BEST head massage when he washes your hair. It never fails to put you in a sleep state.

He can never put his little one down. He LOVES to carry them around, cuddle them or gently rock them in his arms. There’s no better feeling to him than his little one sleeping in his arms with their head resting on his shoulder.

Such a protective papa bear.

He is such a show off too, always showing colleagues photos of his little one and/or bragging about them.

He loves to play hide and seek with his little one. “Now where did Y/n go? Are they under the couch? No not there. How about here! No, not there.” All while their little one giggles and watches him walk past their spot.

At night he always makes his younger Regressor a bottle and read them a story, and then another story, and then another until he knows they’re in a peaceful sleep.

He sometimes reads bedtime stories in his native language because he knows his little one loves to hear it, even if they don’t understand it.

If his little one gets hurt or sick he immediately switches into Doctor Dad mode. He is tending to their ever need and nurses them back to their healthy self.

While he keeps his and his little’s life very regimented, that all goes out the window when he meets Will Graham. Will brings a whole new life to his and his little’s life.

He makes sure to have a good balance of having alone time with his little and having time with him, Will and his little.

The three play a game called “Monster Hero” where one of them is the monster trying to get the little one and the other is the hero trying to protect them. The two swap the roles so one of them isn’t always the hero. The three run around Will’s big backyard chasing his little one around. And Hannibal’s little one absolutely adores this game!

You like little kisses here and there? Well he likes it more. He’s always giving little kisses to his little on their head or on their hand.

He loves to sketch pictures of you. He sees you as a work of art irl.

He also adores when the two of you draw together. Him with his sketch pad and you with your crayons.

If you color a picture or draw a picture for him he considers it art work worth of the museum. He makes such a big deal over his little artist! The fridge is running out of room with all his drawings.

He’s always praising them, letting them know how good of a job their doing or how proud he is of them.

When he drives them anywhere he always buckles them himself and makes them sit in the backseat. He can’t have his little one getting hurt sitting in the front seat now can he? Plus you’re too young for the front seat anyway.

Are you upset about something and start crying? He will always be there to comfort you. While he is a therapist he will never ever play that card on you. He’s your Caregiver first and foremost. But if you want advice or to talk to him he’s always available and there to listen.

Wherever you are with him he’s always holding your hand. He loved the comfort of having his little one close.

He would never admit it to anyone but his biggest fear is losing his little one. While he has a lot of people in his life, his little one is one of the few people who he truly cares about unconditionally. He’s his most vulnerable self around them.

If you guys want to see a Will Graham Headcannon or one with the both of them being Caregivers let me know:)

[cedarxwing]

What was the most romantic scene in Hannibal for you?

The end sequence of Antipasto, hands down. Just everything about it. It makes me tear up every time.

The way Hannibal, heartbroken at Bedelia's rejection and betrayal, sits alone on the train en route to Palermo with Antony Dimmond's corpse in his trunk, recalling his last dinner with Abel Gideon while Ravel's Pavane plays.

The way even Gideon, who was always the Ripper's biggest fan, now finds Hannibal banal and tiresome, calling him pathetic and lonely to his face. The way Hannibal is disgusted by Gideon's poor manners, but puts up with him because he's that desperate for connection.

HANNIBAL: Why do you think I'm allowing this? GIDEON: Snails aren't the only creatures who prefer eating with company. If only that company could be Will Graham.

The way Hannibal is speechless at that. Not only does Gideon call out his obsession with Will, but he compares Hannibal, Mr. Firefly himself, to a snail. That's what Will's reduced him to.

Side note: LOVE how Gideon becomes a prophetic figure as he approaches death, "becoming brighter" as Hannibal puts it. Remember, this exchange takes place before S2b, sometime between Futamono and Yakimono.

Gideon can see how Hannibal longs for the kind of cannibal date night Will gives him at the end of Naka Choko, but refuses, out of sheer pettiness, to be his perfect dinner partner, snarfing down those snails with the utmost incivility. Love him. <3

"I'm just fascinated to know how you will feel when all this... happens to you." <- referencing how Mason will try to eat Hannibal, but on a deeper level how Hannibal's heart will be eaten as in the first sonnet of Dante's La Vita Nuova (which he quotes earlier in the episode):

Joyous love seemed to me, the while he held My heart within his hands, and in his arms My lady lay asleep wrapped in a veil. He woke her then. Trembling and obedient, She ate that burning heart out of his hand; Weeping I saw him then depart from me.

The way Hannibal looks SO SAD as he folds the Vitruvian Man into an origami heart, obviously still thinking about La Vita Nuova and how Will's eaten his heart. The way he extends the heart metaphor into the Three of Swords tarot presentation in the Norman Chapel to signify betrayal. The way the soundtrack swells with violins and the solemn heartbeat of a drum over beautiful close ups of Dimmond's skinned carcass.

Side note 2: I have searched high and low for the track that plays during the Vitruvian Man folding, but it doesn't seem to have been published anywhere. Tunefind says that it was adapted from Hayley Westenra's Never Say Goodbye (which is sooo romantic lol), but it doesn't sound anything like that song to me.

Finally, this is the most insight we, the audience, get into the conception of any Ripper tableau and it's a valentine for Will. Oughhhh. I'm going to cry just thinking about it.

[The Naka Choko dinner scene is a close second tho! The audacity they had to score it with Mahler's Adagietto... And the end of TWOTL would be my third pick.]

[grumfield]

what do you mean Will is an apex predator? curious about your perspective.

Here i'll just post a meta about it i never put up on tumblr from like, 8 months or so ago about this question...I basically think of him as like a wild animal:

Will is interesting to me because I see a lot of memes/videos/posts about Hannibal being horny/falling for Will etc. (sparkle eyes, turning himself in, etc.) but I realized there wasn’t much of this kind of thing for Will other than his sort of calculated seduction attempts or incidental, vaguely sexual moments like the ladder scene. There is not much casual dialogue online about his internal workings or motivations, or affection. And I was like…huh. And I just had this realization where I looked at him in my head and just felt like…white noise, the way I would if I was trying to understand the thoughts of a wolf or something. I’ve watched this show going on maybe eight times and had never really given much thought to how little I actually knew about him or his motives/desires, and I was just kind of hit with the feeling that this guy is very, very unlike me and exceptionally dangerous.

For a show all about profiling and understanding people, it's interesting how little we are allowed into our main character’s inner thoughts. Hannibal as a show is thought of a lot as like, the seduction of Will Graham and the pull between Hannibal and Jack, but really I feel like I’m watching Hannibal and Jack in a bike race while this random beautiful guy stands off to the side and is trying to pick which bike he’d rather put a stick between the spokes of. And you ask him why and he just stares at you with his big blue eyes and you're just kinda like alright whatever you say gorgeous.

We’re given emotional closeups to Jack and Hannibal, but Will, much like he is with other people, is kind of kept at arms’ length. We don’t need an exposé on who Hannibal is because of the mythology around him. We know who he is, but the first stated theme of the show (which Will says in S1E1) is “Tell me who you are”. 

We know Hannibal, we know Jack. Aside from building off the audience’s knowledge of these characters and their morality, Hannibal’s motivations and emotions have always been apparent in the story. All of them can be sort of summed up as curiosity, eating the rude, loneliness, and love. 

We know a lot about the other killers he profiles. Their motives, their pathologies, their wants. He takes them on, but every time he does, we know less and less about him.

We don’t know who Will Graham is. Alana mentions making an effort to not be alone with him, and we aren’t ever really alone with him either, especially early on: there’s always dogs there, or hallucinations, or actual people to reflect off of. And because his empathy disorder sort of makes him a vessel for the wants, desires, and thoughts of others, we only ever see a construct a person suit that looks person-shaped, potentially caused by being in proximity to other living things.

We know things about other people and can kind of construct an idea of him based on what others think about him--fine china Will, wounded bird Will. And when Hannibal goes to his house we learn the same things he does about him: he lives far from society, in the woods, the outdoors, etc. We are privy to the real Will as much as anyone else is, including himself.

A lot of Hannibal’s dialogue with him can be summarized as that. It’s about getting Will to understand what he is outside of the influence of other people. Who are you?

In the way that Hannibal is a fallen angel and makes a lot of choices due to his emotions, I find him to be as human as it gets in a lot of ways. He’s a killer but he’s exceptionally relatable and kind of hosts the most extreme versions of wants and desires--wow, this person sucks, I totally get eating them! Wow, turning yourself in out of love! And if we’re running with that, Will on the other hand, I feel like is the opposite. 

I never once was like “wow, you’re doing x because of y”. He just does things. There’s logic and calculation to them, but especially later, beyond revenge or whatever, I feel like trying to understand their reasoning is a futile effort. It’s a very scorpion/frog parable thing: just as the scorpion stings the frog, so too does Will have the urge to kill. It’s in his nature. Which we hear a lot, but viewing it not as “a deep desire to kill” (because he arguably embodies the desires of others) but as some kind of integral element of his existence is interesting. He even goes outright and says it in Season 2: "I've given up good and evil for behaviorism"

He is extremely inhuman and reminds me more of an apex predator than an actual person. Where Hannibal’s perspective towards killing has a certain level of civilized dialogue to it (ie. people as livestock) Will’s definitely strikes me as something different, and wilder/less cultured, in that he seems to view people more as prey--it’s not that they aren’t equal to him like for Hannibal, but more that they are weaker than him. He hunts/fishes/lures, he uses his hands, his teeth. And Will’s urge to kill seemingly has no true motive other than a primal instinct.  His empathy disorder then started striking me less as a disorder and more as an angler fish’s light—it’s a hunting mechanism.

