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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)

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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.

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theredofoctober · 1 month

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MANNA- CHAPTER THIRTEEN: TEA

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

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

Read after the cut...

For a near week your deceptive submission endures, the hours newly tightened by a schedule your host has contrived to divert you from your anti-appetite.

Days rise from the borderless veil of time like castles from a dawn mist. Made a school child again, you sit before documentaries and foreign art films, take up a journal whose pages bear but glances of your internal woe.

You find yourself wishing that you could write with any particular talent.

As a girl you’d yearned to be an author, never daring to materialise the urge with any substantial effort. Now you can’t imagine you’ll ever be allowed so loose-penned a profession, if any at all, kept covetously home and infantilised until you cannot think beyond a fraction of words.

Why, then, does Hannibal go to such arduous lengths to educate you? Surely it is only so that—before the eyes of peers—you'll be the cultured averment of triumph through therapy.

In the soirees of your doctor's hopes you cleave, willing, to his side, bewitching the throng with smirking witticisms before sucking his cock with that same clever mouth when the last guest steps, merry and ignorant, into the night.

Already Hannibal aspires to materialise that abstraction. You find proof enough of it in the wardrobe he’s amassed for you, which expands as the days progress.

Some of his choices are attractive to you, reluctant though you are to consider this— long velvet gowns in puce, umber, black, blouse and skirt co-ordinations plucked from the runway, some still in boxes emblazoned with designer names.

Others of the selection offend you, however, in their bald intent for closed-door wear. Girlish dresses in light chiffon, corseted silk in flowering lace. Short necks and hemlines, some of them scarcely reaching the knee. Then there are sheer nightclothes stored in perfumed sheets, no practicality but for the sort of sleeping in which no slumber is to be had.

You’re to dress like some obscure young celebrity, a whimsical echo of an era thirty years passed. Still, there is an attempt in this incredible closet to appease you as well as to change, adapting your preferences to a style acceptable to Hannibal’s eye.

It’s of particular note to you that the garments are each the same size, implying that you haven’t gained significant weight since your last awareness of its value. Conceivably the labels might have been replaced, but it’s so unlikely a trick that the theory is quickly thrown out.

Hannibal is inviting you to trust his process with a peace offering of equilibrium, the second-best prize to starvation.

You are not such a fool as to take it yet, though in action you may appear to have done so.

When in the presence of your keepers you remain in unwavering character, an amplified, changeling copy of the child you'd once been. In this way you're allowed your little misbehaviours—pulling a face at food you do not like, or the shrugging rejection of an idle caress.

So long as you sit at meals, and don’t speak in any manner that threatens the illusion of family you are unharmed, and laden with unending gifts. It would be a winning childhood, had you been born into it through a far less insidious violence than that which brought you here.

Still, the awareness that you must simper and lisp for another month before you venture an escape soon wears upon your tolerance.

One Saturday morning, alone in your room, the silence of that cushioned cell amplifies your every thought to a piqued tenor.

You miss when hunger bled like smoke through your skull, ridding its halls of all but its fey shape. With a scalding clarity you behold what you are now: a homunculus, the issue of diablerie, cut small by men’s black magic.

You cast yourself amidst a tide of cushions and mimic your own words upon them in a bitter snarl.

“‘Yes, Daddy’”, ‘no, Daddy’. ‘Little one’. Oh God! It’s all so stupid. Stupid!”

An involuntary laugh chatters through you like a coin thieved from a beggar’s cup, hateful and maniacal. Yet you perform this anger as you do the docile coquette, the bounds between that self and your own a gradient that softens by the day.

It’s become rather easier to be a monster’s daughter than a woman, this you cannot deny. The longer you are extracted from the world the less you’ll remember of how to live within it, if you ever knew, before.

The misery of this thought proves too much to bear.

You cry until your head is as hot about the brow as a horseshoe turned white from the forge. The sobs wrench the muscles of your stomach in two pained halves, and still you weep until you laugh again, thinking how deranged you’d sound to any eavesdropper in the rooms below.

Afterwards you sit very quietly, like an ailing bride in a Victorian novel; you are, after all, very ill, and it suits you well to behave so.

Having nothing better to do, you switch on the television and skim through the channels with neither aim nor interest.

Thin, beautiful women populate the screen, their waists like darner flies, their wrists as narrow as your thumb. Even the history programmes feature experts with trim figures in sensible interview dresses.

Perturbed, you flick on and on until you find something on eighteenth century Paris, hosted by a grandfatherly old professor marked safe from scrutiny in the absence of compare.

You watch until your lids fall, thinking of catacombs full of monk bones, the cloying scent of ancient death, each as forgotten under dust as you are by all those who once loved you, and revered by those who never have.