Another thing I think is interesting that kind of plays into this whole hunter Will is that I never really got the sense he had an explicitly “save people” but rather a “hunt killer” instinct which kind of plays into him being a predator. If he really cared about saving people he would’ve given a shit about the people Hannibal killed. But, like, he liked Beverly but his motivation to proving Hannibal was a killer wasn’t like “I need to stop this man from killing and avenge Beverly”, like it was for Jack (who very explicitly has a save people instinct, it’s kind of reflected with his wife’s cancer) it’s, “I need to give him a taste of his own medicine”. He has a hunting drive like a bloodhound—truly, when the fox hears the rabbits scream, he doesn’t come to help

Like an animal, he brings Hannibal his “prey” to the table (Randall Tier, another person who thought he was a predator and paid the price going up against a real one) the way a cat brings dead animals to the people it’s bonded to. 

It’s why it’s kind of impossible to know what he’s going to do at any given time. I think he makes decisions for himself not really in any conscious logic path (today I will x and y) but kind of the way an animal might: he just does it, because he does it, and everything stopping him is outside influence. Sure, if you muzzle a wolf, it can't bite, but that doesn't mean it's not in its DNA to.

I could never really articulate Will’s feelings towards Hannibal in any way that really felt like it encapsulated his character until I kind of thought of him more like a predator than a person. Hannibal very explicitly loves Will in a recognizable way, and shows moments of sexual desire (feeling paternal?) but Will’s feelings towards him kind of seem abstract and unknowable. He certainly feels something. But it always felt more like some kind of pack bonding thing than explicitly an “I love you”. 

People always kind of poke fun at the whole “is Hannibal in love with me scene” but I actually think the way Bedelia’s frames her response is super interesting for how Will is portrayed. Will knows what Hannibal feels, he’s a profiler, but the actual conversation says a lot.  Bedelia frames love not in the same way she talks to Hannibal about it (with Hannibal she uses the words love and extrapolates on his emotions). When she talks to Will, she presents what he feels not as love the way me and you might say it, but in primal language: hunger, ache. Things that he would understand. Both Bedelia and Hannibal are kind of the only ones to recognize this (Hannibal calling him a mongoose).

Anyways. That’s it.

[arkashas]

Will Graham’s Death and Rebirth: S1 Edition

in hannibal, death and life are two sides of the same coin, and death leads to new life. now let’s see how that factors into will graham’s own journey, in season 1.

i wrote this post after i thought long and hard about how it was strange that we don’t have a “death and rebirth” for will in season 1, when we do for all the other seasons, and turns out i was wrong and it does also happen in season 1 (you might want to read my post on the other times to clarify some of the ideas expressed here).

anyway, let’s start (warning: veeeery long).

hannibal: do you feel alive, will?

will: i feel like i’m fading.

and

will: i feel like I’m seeing a ghost.

hannibal: regarding this killer or yourself?

will: both.

and

hannibal: have you considered cotard’s syndrome?

hannibal: it’s a rare delusional disorder in which a person believes he or she is dead.

will: are you talking about the killer or me?

the idea of will being dead, or feeling like he is dead, is brought up from buffet froid onwards, which suggests his worrying mental state. why does will believe he’s fading from reality/becoming a ghost/dead though? a conversation in roti gives further insights:

will: i don’t know how to gauge who I am anymore.

will: i don’t feel like myself.

will: i feel like I have been gradually becoming different for a while.

will: i just feel like somebody else.

hannibal: what do you feel like?

will: i feel crazy.

hannibal: and that is what you fear most.

will: i fear not knowing who i am.

will believing he’s dead goes hand in hand with him believing he’s going insane and that he’s becoming garret jacob hobbs, given that hobbs is also dead. will becomes subsumed by hobbs’ identity in the first season, owing to the encephalitis and hannibal’s manipulations.

i’m going to list some dialogue which shows will being more and more entrenched in hobbs’ identity.

oeuf:

will: i got so close to him. sometimes, i felt like we were doing the same things at different times of the day. like i was eating or showering or sleeping at the same time he was.

hannibal: even after he was dead?

will: even after he was dead.

hannibal: like you were becoming him.

trou normand:

hannibal: i’m your friend, will. i don’t care about the lives you save, i care about your life. and your life is separating from reality.

roti:

jack: you’ve got to keep things in perspective. you’re got to keep yourself in perspective.

will: well, myself is a little hazy at the moment.

roti:

gideon: i don’t know if i will ever be myself again.

gideon: i don’t know if i've got any self left over.

gideon: i spent so long thinking i was him, it’s gotten really hard to remember who i was when i wasn’t him.

will: who are you now?

gideon (who has turned into garret jacob hobbs in will’s imagination): now i’m you. 

releves:

jack: this dissociative personality state you say he goes into…whose personality is it?

hannibal: he said he got so close to garret jacob hobbs and what he had done that he felt he was becoming him.

jack: and now he has hobb’s daughter.

hannibal: who hobbs intended to kill.

will’s descent into madness culminates into him hallucinating he’s killed abigail by slamming her into the wall of antlers in hobbs’ cabin. with this, will’s greatest fear has become reality - he’s become garret jacob hobbs and killed his daughter just like hobbs would have done. there is no more will graham, he is dead.

now i’m going to further narrate what happens to will and parallel the events with georgia madchen’s own arc along the way, because it’s talking about georgia which first allows will to give voice to his own fears of feeling like he’s dead, and so i believe that comparing their experiences will also show how will is brought back from the dead.

after the hallucination and arriving back at his house, will calls hannibal and tells him what he remembers:

will: i don’t remember going to bed last night. but i must have.

will: i hallucinated that i killed her. but it wasn’t real. i know it wasn’t real.

vs.

will: you know what you did, georgia.

georgia: but i don’t remember it. it feels more like a horrible dream where i killed my friend.

both will and georgia kill someone close to them in a dreamlike haze, abigail for will, beth lebouf for georgia. only, in will’s case it was a hallucination, while georgia killed her friend in reality.

will is taken to jail after he throws up the ear, but escapes from the prison van after learning that he’s also accused of the copy cat murders, not believing he could have murdered them all, and goes to hannibal’s office.

in roti, jack talks to will after sutcliffe’s body is discovered, asking why georgia followed him to sutcliffe’s office.

will’s answer:

i don’t know. i have a habit of collecting strays. i told her, tried to tell her the night i saw her, i tried to tell her she was alive. maybe she heard me. maybe that hadn’t occurred to her in a while.

and

will: it’s 1:17 AM. we're in greenwood, delaware. my name is will graham. and you're alive. if you can hear me, you're alive.

vs.

hannibal: i imagine abel gideon would want to find the chesapeake ripper to gauge who he is. and who he isn’t.

hannibal: will. you have me as your gauge.

(abel gideon is another character who can be paralleled to will with re: the loss of identity and medical abuse)

and

hannibal: i’d like you to draw a clock face. numbered. large hand indicating the hour, small hand the minute.

will: why?

hannibal: an exercise. i want you to remember the present moment. the now. often as you can, think of where you are and when. think of who you are.

will: it’s 7:16 PM. i’m in baltimore, maryland. my name is will graham.

hannibal: a simple reminder. a handle to reality for you to hold onto, and know you’re alive.

just like georgia goes to will because he’s the one source of surety and stability in her life, the one giving her a handle on reality, will goes to hannibal for the same reason when he is framed for murder.

will then goes back to hobbs’ kitchen with hannibal to see if he really did kill abigail, just like georgia goes back to beth lebeau’s house to see if she really did kill beth lebeau.

will: if she did kill beth lebeau, she might not even know she did it.

beverly: then why did she come back?

will: to convince herself she didn't.

vs.

hannibal: if we're to prove you didn't commit these murders, perhaps we should consider how you could have.

hannibal: and then disprove that.

and

 will: then take me to minnesota. i want to see where abigail died.

to make things simpler, i’m going to list all of the dialogue that occurs when they arrive at the hobbs’ kitchen, and cherry pick some parts for further analysis.

hannibal: it’s as if abigail was supposed to die in this kitchen.

will: her throat was cut. she lost great gouts of blood and there’s an unmistakable arterial spray.

hannibal: they haven’t found her body.

will: just the one piece.

hannibal: if you were in garret jacob hobbs’ frame of mind when you killed her, they may never find her.

will: cause i honored every part of her?

hannibal: perhaps you didn’t come here looking for a killer. perhaps you came here to find yourself. you killed a man in this very room.

will: i stared at hobbs and the space opposite me assumed the shape of a man filled with dark and swarming flies. and then i scattered them.

hannibal: at a time when other men fear their isolation, yours has become understandable to you. you are alone because you are unique.

will: i’m as alone as you are.

hannibal: if you followed the urges you kept down for so long, cultivated them as the inspirations they are, you would have become someone other than yourself.

will: you’re not alone. we are here together.

vs.

hannibal: you are alone because you are unique.

though these might seem like different scenes (will says georgia is not alone, hannibal says will is alone) ultimately they’re one and the same. hannibal telling will he’s alone makes will realise hannibal is as alone he is, which later makes him realise he’s not alone because they’re together in their alone-ness.

dialogue from tome-wan to support this:

will: you're right. we are just alike. you're as alone as i am. and we're both alone without each other.

will says hannibal is as alone as he is, and then goes on to say they’re both alone without each other, i.e. being with each other makes them not alone.

dialogue from savoureux continued:

will: i know who i am. i’m not so sure i know who you are anymore. but i am certain one of us killed abigail.

hannibal: whoever that was killed the others.

hannibal: are you a killer, will? you. right now. this man, standing in front of me. is this who you really are?

will: i am who i’ve always been. the scales have just fallen from my eyes. i can see you now.

hannibal: what do you see?

will: you called here that morning. abigail knew. you kept her secrets until she found out some of yours.

hannibal: you said it felt good to kill garret jacob hobbs, will. would it feel good to kill me now?

will: garret jacob hobbs was a murderer. are you a murderer, dr. lecter?

hannibal: what reason would I have?

will: you have no traceable motive, which is why you were so hard to see. you were just curious what i would do. someone like me. someone who thinks how i think. wind him up and watch him go. apparently, dr. lecter, this is how i go.