In the afternoon Hannibal wakes you gently by turning the television off at the set.

“Are you feeling alright, little one?” he asks. “It’s unusual for you to sleep in so late.”

You hum in a noncommittal fashion, scarcely bothering to open your eyes.

Perhaps he’ll let you drowse the day away; you’d dream through all horrors like this, should your insomnia give you reprieve. A week, a month, a year sold to the sandman in exchange for peace— yet the dark would follow you there, also, antlered men in imagined night.

“You’ve been in bed long enough,” says Hannibal, peeling back your sheets with a brisk tug. “Up you get. Alana is visiting us this evening. She’ll have some questions for you.”

Weakly attempting to thieve back the blanket, you say, “I really don’t feel like talking to her. Can’t you do it? Please?”

“Jack won’t be satisfied with a second-hand report. Alana must see that you’re comfortable here. Not a particular incentive for you, but I can provide others.”

You open one eyelid, enticed by this readiness to bargain.

“So what do I get if I say yes?”

“A light dinner,” says Hannibal. “And—depending on your behaviour—perhaps another reward we’ll negotiate later tonight.”

At this you sit up; starving is a precious contraband in the doctor’s abode, worth more to you than every decadent thing under its rafters.

“Feeling better already, I see,” says Hannibal, through one of his charitable smiles. “Please stand by the mirror and allow me to dress you.”

Unbidden there comes the thought of his hand under your skirts, pressing inwards like a starfish sucking at a stone.

“Oh, come on, Dad,” you say, in flustered haste. "Really?”

“There’s a certain picture I’d like to create for Alana’s benefit,” he insists. “One of wellness and serenity. Your selections tend to imply something far more brooding and morose.”

With a testy little sigh you slip out of bed, rubbing your arms free of rising gooseflesh.

“You bought me those ‘brooding and morose’ outfits, remember, Dad? What does that say about you?”

“That I seek to please you,” says Hannibal, touching your mouth with playful thumb. “Today I hope that you’ll return the gesture.”

He holds aloft a pastel blue dress in transparent lace, a beaded line of detailing pointing downwards at the hips in a suggestive v.

“I don’t know,” you say, far more sharply than intended. “It’s short. And I don’t like the colour.”

“The shade will suit you,” Hannibal replies. “And you’ll wear a shift underneath for modesty, if that’s your concern.”

You don’t bother with reproof; he’s guiding you out of your nap-rumpled clothes and into the dress before you can think of an excuse he’ll entertain.

Unresisting, you only glance aside, breathing shallowly so as not to brush your chest against him as he adjusts your collar.

That Hannibal hasn’t made love to you since you shared a bed makes you think that he’s waiting for something, a moment fermented to sweeten the sex. He is, you warrant, as driven by pleasure as any man, being only of a tighter and more methodical restraint.

You can’t decide whether you’re glad of the wait or if you’d prefer he throw you down on your bed and ravish you now to have done with it.

Doubtless Hannibal considers an identical dilemma, turning you before him like a ballerina in a mirrored jewellery box.

“Even the greats couldn’t hope to replicate this image of you,” he says, as he inspects his work. “To attempt it would have them rending the canvas to pieces rather take credit for their failure.”

The compliment is long forgotten when, later, Alana breaches the house, her pretty face above her mulberry blouse like a lily in a violet bouquet.

Her casual manner in kissing Hannibal’s cheek at the door suggests a social visit, as does the gift of white wine under one thin arm. Still, she remembers her duty, taking you aside with a subtle professionalism within two minutes of having greeted her host.

Her kindness is a shingle in a cyclone, dashed away by the futility of its own existence.

“Dr Lecter told me you’re doing a lot better than when I last saw you,” says Alana, placing one of her graceful hands atop your own without comment as to its frigidity. “Are you feeling more positive now, or would you disagree with that?”

Slipping your fingers out from under hers, you say, “Well, I have a TV now. I’m allowed to do a lot more things I’m actually interested in. That helps. Thanks for that, by the way. I know you talked Dr Lecter into it.”

Smiling, Alana says, “I can’t take credit for that. He was already making preparations when I brought it up. He's racked up quite the shopping bill.”

The notion of Hannibal navigating the catalogues of online stores is ridiculous, somehow anachronistic, but then again you’ve witnessed him tapping at a sleek iPad, a jarring sight, on every occasion.

“How about mealtimes?” asks Alana. “I understand you’re working towards a plan that’s easier for you.”

“It’s still hard,” you mumble. “Tough. You know.”

Your eyes are on Alana’s patent court shoes, picturing a blandly organised rack of identical heels in alternate shades. Perhaps ankle boots for the colder days. Simple. Nothing flash.

Alana pauses, quickly assessing your disinterest in the exchange.