will begins to realise hannibal is the one who killed abigail, and turns on him, raising his gun and steadying it at him. there’s a final parallel of georgia’s arc with will’s, and it’s how they’re both brought back from the dead.

how is georgia brought back from the dead? by someone seeing her and by her thinking of who she is/realising who she is. which also is what happens with will.

 will: i see you, georgia.

 will: think of who you are.

and

georgia: am i alive?

vs.

hannibal: perhaps you came here to find yourself. you killed a man in this very room.

and

will: i know who i am.

and

hannibal: are you a killer, will? right now. this man in front of me. is this who you really are?

and

will: i am who i’ve always been. the scales have just fallen from my eyes.

and

hannibal: you said it felt good to kill garret jacob hobbs, will. would it feel good to kill me now?

i subscribe to the idea that, from releves onwards at least, hannibal actually wanted will to figure out he was the copy cat killer (too long to get into it right now, but suffice to say hannibal didn’t need to frame will for all the killings, abigail was enough and will was complying with his arrest. i believe hannibal had a change of heart and didn’t want will to believe he’s become hobbs and framed will for the copy cat murders as well to make will doubt that he killed at all, and so that will would continue profiling the copy cat killer, which would lead to him seeing hannibal. hannibal misdirecting will is a test, which will passes.)

hannibal follows “perhaps you came here to find yourself” with “you killed a man in this very room”. hannibal wants will to find himself through his killing of garret jacob hobbs, not his apparent killing of the copy cat victims. hannibal wants will to find himself through his preferred choice of kills - murderers. hannibal also doesn’t attempt to talk will down or make him hand him the gun, instead he goads him into killing him, because he is so very close to making will accept that he’s a killer.

notice how will doesn’t deny that he’s a killer, and answers hannibal’s question of whether it would feel good to kill him with, “are you a murderer?” it would feel good to kill hannibal if he killed abigail, because to will, doing bad things to bad people feels good.

most see this scene as hannibal finally taking the mask off and being seen for who he is, but the seeing goes both ways. hannibal sees will for who he is as well, someone who kills for righteous reasons, not a killer who’s subliminally acting out hobbs or any other killer’s wishes (even if hannibal did actually want will to believe he killed the copy cat victims and miscalculated on will’s tenacity and strength of character, it still holds true that in this moment he’s seeing will as a righteous killer). will is also affirmed of his identity, he didn’t get lost inside anyone’s head, he didn’t kill anybody because of his illness, he’s not garret jacob hobbs, he knows who he is. will, feeling betrayed and furious, brings the gun up to shoot hannibal, who is saved by jack at the last minute. this is will’s rebirth, or at least a return from the dead, a throwback to georgia being brought back from the dead by will.

and consider will’s last words before he blacks out, a fitting addendum to all that just went down:

see? you see?

EDIT : to add to all this, i was informed by someone’s tags on one of my posts that “the scales have fallen from my eyes” is a biblical reference. “And immediately there fell from his eye as it had been scales: and he received sight forthwith, and arose, and was baptized.” (Acts 9:18)  

baptism is seen as a kind of rebirth in the christian faith, which adds further support to the idea that will was born anew after being freed from garret jacpb hobbs ghost. further, hannibal is will’s own personal “god”, and this is the start of will’s initiation into hannibal’s doctrine and set of beliefs.

BONUSES

THE MOTIF OF FIRE

throughout the show, fire is transformative in nature. in ko no mono, as will says, “fire destroys and it creates. it is mythical”.

as will comments when he and the science team discuss her after she is seemingly burnt in the wheelchair, “freddie won’t rise from the ashes, but her killer will”. freddie’s death would have triggered will’s rebirth into a killer, had it have happened, and it’s not a coincidence that it’s in this episode that will’s “coffin birth” happens, when he emerges from the ravenstag’s womb into a half-formed manifestation of the man stag. half-formed, because will didn’t actually kill freddie, and so didn’t actually transform into the stagman, or hannibal’s monstrous alter ego.

in mizumono, hannibal burns his patient files, and we see will’s files and the disfigured clock amongst the flames. as hannibal says, “i’m dismantling who i am and rebuilding it brick by brick”. the burning of the files symbolises the death of hannibal and will’s previous lives as therapist and patient, and the start of their new lives as equals and partners.

we also have the repeated imagery of the burning wheelchair in season 3, this time with frederick chilton. setting up chilton is the start of will’s rebirth in the S3b arc, the climax of which is his slaying of dolarhyde together with hannibal.

finally, francis dolarhyde also gets a cameo, in the number of the beast is 666, he kidnaps reba to tell her who he is and burns down the house they’re in, and though he’s unable to kill her, he emerges from the ashes with the dragon fully taking over and with all traces of humanity gone with the severing of his relationship with reba. reba is also changed, from an innocent to a survivor.

in season 1, we see this fire symbolism as well. in coquilles, will hallucinates his head burning in the gaze of the angel maker, as the angel maker tells him he can give him the majesty of his becoming. will’s head burning is a stand-in for the encephalitis, and the angel maker a stand-in for hannibal, as hannibal is utilising the encephalitis as a tool to bring about will’s becoming.

in buffet froid, dr. sutcliffe also tells hannibal that he set will’s mind on fire by letting will’s encephalitis go unchecked. will is reforged in the flames of his illness into a brighter, clearer version of himself.

georgia’s painful death by immolation in season 1 also represents a rising killer - the copy cat killer. it’s with georgia’s death that will begins putting the pieces together and starts connecting the copy cat murders.

SEEING AND BEING SEEN

the concept of “seeing” is a repeated motif in the show.

we’ve already covered how for will and georgia, that being seen is what brings them back to life, but I’d like to further explore the concept in support of the theory.

in roti, will goes to hannibal’s office with gideon in tow (who he’s hallucinating as hobbs), and tries to confirm that what he’s seeing is real.

will: who do you see?

hannibal: i don’t see anyone.

will panics and finally sobs, “what is happening to me?” after pleading with hannibal not to lie to him. the language used here is very important, it’s hannibal saying he doesn’t see, which leads will to believe he’s going crazy, and will believing he’s crazy, as we already know, makes him believe he’s garret jacob hobbs, which further makes him believe he’s dead, or non-existent.

hobbs/gideon even disappears from his seat at the table after hannibal says he doesn’t see anyone. why? because now will believes he’s hobbs, which is further evidenced when he tracks down gideon outside alana’s house and sees hobbs in place of gideon, telling him, “now i’m you” (i just want to point out the brilliancy here. as soon as will believes he’s hobbs, hobbs disappears, or will disappears because will believing he’s hobbs makes him disappear from reality).

hannibal: there’s no one there will. we’re alone. you came here alone.

after hannibal says he doesn’t see anyone, he also says will is alone. i don’t think i need to explain the connotations here.

this might also be why will repeating his name and the time to himself like hannibal told him to to help him get a grip on reality didn’t help at all, because one’s existence cannot be asserted by oneself, we need other people to make sense of our place in the world.

in sakizuke, as will re-enacts the making of the eyeball mural, he lays out the muralist’s thought process:

i made you pliable. molded you. set and sealed you where you lay. this is my design. a dead eye of vision and consciousness. i am fixed and unseeing ... unless someone else sees me.

will says the eye at the centre of the mural is a “dead eye” which is “fixed and unseeing” up until someone else sees it.

will then says the muralist being there is “not my design”, meaning it was not the muralist’s intention to be in the centre of his masterpiece at all.

and in a flashback, we’re shown what happened. it was hannibal who interfered:

hannibal: when your great eye looked to the heavens, what did it see?

muralist: nothing.

hannibal: not anymore.

muralist: there is no god.

hannibal: certainly not with that attitude. god gave you purpose. not only to create art, but to become it.

muralist: why are you doing this to me?

hannibal: your eye will now see god reflected back. it will see you. if god is looking down at you, don't you want to be looking back at him?

previously, jack had said the muralist must have had an existential crisis. hannibal sewing the muralist into his own mural was him fixing that for him, so that the muralist can be affirmed of his existence and purpose in the world by seeing god and being seen in return.

the eyeball mural is also supposed to represent will and hannibal’s relationship, which is why in will’s visualisation of the scene he’s in the place of the muralist and hannibal in the place of god - as will says, “a challenge of equals”. and think of what it means to be seen by god - that doesn’t imply a normal, ordinary state of being seen, god is omniscient, he sees all of you. just like hannibal sees all of will, the good and the bad.

in secondo, when will meets the prisoner, chiyoh forbids will to even look at him, saying he lost that privilege with his act of killing mischa. chiyoh further goes on to say that he’s only allowed “the sound of water. it’s what the unborn hear”. we’re given the sense that no one looking at the prisoner, no one seeing him, renders him into a state of non-existence, to an embryonic state.

(with re: chiyoh saying the sound of water is what the unborn hear, this also relates back to will, in roti, an episode leading up to will’s rebirth, there’s a lot of water imagery - will dreaming about glaciers crashing down and flooding the beach where the  totem pole was, imagining his bed being submerged in water, telling jack, “i feel like i’m fluid, like i’m spilling”, hallucinating the morgue filling up with water, etc)

after chiyoh kills the prisoner, will makes him into the firefly tableau. just like with randall tier, this is will’s empathy granting his gift of being seen to the prisoner after his death. the prisoner lived a dark, confined existence, so with his new wings and the lights reflecting off of him and surrounding him, will, as much as he is able, sets him free after his death, giving him what he couldn’t have in life. the firefly is also the final stage of transformation from the pupal form, and therefore also represents the prisoner’s rebirth, after being “unborn” for all those years.

i’m sure i missed some more examples, but we’re shown, over and over again, that a major theme of the show, or the major theme, is that being seen and understood for who you are is what gives meaning to your existence.

[mybleedingboy]

Hannibal Fic Recs

for @raniofzepuchas (I'll make this short and only include my very favorites so I'm not overwhelming you with fics) (no particular order)

A Clutch at Balance by Devereauxs_Disease

Rating: E | Word Count: 25,466

When Will Graham storms into Hannibal's house muttering about kissing Alana Bloom, the good doctor makes Will an offer: Pretend to date Hannibal in order to prove to Alana that Will is not only stable but capable of being in a relationship. When Alana is convinced Will is the man of her dreams, Hannibal will step aside and Will can get his girl. What could possibly go wrong?

Really fun and balances that fun with some excellent writing. Spot on dynamic, fantastic chemistry.

highway 190 by occultiism

Rating: M | Word Count: 10,343

He has found the Devil and wants to live inside of him. There is no more room for God. / Chronological snapshots throughout Will Graham's life.

Arguably one of the best-written Hannibal fics (and fics in general) ever. Hard-hitting, painful throughout but like a punch that hits the knots right out of you. If that makes sense?

Five Times Hannibal Visits Will and One Time He's Already Home (or: Coffee Cake) by bones_2_be

Rating: E | Word Count: 82,385

When Will tells Hannibal to leave at the end of Digestivo, he goes. And then, a few years later, he shows back up. They have long conversations, drink a lot of wine, at the end of it all they find something that works.

Excellent progression. Love the characters in this. Again, great fucking writing. Restricted fic, so you'd have to be logged in.

The Mongoose and the Mouse by Hiding Now

Rating: E | Word Count: 109,582

With Mother's and Father's Day impending, Will has been feeling particularly irascible. He has parent issues (as do we all) so as a therapeutic exercise, Hannibal suggests something novel: a vacation together to recapture the childhood he never had. His caveats: Will must choose someplace he's never been, someplace he always wanted to go as a child. The idea is ridiculous. Will can only think of one place. But there is no way Hannibal will agree to go to a place where turkey legs are a staple, and cartoon characters offer hugs on every corner. Will calls his bluff. Hannibal calls it right back. OR ~Will and Hannibal spend a week at Walt Disney World for perfectly sound psychological reasons~

It's the disney fic! Always fun to read back.

each according to its kind by chaparral_crown

Rating: M | Word Count: 192,571

Will does the only reasonable thing that someone fresh out of a mental hospital with no support system does - he leaves, and goes on a road trip to the Pacific Northwest.

AU of Season 2. This is my favorite Hannibal fic, and one of the best-written at that. Every paragraph is rich in flavor. I would definitely eat this. This is the fic I recommend the most often.

their beaks not yet turned red by chaparral_crown

Rating: M | Word Count: 134,420

Will stares at the bird. The bird stares back. In its beak, a very finely embroidered cloth, and in that, the tiniest of soft fists pushing forward from a folded corner. “Don’t you dare,” Will says, crouching, hand that is not currently cradling an overly large pour of whiskey pointed at the bird to ward it off. --- After Hannibal is arrested and the trial dates are set, the stork visits Will Graham. With it, it brings a baby, a legally binding birth certificate, and a hope chest full of gifts for her. Nobody except Will thinks this is weird. (Alternatively, what if the Scarlet Letter was a dark romantic comedy?)

So good and heartfelt throughout. I wished this was canon.

Ravenous by rageprufrock

Rating: M | Word Count: 38,448

Whenever I go into a new fandom, I look for pru's works first. This was no exception, and it's so fucking good. It's a genuine thriller. There's no description, and pru doesn't tag, so I will let you go in blind. An exciting read, brilliantly written both stylistically, plot-wise, and character-wise. The dynamics here are wonderful !! Hard-recommend.

[deerabigailhobbs]

Youre stuck on a deserted island with your 5 favorite people and your 5 least favorite people. What goes down? Whos dying first? What order are you cannibalizing them in? /hj

Oh boy, what a question to get on a quiet Thursday evening! I think realistically, I'd be the first to go. I'm terrible at survival situations and plus, have an abhorrent resistance to hot weather. Anything above 15°c (59F) and I melt. So yeah, I'll be on the Barbie first.

But let's say that the powers that be grant me extra strength and heat resistance in these trying times...

I'm not sure whether you meant real or fictional people, but let's do a mix of both shall we?

Most favourite:

Abigail Hobbs (for reasons which are obvious)

My best friend (hi I know you're reading this)

Adam Stanheight (I love a man who looks pathetic)

My mum (love my mum <3)

Ashley Graham (the previous fictional woman I was obsessed with)

Least favourite:

Hannibal Lecter (for reasons which are obvious)

Rishi Sunak (fuck the tories)

Young Sheldon (it's a long story)

Next door neighbour (too loud)

The twat that humiliated me during sports day training (he was a twat)

Introductions out of the way, here's how it goes down:

Rishi Sunak dies first due to being unable to fuck over the British people, and therefore having no purpose in life. Also having to mingle with commneners? Yeah no, he exits the situation himself. We don't dare eat him, he may have been infected by absolute wanker-itis, which can be deadly.

This is followed closely by Young Sheldon, who is adamant he can find a way off this island. He creates a small makeshift boat (which is quite impressive) and sails out to sea. Unfortunately, the idiot forgot he doesn't know how to sail, so aimlessly drifts off, s shakey "Bazinga" the last thing to leave his lips.

Next up is Ashley Graham, who without Leon Kennedy to help her, dies from getting her foot stuck in a bear trap. What's a bear trap doing on a deserted island, I hear you ask? My answer; uhhhh, island bears. She is our first meal.

Alas, Abigail dies next because Hannibal just cannot help himself in making sure this poor girl is murdered. This is quickly followed by me killing him painfully and slowly with my two bare hands <3. I eat Abigail, because I won't let her go to waste unlike some people.

Best friend is next up on the chopping block. He realises that he missed the Hades 2 full launch, which causes him to go into a deep depressive state and die from sadness. Rip bestie, I made sure you were cooked with extra seasoning.

The twat that humiliated me dies from mysterious reasons. Wow, who knows what could have caused his death... We eat him and he's delicious.

My neighbour decides they haven't been shouting at the top of their lungs in a while, and does so during the middle of the night when the rest of the us survivors are asleep. Unfortunately the island isn't like back home, and their massive gob catches the sight of a massive eagle, which snatches them up by their shoulders and flies them away into the night sky.

Adam decides to explore the island deeper, and finds a cave which could be a great use of shelter. Unfortunately, he didn't move the massive boulder far enough away from the entrance, and it moves, sealing him away forever. He is left to starve in darkness.

I choke on a peanut.

My mum wins as she deserves to, found and taken away to a huge mansion where she lives the rest of her life in peace <3

[ficnation]

Chapter 5: Bait

Series: “Eat Your Heart Out” Pairing: Hannibal Lecter x Female! Reader x Will Graham Word count: 4,0k+ Warnings: canon-typical warnings A/n: It's been eighty-four years... (unedited)

Main Masterlist || Hannibal Masterlist

PREVIOUS CHAPTER || NEXT CHAPTER

The silence in the room is deafening as you stare at Jack Crawford with wide eyes. The tea you just made would already be nothing more than a puddle on the wooden floor if it wasn’t for Will, who took it from your hands when they began to shake. He doesn’t even blink when a few drops spill out over his fingers and burn his skin.

“You can’t be serious,” you mumble in disbelief, your gaze shifting to Will, who stands steadfast by your side, unmoving. He casts a glance between you and Jack, once, then twice, grappling with the weight of his allegiance. It doesn’t require a genius to connect the dots. “Did you know about this, Will?” Your voice carries a tone of betrayal, leaving Will feeling like Brutus to your Julius Caesar—as though he just plunged a metaphorical dagger into your back.

Jack Crawford stares at you long and hard, and a little guilty. “You’re our best chance.”

“You want me to be the bait.” You cross your arms over your chest and take a step back, furiously shaking your head. “I’m not— I won’t do that,” you protest.

Even if you never expected anything less from Jack Crawford, the feeling of treachery is almost crushing. Will takes a step towards you, and then another. He approaches you cautiously, with his hands extended in a calming gesture, almost as if he were approaching a scared animal ready to bolt any minute now. You’d consider it a pretty funny sight if the situation were any different, but right now, you might just be a skittish doe surrounded by wolves.

When he places a hand on your back, his touch lacks the usual reassurance it once held. Despite any grievances you may have harbored against him, he was always your sanctuary. Yet today, that sanctuary feels distant. You gently shrug his hand off and take a step back. The pain in Will’s eyes is palpable—a deep, sorrowful abyss that mirrors your own heartache.

“I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t think it was the right thing to do,” Will says in response. “You’re the best shot we’ve got.”

“What makes you even think that Hannibal Lecter will pursue me? I find it hard to believe.”

“You’re still alive, aren’t you?” Jack raises a brow, his tone tinged with a hint of sarcasm that makes you itch to punch him square in the face. Sure, you’re breathing, but your sister lies six feet under the very ground you’re walking on. “I’ve seen how he looks at you.”

You’ve felt it too—the lingering gazes trailing you as you tread the corridors of the BAU’s headquarters, the enigmatic curve of his lips as you cross his path. It’s a sensation that crawls beneath your skin, a disconcerting dance of shadows in the depths of your soul. What strange game is he playing with you? 

Will’s face contorts into an indescribable grimace when he hears those words spoken aloud, as if each syllable is a sharp knife twisting deeper into his already troubled conscience. 

“I’m not going to throw you into the lion’s mouth and just sit back and watch,” Will says after a few seconds of silence. “He’s intrigued by you, just as much as he’s intrigued by me. I don’t think he’d hurt you.”

Jack seems satisfied with that. He knows that if Will is on board, it won’t take much persuasion to get you there too. He genuinely believes that you can help them. Yet, you surprise him once again, and he wonders who snuffed out your will to fight to make the world a better place.

“Do you even hear yourself, Will? I very much like being alive. I won’t do this, and that’s my final answer,” you huff out, stepping away from him, even though it hurts—burns your soul.

Will can’t bring himself to be upset with you because your reaction is completely understandable. Your sister—your flesh and blood—has been taken from you, and you’re just exhausted. You don’t have the energy to risk fighting a man like Hannibal, and he understands that better than anyone else ever could.

“I’m only asking for your help, not your life,” Jack says. Deep down, he knows he’s not winning this if Will doesn’t, and one glance at the green-eyed man confirms they’re at an impasse. So, he steps back, granting you the much-needed space. “Take some time to think about it.”

“No, thank you. I won’t be thinking about it,” you assert firmly, your resolve unyielding.

Jack sighs and shakes his head, almost in awe of your stubbornness, but surprisingly not in a condescending way. “Suit yourself,” he says before turning around and walking out of the kitchen.

Will makes sure that Jack is out of the room and out of hearing distance before he sets the mug on the counter and lets his frustration come out. He lets out a long sigh, moving close to you once again. You can see that all he wants is to kiss you, to drown you in his touch the way only he can—but he’s holding himself back, and you know it’s not easy. 

“I didn’t want this,” Will’s words are sharp, his voice tinged with bitterness. “I don’t want any of this, but I do know that Hannibal needs to be taken down,” he adds, his gaze hardening with determination.

You don’t answer, and you can see that Will is disappointed by your response, or rather the lack of one. His disappointment doesn’t hurt as much as it should, and that realization pains you even more. While your brain insists it’s for the greater good to apprehend Hannibal, you can’t ignore the persistent voice whispering in your ear, urging you to prioritize yourself above all.

If you let yourself accept this, if you become the bait that Jack wants you to be, it’s as if you’re letting yourself go once again. Everything you’ve buried in the darkest cranny of your mind will come back to haunt you. And you can’t go through it all again. You can’t.

Will takes your hand, and you can feel his body shaking slightly, his breath quickening. He’s nervous, but there’s something else at play here, and it’s hard for you to discern exactly what it is. His hand tightens around yours until all your fingers are securely in his grasp, and he doesn’t let go. It’s as if he’s trying to communicate something by the intensity of his grip, as if his emotions can no longer be contained by mere words. And when he finally speaks, his voice is so soft that you can barely hear him even in the silent room.

“Can I ask you a question?” Will’s voice is tentative, his grip tightening on your hand.

“You ask a lot of them lately,” you say lightheartedly.

He chuckles at your jab, his hand still intertwined with yours. “I’m serious,” he mumbles, his tone becoming earnest. “Would you trust me... enough to believe that Hannibal won’t harm you? I will protect you from him. I swear on my life.”

Will holds your gaze, and your mind turns blank—his question leaves you mute. It’s been a long time since you’ve trusted someone so much. He’s so important to you that it hurts more than you would like to admit. This isn’t the Will Graham from just a few minutes ago—loyal to Jack’s dictations and ideas. This is Will Graham—your love, your best friend. And right now, you’d trust him with your life.

“I will do it,” you mumble out, chewing nervously on your bottom lip. You look him straight in the eyes and repeat it a little louder. “I will do my best.”

Will lets out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding, and he pulls you close to him once more so that your lips almost touch his jaw—almost. His fingers travel through your hair, and his other hand grips at the back of your sweater. There’s nothing more intimate than this—the quiet understanding between you two. You wouldn’t want it any other way.

“Thank you,” his voice is a murmur—a promise, a secret shared, something intimate amidst all of this madness.

“I’m not doing it for Crawford or anyone else. I’m doing it for you, for my sister…”

“I know, love,” Will mumbles, his voice still as soft as ever. “I know.”

Silence sets in, with only the sound of you and Will breathing—in tandem with each other. It’s like a peaceful moment in between the chaos, where a thousand thoughts are all trying to fight for space in your head, but your focus is right here, right now, and it’s only you two.

The world doesn’t feel quite so dark when you’re here—when you’re with Will.

That night Will tells you to wear something nice and elegant, not too revealing. You don’t question him, changing into one of the few dresses you have in your suitcases. It’s pine green, the satin fabric fits almost like a second skin. There’s something about wearing this dress that makes you feel like you’re ready to take on whatever comes your way.

There’s also something about it that makes you excited to see Will’s face when he lays eyes on you. You know that he’ll love it and just a few minutes later his expression proves you were right.

“You look... ravishing,” Will whispers, his eyes locked on you. You can tell that he’s speechless by the way he blinks, almost too surprised by your appearance. 

“You don’t think it’s too much?” you mumble, feeling slightly embarrassed by how much you anticipated his reaction. 

“It’s perfect,” he tells you, and you take a deep breath and walk across the room to kiss his lips. You take it slow and give a little bite at the end—just to see his reaction.

“You’re doing that on purpose, aren’t you?” Will mumbles, his voice already a little lower than before. He can feel your lips sliding away, as if they’re a temptation that’s almost impossible to resist. The kiss was short, but Will knows he enjoyed it more than a little bit. 

“I might just do it again,” you warn him, and you move close to his ear to whisper some words that make your body shiver and his skin break out in goosebumps. “We need to finish that dinner fast. I don’t know if I’ll be able to sit next to you and keep my hands to myself.”

Will swallows hard, his heart beating quicker, as he looks down at you. Your words are enough to render him speechless. He can’t find his voice to reply. It’d be too easy to pull you into his mind and act on both of your instincts. The mere thought of it makes him so nervous, so hungry, and so eager. When he finally speaks, it’s in a low, desperate tone that sounds far away. 

“You make my blood boil.”

Standing in front of Hannibal Lecter’s house, flanked by Will and Jack, feels like the most daunting task you’ve ever faced. The weight of impending decisions hangs heavy in the air, and you can’t shake the feeling that you’re on the verge of unraveling your own life once again. Your nerves are frayed, betraying the facade of composure you strive to maintain. Fear grips you tightly, its icy fingers coiling around your heart, as uncertainty clouds your thoughts. Every step closer to that imposing threshold feels like a leap into the unknown, leaving you teetering on the edge of a precipice. You steel yourself for what lies ahead, hoping against hope that your resolve won’t crumble under the weight of doubt.

Jack stands silently next to you, his expression cold and his eyes piercing you from time to time in a way that’s unnerving. His mere presence sends shivers down your spine. You glance at Will, who appears just as uncertain as you, if not more so. While the decision to help take down Hannibal doesn’t seem to trouble him, the thought of involving you in this dangerous endeavor clearly weighs heavily on his mind. What he’s asking you to endure and the risks involved make him flinch as much as they make your stomach churn with dread.

Will’s fingers slide in between yours, a silent promise that he won’t leave your side. You can almost feel his heart beating wildly, mirroring your own, and you take a deep breath to calm yourself down, focusing solely on the person about to open the door.

The door swings open, welcoming you into a home that’s as stunning inside as it is outside. But the beauty of the surroundings fades into insignificance as you lay eyes on the Hannibal Lecter standing before you. Suddenly, you find it impossible to meet anyone else’s gaze but his, your surroundings fading into a thick fog as his presence commands your attention.

Hannibal looks at you—your body, your hair, your face, everything. His gaze sweeps over you with an intensity that makes you feel exposed, as if he’s peeling back the layers of your carefully constructed facade. You swear he sees right through you, leaving no detail unnoticed and no fraction of space untouched by his scrutiny. It’s unnerving, the way he seems to perceive not just the person in front of him, but the one behind the delicate mask you’ve crafted.

Your heart rate skyrockets as his gaze lingers, and it takes all your willpower and courage to maintain a neutral expression, to keep the tremor of fear from showing on your face.

Before you can fully absorb the image of him, Jack steps forward, breaking the painful silence. “Dr. Lecter,” he speaks in a stern voice, then turns to look at you, acting as the bridge between you and the stranger.

“Ms. Avant,” Hannibal’s voice is as smooth and elegant as you’ve always heard it to be. His tone is polite but distant, prompting you to remember to smile in order to appear normal. Will’s fingers squeeze yours in a silent display of support, conveying his discontent with the arrangement. But you both know there’s little you can do about it.

“It’s actually Mrs. Graham now,” you correct him, but immediately regret it when his eyes widen subtly—a reaction you barely catch. It seems Will has kept this information to himself. “But you can still call me Agent Avant. It’ll save the confusion around the BAU.”

Hannibal gives you a small smile, but your comment seems to have thrown him off balance. Your response is far more cordial than he was expecting, and he appears almost amused by the unexpected turn of events. He exchanges a glance with Jack before turning his gaze back to you.

“I’ll do as you ask,” he replies, his tone tinged with curiosity—but beneath the surface, there’s an undertone of something darker lurking. As he takes your hand in his and squeezes gently, a shiver runs down your spine.

You feel like you can’t breathe. Your hands are damp, your throat feels sore and dry, and you struggle to calm your racing mind. “Thank you for the invitation, Doctor Lecter,” you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

Hannibal takes in your statement but doesn’t offer any reply. He maintains his hold on your hands, his grip slightly tighter than before. Despite the warmth and firmness of his touch, you can’t shake off the unsettling feeling that lingers.

His gaze locks onto yours, and you feel yourself being drawn into the depths of his eyes. It’s as if he’s peering into your very soul, and you find it difficult to tear your gaze away. You’re on the verge of melting under his intense scrutiny when you manage to spare a quick glance at Will, whose expression remains impassive, betraying little of what he might be feeling. 

A moment passes as you struggle to fend off the creeping anxiety, attempting to find some semblance of calm within yourself. Then, Will releases a breath and strides forward, heading towards the open door. Without hesitation, you follow in his footsteps.

Hannibal casts one last glance in your direction before turning away, ushering you into his home. As you step inside, you’re greeted by the sight of luxurious furniture and intricate decorations adorning the space. The room exudes opulence, almost resembling a palace rather than the abode of a mere man.

“He’s a man of taste,” Jack remarks, his words breaking the silence. You sense that he’s directing the observation at you, a detail that would be inconsequential under different circumstances.

You nod in acknowledgment, allowing your thoughts to drift as you proceed further into the house.

“It’s all very... extravagant,” is what you say next, and what you don’t add is how there’s a faint sense of emptiness in this house despite all the details and decorations. It’s almost chilling.

“I do favor extravagance and elegance in my lifestyle,” Hannibal agrees, his gaze darting carefully between you and Will. Surprisingly, he doesn’t appear to be perturbed by Jack Crawford’s presence as much as you anticipated.

“I’ve noticed that,” a whisper slips from your lips inadvertently. The comment was meant to remain in your thoughts, but the words escape on their own accord. You glance away momentarily, hoping the remark will go unnoticed, but Hannibal catches it without hesitation. He smiles at you, almost as if you’ve just paid him a compliment.

“Oh, you have?” Hannibal’s voice is smooth and pleasant, its seductive undertones causing a flush to rise to your cheeks.

You offer a delicate smile in response, opting not to elaborate further as Hannibal leads you to the dining room. The table is expansive, perfectly set to accommodate everyone present. A bottle of wine rests in the center, surrounded by meticulously arranged plates, utensils, glasses, and other accouterments—everything impeccably placed without a single detail out of order.

As Hannibal offers you a seat, the mere thought of sitting so close to him sends a shudder down your spine. It’s as if you can almost feel the heat radiating from his body as he settles into the head of the table. Your breath becomes heavy, your heart quickens its pace, and your mind races with a flurry of thoughts and emotions.

You notice every detail of his demeanor—the elegant curve of his fingers around the stem of his glass, the subtle curl of his lips, the intensity of his gaze when it lingers on yours for just a moment too long. It’s all so captivating, yet simultaneously overwhelming, causing a weakness to settle in the pit of your stomach. You find yourself averting your gaze multiple times, attempting to break free from the enchanting spell he seems to cast over your mind.

Beside you, Will’s expression remains impassive, but you can sense that he, too, is attuned to every nuance of Hannibal’s behavior.

As Hannibal disappears into the kitchen to bring out the food, you exhale a sigh of relief, though you can’t shake the fear that he might hear it all the way from the kitchen.

You cast a glance at Will, hoping for some distraction from the overwhelming intensity of the moment. However, his expression remains unchanged, revealing nothing of what might be running through his mind. It’s as if he’s closed off his thoughts, leaving you with no insight into his inner turmoil.

You feel trapped in the most claustrophobic way imaginable. Hannibal’s presence consumes your thoughts entirely—his smile, his breath, his voice, his touch—all of it overwhelms your senses. Even the mere scent of him sends shivers down your spine. You’re engulfed by the intensity of the situation, wondering how you’ll manage to make it through the dinner.

When Hannibal returns and places the fish on the table between Jack and Will, you notice a flicker of relief pass between them as they exchange a glance.

“Truite saumonee au bleau with vegetables and broth, served with hollandaise sauce on the side,” Hannibal presents the dish with a flourish, the delicate aroma wafting enticingly through the air. “Beautiful fish, Will,” he adds, his tone carrying a hint of admiration for the culinary creation before you.

“It was my turn to provide the meat,” Will interjects, his words carrying a deeper meaning than mere culinary discussion.

“More flavorful and firm than farmed specimens. I find the trout to be a very Nietzschean fish. Trials of his wild existence find their way into the flavor of the flesh,” Hannibal comments, before serving the food and taking his seat at the head of the table. “I hope ‘providing the meat’ doesn’t mean you still harbor doubts about what I serve at my table.”

You try to maintain an appearance of composure, despite feeling like a nervous wreck. Taking a deep breath, you hold it in for a moment before releasing it slowly. Casting your gaze down at your plate, you decide to focus on eating—it’s the least you can do to occupy yourself in this tense atmosphere. Picking up your fork, you take bite after bite of the fish, though you find that everything seems to lack flavor, despite its deliciousness.

Will remains silent, his expression unreadable.

Jack chuckles dryly before speaking on Will’s behalf. “No doubts, Dr. Lecter. Only the wounds we dealt each other before we got to the truth.”

You can’t fully grasp what either of them has said, as your mind is consumed by other thoughts. You feel Hannibal’s gaze fixed on you as you eat, his eyes attentively observing your every movement.

He doesn’t appear irritated by your slow pace or lack of enthusiasm, yet there’s something about his stare that compels you to rush through your meal just to make it stop. The scent of the food is almost like his breath in your nose, the taste of it feels like his lips, and when you take a bite, you almost expect him to lean over and take it from your mouth.

“Which is why we need to move past apologies and forgiveness,” Hannibal responds finally, his voice carrying a weight of conviction. As Will’s eyes catch his stare on you, Hannibal continues, “Chilton has many victims besides the dead.”

“That’s precisely our intention,” you assert, drawing all eyes towards you as you speak up with determination.

Everyone falls into a momentary silence, the weight of their gazes palpable as tension simmers in the air. Will’s eyes remain fixed on you, his expression one of approval as he acknowledges your firmness and confidence.

“We will absorb this experience, and it will change us. We are all Nietzschean fish in that regard,” Hannibal continues, his words punctuated by a subtle undertone of philosophical reflection.

“Makes us tastier,” Will interjects with a touch of humor, prompting you to gently kick him underneath the table.

Hannibal cracks a dry smile at Will’s comment, his demeanor retaining an air of sophistication as he sets his cutlery down on the plate and folds his hands in front of him.

“I would say it adds depth to our flavor,” he remarks, his words flowing from his lips with a smooth and velvety ease that seems to echo the rhythm of your heartbeat. The air in the room seems to pause for a moment, awaiting a reaction from someone, but you remain focused on your plate, determined to ignore the intensity of his stare until the end of the dinner.

The rest of the meal passes by in a blur. Hannibal maintains his role as the perfect host, his demeanor poised and gracious. Jack remains true to his usual self, engaging in conversation and observing the proceedings with his characteristic vigilance.

However, you can’t shake the feeling that something is amiss. Will, typically a key player in any plan, seems oddly detached, failing to fully engage in his part of the strategy. His silence speaks volumes, leaving you with a sense of unease as you try to decipher his intentions.

Reluctantly, Jack gathers his things and bids his farewell, leaving you and Will alone with Hannibal at the table. Hannibal, ever the gracious host, proposes another glass of wine, his gaze lingering on you both with a hint of intrigue.

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER SIXTEEN: CHAMPAGNE

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

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, Daddy kink, suicidal ideation

Read after the cut

-

“Hannibal’s hosting a soirée tonight,” you say to Will as you stand lining your eyes with a black pencil before your bedroom mirror. “Did you know about it?”

Will sits in a nearby chair, looking at you from behind his glasses. Having come fresh from a lecture he has not quite shaken off the mask with which he conducts public business, working through a measure of whiskey clutched in one restless hand with an eagerness to cut through to comfort again.

You think of method actors unable to ease out of an accent learned and feel a tail of ice switch your shoulder blades.

This man you'd once thought a victim struck down and made wary of society. Now you see in this slow adjustment of self that while this is not entirely untrue, Will dresses himself in shying gestures so as to keep the world at a purposeful length from him.

You wonder if his spectacles are fitted with prescription lenses, or if they’re formed of ordinary glass. Perhaps his Virginian hermitage is equally constructed, as much to discourage him from seeking dangerous connections as to ward unexpected company from his doorstep.

This man suspires for touch, for love; through each exchange you sense the pull of it, and the ground-heel stubbornness of his restraint.

“Hannibal’s been organising some kind of event for weeks,” Will says, abruptly. “He does this, now and then.”

“Aren’t you coming?” you ask, pausing in your work to glance at his reflection.

Will laughs shortly, the sound scoured rough with scorn.

“It’s not really my scene. Champagne and social climbers— I’d rather stay home with my dogs.”

You envision Will in a sea of wriggling animals, the iron fortification of his false self come down in open laughter, and you see something in this obscure pretender to like beyond superficial things.

“I wish you were coming,” you say, and again Will laughs aloud.

“Don’t kiss my ass.”

“I’m serious. I need you. Hannibal says he wants me to go downstairs for a couple of hours tonight.”

“And what did you say?” asks Will, watching you finish the adornment of cosmetics with the interest of having never before witnessed the process in motion.

“I said, ‘no thanks, Dad,'" you admit. "But here I am, getting ready to go anyway. I figured I’ve pissed Hannibal off too much lately to turn him down. Did he tell you what I did?”

"He didn’t go into the details. All he said was that you stepped out of line, and that he had to do something about it.”

He sets his whiskey glass on the floor, an act that would likely have your older jailer cringing in pernickety affront.

“You insist on butting heads with Hannibal,” Will continues, “even when you don’t like where you end up. Or maybe you do.”

You whirl round, brandishing an indignant hand in his direction.

“I do not!”

Will takes off his glasses, his gaze beneath both cynical and toying. You recall his fingers investigating your arousal post-spanking and look away again, itching beneath three tiers of lavender and ebony lace.

“I’m not trying to embarrass you,” says Will. “I’m trying to figure you out.”

“Yeah, well,” you retort. “I’ll bet you’ve done that already. If you can get inside the Lover’s head then mine shouldn’t be a problem.”

Moth like, Will’s eyelids flutter towards the window’s fading light.

“What’s wrong?” you ask. “Still haven’t cracked the case?”

“Not yet. The investigation into the factories and the vendors using them is going way too slowly to be viable. Jack thinks the dolls were purchased years ago, likely under a false name. We can’t rely on that to find the killer. He planned this more than a decade in advance.

“At this point he’s either waiting for the perfect chance to abduct his true target or he’s lingering to enjoy the thought of her being afraid. It could be both. He’s a cruel lover.”

Will blinks, and his brows close together in a frown.

“You’re changing the subject, Little One.”

You jolt to hear the moniker in full, and now with an accusatory edge.

Twitching, you say, “Yeah, I am. ‘Cause it’s embarrassing.”

“Hannibal doesn’t think so.”

Shoving your makeup bag aside you round on Will again, unimpressed. There is something of his old jealousy under the amusement, the stirring of a sleeping and cantankerous god. His attraction to you still does not change that he seethes to think of you and Hannibal alone together, of the nights he and his friend had once committed only to the other.

Will ultimately relishes that you were degraded, a consolation in his displeasure.

He brings his chair towards you, eager to chase the conversation further with his proximity.

“Hannibal knows it’s embarrassing,” you say. “That’s kind of the point. You’re both so smug about this.”

Will reaches out to pull you gently into his lap.

“Maybe just a little," he says, and you squirm against him, suppressing the silt of disgust in learning to win him this way, for wanting the affirmation of his desire upright against you.

Will adjusts you to straddle his thigh instead, a knowing participant in your game.

You turn on his knee, putting your arms about his neck to look into his face, close enough to see your silhouette in the rock pools of blown pupils.

“Will,” you say. “Do you think Hannibal loves me?”

Will starts, all the humour absenting itself from him at once.

“Do you want him to?” he asks, quite incredulous.

You dither over your answer, which is no longer as distinct as it once was. Hannibal’s adoration is a statement of lasting security, yet to be the darling of a man willing to orchestrate a killing in the name of therapy is a thought like venom in the blood; should you concede you too will die in all but physical form.

Aloud, you only say, “I could ask you the same thing, Daddy. What if Hannibal felt that way about you? Would you like it?”

Before Will can confirm, deny, or deflect with some pithy comment your bedroom door opens, and the moment is knocked through like a stoned pane of glass.

“Sorry to be abrupt,” says Hannibal, mildly. “Staff will be arriving soon to help prepare for my guests. If you’re not staying, Will, then you may wish to make yourself scarce.”

The younger man rises from his seat with a haste that surely does not go unnoticed by the other.

“Sure,” says Will. “I’ve got papers to grade, anyway. I’ll try and make the time to visit tomorrow.”

Your captors exchange glances, Hannibal with his usual, unshielded ardour, Will with a curiosity that, in other circumstances, might amuse you. Somehow, in all of this, he had not consciously entertained a belief in Hannibal’s attraction to him.

Now, through your question, he considers it, but says nothing, taking leave of you both with his opinion on the matter an enigma.

*

Like an enchantress at her oriel you observe as the workforce arrives, shaking rain off their umbrellas at the front door. Some hours later the vision is repeated with the expensive and largely beautiful attendees of Hannibal’s party, some glancing up at the house and nudging one another as they notice you above.

You feel a lurch of anxiety to think that you are expected to go among them, to smile with saccharine manners and pretend to them that you’re no more than a patient to the venerated Dr Lecter.

All this, surrounded by canapés and flowing drinks that will tease and taunt with scents and flavour— your stomach bellows in anticipation of it, for though you’ve eaten it is, as ever, not enough.

It seems a fickle thing to find yourself so oppressed while living with a man that has offered to help you maim and slaughter another, and yet between the horrors of illness and this it is satiation that you fear the most.

Still, you fear Hannibal also, this creature in his costume of human flesh and pleasantries.

That he has not spoken of Leland or Amy in two days only underpins the intelligence of his evil, a thing that he can fold away into himself just as he likes. You’ve continued your act as daughter-wife only in that to display your horror of him openly will mark you as not of his ilk but as prey, a delicacy procured from the forest.

Thus, with effort you brush the pounding of your heart and the agony of the cane under the rug of memory and watch the glittering people under a marquee of rain clouds until they’ve all entered, leaving the night empty again.

You listen with one cheek to the floorboards to the clink of glasses and droning conversation below, the instruments of hired musicians at their haunting work.

Surely you will not meld easily with such company as seethes beneath, even gowned as you are in grey silk and lace from a fashion house few can afford. Your mouth will open, and you will reveal yourself clumsy-tongued and unsuited to their guild.

The terror of it has quite gnawed you through by the time Hannibal ascends from the soirée to collect you.

“Are you ready to meet my guests, Little One?” he asks, taking your clammy hand with its nails bitten down to their ends.

“Not really,” you mumble. “Not sure I’m one of them.”

Hannibal lifts your arm to kiss your inner wrist where a vein strums with lurching adrenaline.

“You’re beginning to resemble Will in your attitudes,” he says, his voice a vibration on your skin. “But I disagree. My friends and acquaintances will find you as charming as I do.”

There is an implicit and unworded warning not to embarrass him in the compliment, a flash in the peat dark of his eyes. Gulping thickly, you fasten yourself to Hannibal’s side as you take the stairs, poised to wince under the observation of the many gathered below.

Hannibal’s house is made a palace by their decoration, men in crisp suits and women in forests of jewellery stepping from room to room, their chatter like another kind of music. Servers go about with trays of extravagant food and champagne, and in one corner a band plays a rendition of some famous classical piece whose name you don’t recall.

Overwhelmed, you glance back up the stairwell, ushered on by Hannibal’s hand upon your arm.

“I understand your reservations,” he murmurs. “It’s been a long time since you’ve been in the presence of so many people at once.”

Yet is not the quantity that perturbs you, but the agony of inevitable comparison. You feel like some vast and bloated airship amidst the slenderness of so many of Hannibal’s peers. Placing a hand across your stomach you attempt an awkward smile as you’re introduced to each guest the doctor approaches, thinking of the front door—surely locked, now, or guarded—through which you’d take flight, had you the chance.

A familiar voice anchors you amidst your desperate thoughts.

“Well, now, look who it is.”

Turning, you gasp with delight.

“It’s nice to see you again, Jack,” you say, going eagerly forth to shake his outstretched hand. “I like your suit.”

Jack grins, holding out the arms of his jacket in a playful gesture.

“Why, thank you. I’ll have to tell Bella you said so. She bought it for me a few years back.”

Hannibal subtly brings you closer to his side, keen to intercept in case, as before, you attempt to communicate your struggle to Agent Crawford.

“Bella has excellent taste,” he says. “In suits, and in her companions.”

“You know she does, Doctor,” says Jack, and turns to peer into the crowd. “Hold on a moment. I’ve just seen Chilton over there. I’ll be back.”

As he wades through the throng you gaze after him, yearning to give chase. He, of all men present, you trust entirely with your safety, myopic though he is to the evil around him.

Steering you in the other direction, Hannibal says, “Perhaps you’d like to introduce yourself to my guests independently. It’s important for you to develop confidence in your social abilities.”

You start violently at the suggestion. To be left alone at this event is a risk that shrieks of Hannibal's deiform arrogance; they know, these guests, of your madness, the sympathetic injury that may well twist you against your caregiver.

The staff, too, are likely prepared, told you’ll lie to them or feign hysterics so as to be led away from this place by any that would believe in your performance.

Should you betray your attacker you would find yourself amongst enemies, yet it does not cross your mind even to attempt it.

For the first time you find Hannibal an ally: he has always regarded your weight with a neutral disinterest that even your disorder cannot twist into derision. The women that eye you up and down, however, reinforce that you are a failing thing to be judged, and so you read into even the most innocuous look a malice.

“Can’t I stay with you?” you ask tremulously. “I barely know anyone here.”

A little smile graces Hannibal’s lips, and he leans in to speak softly at your ear.

“We mustn’t provoke any more speculation about us through unorthodox proximity. Miss Lounds is likely no longer alone in thinking us lovers. For now we must suggest that we are not.”

“But—"

“Hush,” says Hannibal. “Be a good girl and do this for me.”

You think acutely of his mouth upon your cunt earlier that morning, taking you fresh from the shower against the bathroom wall as you’d bitten your fist against weak and hopeless cries. He had not hurt you, not threatened, merely knelt and pushed your leg over his shoulder, relying on your startled fear to keep you pliant.

He’d made you come with sensation like the taste of sparks, a sudden, pulling burst around him. You’d taken it like a morsel from his fingertips; a gift from him, making things up to you after your whipping, so that you can never think him only cruel.

This pressure now upon you to be grown: it is not mean for meanness’ sake. He desires evidence that you are capable of bearing his secrets without lapsing into betrayal, for only then will you be worthy of his love.

“Okay,” you say, at last, and Hannibal lets you go off in your silver dress like a piece of loose smoke whipped away by the wind.

You watch him through the crowd—sleekly handsome, and effortlessly entertaining—in defeat. He has worked to make you dependent on him, but you are ashamed of the success with which he’s so quickly achieved that very goal.

A woman attempts to speak to you, a gallery owner of the eccentric, elderly type; a young man, a scholar, comes at the other side of you with a question you don’t quite hear. Bewildered, you utter what vague answers you can summon at a whim and excuse yourself, cupping a hand at your eyes to blinker yourself against a passing tray of confections.

The lights, the noise, the bodies that press about you like a rising flock of pigeons disturbed on some night street— overcome by panic, you find yourself up against the stupid urge to weep.

Another server edges by you with a battalion of golden champagne glasses on a teetering plate. Thinking of the warmth of Will’s Irish coffees you take a glass in hand and look at it, paused only by the immediate calculation of figures wrapped about your brain like a band.

Seventy calories on top of the four hundred from this morning, then the three hundred of what you ate of dinner, the one hundred and eighty in fresh juice—

Guilty as a murderer you sip the champagne to its end, ducking out of Hannibal’s view as you take a second measure from another member of his staff. The day is already ruined beyond salvaging, you reason; whatever calories you drink no longer count.

As with the whiskey you feel yourself warm, adrift from the cutting mouth of your perpetual nerves. The vast rooms soften, taking on the glazed appearance of a gala in a dream. By the time you sneak your fourth glass it is almost easy to return a hundred curious smiles, to answer shallow questions with equal shallowness.

“Yes, it’s a beautiful house. Yes, I’m doing much better now that I’m here. Yes, Dr Lecter is awfully kind. Oh, Will’s really a great guy once you get to know him.”

Gradually you see the guests accept you as they might a quaint exotic pet, certainly not their equal, but pleasant enough to understand their host’s affection for. That he, the saint they fawn over, has forced his mouth upon your soaking cunt that very morning makes you laugh now that you’re drunk enough.

Such idiots this man pulls about him, art curators, literary critics, the blood of old money, all equally duped as you never were, not once. These friends of his know only a character he plays, fanatics following a myth.

In this, at least, you are superior, the child Antichrist groomed by devilish fathers for a coronation in evil.

Caught between this grim lucidity and a certain gloating you stumble into a red-headed woman in a Verdigris gown like copper made lovely by deep water. Muttering an embarrassed apology you turn away, stayed only by her small hand at your elbow.

“Well, hi,” she says. “I didn’t think Hannibal would let you out for this. I heard he keeps you under lock and key. I’m Freddie Lounds, by the way.”

Stupid with drink, you attempt to gather yourself in the face of this revelation.

“I know you!” you cry. “I’ve read your stuff. Some of it, anyway. And yeah, I was surprised he let me come, too.”

Your eyes meet Freddie’s, searching for the same thing she hopes of yours: an understanding between you. The union of a shared opinion.

“I take it you’re not thrilled to be under his care,” she says in a lowered voice. “I have my own professional opinions about Hannibal and Will Graham, and I’m not the only one. That’s partly the reason I came. I had a hunch I’d find some answers here.”

In bilious regret of the champagne you list against a nearby wall for support.

“Answers? What do you mean?”

Freddie leans in conspiratorially, blocking you from Hannibal’s sight should he glance in your direction.

“Not long ago I received an anonymous email from someone claiming to know you,” says Freddie. “They were hoping to secure an interview to set the record straight regarding a recent article published on the Tattle Crime website. I never turn down potential information, so I said I’d do it, but they never responded.”

She pauses, alert to the change in your expression.

“Last night a young woman was abducted in the same way all of the Lover’s victims were taken. My research seems to point to her being an old school friend of yours. I was wondering if you’d heard anything about her disappearance.”

Horror bowls you down as though from the uppermost step of a spiral staircase.

“What... what happened?” you stammer. “Please, I need to know.”

Freddie's eyes—the clever blue of a Collie bitch—cup your face in their keen hold.

“The victim was abducted from her home after opening her door to someone at around 11pm,” she says. “There was a struggle— furniture was overturned, and police say it’s likely the kidnapper sustained some kind of injury, although no blood was found at the scene. I imagine Will Graham performed one of his infamous recreations to figure that out.”

The room seems to rotate around you like hell’s carousel, sickening, searing.

“The victim,” you say. “What was her name?”

You know before Freddie speaks her answer, have known it from the moment you’d placed your hand upon Hannibal’s telephone, as though fate itself by psychic puppetry had directed your hand.

“It’s Amy Glass,” says Freddie, and she makes a hunting gesture, as though searching for an invisible notepad. “So can you confirm that she’s a friend of yours?”

Shaking your head, you jerk away from the wall, swerving out from under Freddie’s arm as she reaches out to you, her face almost soft with concern. She calls you back to her, but you are already striding across the room to the beast in his mortal attire, deaf to all but him.

“Hannibal!” you shrill above the music. “Hannibal, I need to talk to you!”

People turn, startled and intrigued, anticipating a spectacle, the lunatic girl in full bloom.

Hannibal glances about, rapidly assessing the danger you threaten. An emotional scene could sully his reputation, an indelible stain on his house.

Addressing you by name, he says, “What’s wrong? Has someone upset you?”

“Yes,” you say, through gritted teeth. “You.”

Hannibal’s eyes shift, finally interpreting the length of rage and terrified abjection unreeling within you.

“Come with me, then,” he says, quickly. “Let’s discuss this upstairs.”

Your mouth opens, and you imagine instigating a scandal, screaming of the abuse and other foulness invoked upon you.

Then you think again of flesh and killing and nod your head coldly, allowing Hannibal to guide you to your bedroom with a murmured excuse to his guests.

Once alone, he sits you down on the bed, his tight jaw easing as he feels the violence with which you shake at his light touch.

“Tell me what happened,” he says. “Tell me everything.”

Your fists squeeze as one in your lap.

“Amy is missing. Freddie Lounds told me. What did you do to my friend? Where did you take her?”

Hannibal’s visage changes subtly, the humanity in it retreating to reveal that other self, the stag of putrid dreams.

“I didn’t take Amy,” he says, flatly. “I assume Freddie informed you of the details of her abduction. Amy injured her attacker, and I don’t bear the mark. You saw nothing upon me this morning.”

Indeed you had not; his nude body, knelt between your legs, had been as fresh parchment, white and clear, but still he is no innocent.

“You must have told the Lover about her,” you insist. “Left some sign for him somewhere. You did this. I know you did. You did this to punish me, or to see how I’d react. Well, congrats, Dad. This is it. I hate you.”

Your breath rips in and out of your lungs like the proboscis of some terrible drill, and as you lean into Hannibal’s face you see your own spittle jump the air in the force of your emotion.

“If you let her die I’ll starve myself,” you say. “I’ll go on hunger strike. You can do anything you want to me, I don’t care. I’ll do it. I’ll kill myself.”

“I won’t let you,” says Hannibal, calmly.

“I’ll find a way. I’ll make you regret what you did.”

He shifts back from you a fraction, and you comprehend in that subtle motion that he believes it.

“You care so strongly for this old friend, then,” he says, simply.

“Yes. You feel the same way about Will. If Amy gets hurt or dies because of me— I couldn’t handle it. I can’t. I can’t. You know what the Lover does to people. How could you send her there? How could you do this?”

Your voice wavers, threatening sobs, and you curse yourself for your fragility, the little girl you cannot help but be. Hannibal finds a handkerchief and touches it to your face, his previous compassion returning, and with dismay you accept that while your anger will not move him entreating him as your father will.

“If you ever want me to trust you and your way of living then bring her back, Daddy,” you whisper. “Please, Daddy. Please. Please.”

Hannibal's head turns aside, examining you with a renewed interest.

“You believe me to be such a God as to be capable of this.”

“Yes. You can do anything you want to. You can help her. I know you can. If you don’t you’ll ruin everything you want with me and Will. This is all I’ll think about when I see your face.”

Your jailer doesn’t answer, only reaches out to take your sweat-damp dress down from your shoulders. On a repulsed and foolish instinct you slap his hands from you.

“I can do it myself.”

Hannibal snatches hold of your wrists, and for a moment you see him consider violence, his eyes blackly wild, like Will’s, as though absorbing his lover’s approach.

“I’m sure you can,” he says, at last, and he lets your hands fall, unharmed, into your lap. “Please stay in your room until my guests leave tonight. I wouldn’t like you to upset them or yourself any further.”

“What about Amy?” you ask. “Are you going to find her?”

Without answering Hannibal turns to re-join the party, pausing in the doorway to impart his final direction.

“Please don’t mention what has transpired to Will. He doesn’t know that you and Amy are still so closely connected, and so it should remain. Obey me and you’ll receive no punishment for disturbing the festivities. The fault lies with me for allowing you to encounter Freddie Lounds while unattended, after all.”

You want to scream after him, tear at his carefully ironed shirt collar and rend from him an answer to your request. But he only leaves you alone behind your locked door with thoughts of Amy cut apart to fit the body of a doll. Defiled, as you've frequently been.

[im-always-the-problem-its-me]

abigail hobbs and daddy issues.

these things are fueling me lately. HIS voice purrs with such nihilism. i am not a part of the 'all', HE tells me. but if i have to absorb one more generalization i might scream. i know people often speak from their jaded experiences. i have many myself. it's just adolescent the way i think 'am I like this?' 'does he think i'm really that difficult?'

good girls should never try to be bad. we get fucked up. we take hannibal lecter's hand when he offers it to us on the final step of the ladder downward. new daddies.

(i suddenly remember my abusive ex telling me his theories of all women seeking out their fathers as husbands or boyfriends and this was before he was abusive and how i saw my stepfather--who raised me and was the only dad i knew until this past decade--in his eyes when his hands were around my throat in a 'i'm going to kill you, bitch' way.)

abigail went from the arms of one serial killer into another's. but abigail is not the sacrificial lamb. will graham is. abigail is now the bait that she was accused of being for her father, garrett jacob hobbs.

i'm not in an abusive situation. i'm in an intense affair that's far enough away from me to be ephemeral. i just can't help how it stirs things up for me. i'm also being mentored by HIM. i used to think this would be the worst place to be considering how long we've known each other. i remember vowing to keep our art separated, but i can't deny that he knows what he's doing and the things he's saying echo that of my old teacher who highly encouraged my writing.

i DO need help. i've been stuck in the same creative rut for years and my attempts to claw my way out of it are mediocre at best. the effort is there.

i'm HIS fragile little teacup. but he'd be devastated if i broke and assures me it'll be intense but won't destroy me. every conversation is intense because we're cosmic twins. i trust him. i have since we were little kids. this is a sacred thing neither of us want to screw up and his advisement will only help me especially since i'm looking to broaden my work. i've got to get out of this 'i'll submit stuff eventually' hell. get to work, bitch. you need the dough.

autumn makes me rewatch Hannibal and since it's been so long and i'm in a different place since the last watch, i'm seeing a lot of shit that i'm absorbing personally.

i got a book about mothers and eating disorders i'm praying doesn't trigger a relapse. i've been good though. my weight is good. sure i can lose more, but ya know...i'm being good.

so yeah. writing every day. soaking in autumn inspo. listening to good music. watching good movies again.

i foresee good things.