“Hannibal says he’d like you to agree to more therapy sessions,” she says. “He feels you’re opening up. I think we both know that’s probably wishful thinking on his side, but don’t shoot him down just yet.”

“I won’t,” you say. “Couldn’t anyway, right?”

Alana rearranges her discomfort into another closed-lipped smile. You can’t envision that lipstick ever moving, striped across her face as yours has been by both of the friends that she holds dear.

“So how are things between you and Will now?” enquires Alana, quite on cue. “Rumour has it you’re getting along like a house on fire.”

Truthfully Will has rather cooled since the night of the seizure, his envy retreating to the black of some inner primordial cave. He seems both caustically amused by your recent performance and cynical of its longevity, yet neither judgement is as severe as before.

The thought of your kindness sits with him, has been taken up with the cagy hunger of an orphan to a heel of bread. Piece by piece you’ve given him more of it in flirting words, but these he’s yet to take, turning each away with a smirk.

“Don’t try so hard,” he’d said, only a day ago, but when you’d thrown an idle foot across his lap as you read a book beside him he hadn’t removed it, only pretended to ignore the intrusion.

“Me and Will are okay,” you say to Alana. “That’s all.”

You must give away something of your successes in your expression, for Alana’s mouth twitches into a coy grin.

“Just okay?”

At that moment Hannibal knocks on the open door, a merciful trespass, setting you free of her.

As promised, you’re offered a modest salad while Hannibal and Alana make their way through numberless courses over the gifted wine.

At first you’re too absorbed in the mortification of eating in front of the other woman to pay attention to their mounting chemistry, dragging the same tattered leaf through streams of congealing oil.

It’s only as you’re making a fortress of cutlery across a lump of uneaten meat that you take full stock of the flirting at work before you.

Though attempts are made by both parties to fold you into the conversation they are mild at best, almost neglectful.

Alana glances up into Hannibal’s eyes in frequent, laughing enjoyment, touching his shoulder or forearm lightly; he, for his part, looks upon her lips and the curves of her form and speaks fondly to her, his voice hushed with a want of sex.

You’ve heard it often enough to know it, and should be glad to have his attentions otherwise distracted.

Yet your hands creep under the table, squeezing your thighs and stomach as though to claw out the matter you've ingested through your meat.

"I'm done," you blurt out, cutting across Hannibal's opinion of a recent classical performance he’s attended. "Can I go upstairs?"

It's with difficulty that you bite off the habitual 'Dad' that has replaced 'doctor' in your vocabulary.

Hannibal offers you a near invisible look of disgruntlement at the interruption, quickly mollified by Alana's fingers at his elbow.

"I'm sure we're boring you," she says. "Go on up and relax. You don't have to stick around just to be polite."

You glance at Hannibal, seeking his approval before you stand. His eyes, within so static a face, are black glass in their suspicion.

"I'll come up to speak to you later on," he says, at last. "If there's anything you need, don't hesitate to ask for it."

Rather than go immediately to your den above you linger to watch as the couple drink in the parlour, so close as to almost be in one another’s arms.

You see from Hannibal's relaxed posture that he is not ablaze with a fascinated love for Alana as he is for Will; he holds her merely with the affection of an old friend, and, too, with an uncomplicated desire.

He would never rape Alana Bloom; such violence, to Hannibal, is an entry into a cabal of which she has no part. Her value to him is as representation of his treasured comforts, and all that which Hannibal would not willingly change.

Alana is as used for her parts as you are, in her way, and oblivious to it, like some grinning scarecrow blind to the birds that snicker and creep at its back.

Yet as you watch her lean, murmuring, into Hannibal’s neck you feel a tooth of ice grind through your heart and turn away, feeling numbly for the bannisters behind you.

Almost on hands and knees you climb the steps to your bed, brought low by that astonishing cold.

Pausing at the bathroom you prostrate yourself at the toilet’s mercy, still unable to empty yourself of the pain and bile you'd evict to be naked of your jealousy.

In surrender you rest your head on the cool floor and remain there even after the compulsion to vomit subsides.

If you cannot flog yourself for your sins as the saints did then this will do, sprawled before the porcelain God of another degredation.

Presently the bathroom door creaks open, striking an unwanted rod of light across your face.

“Go away,” you mutter, wiping your face with an angry scrub of your knuckles. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

Hannibal looks at you with a minister’s pious severity.

"I see. So I was correct. You object to Alana and I having a sexual relationship. Any other father would sternly inform you that it’s none of your business, and as your therapist it’s even less so.”

Raising your head, you snap at him as fiercely as you dare.

“What about me?”

“My friendship with Alana is very different to what you and I share,” says Hannibal, and you snort, wiping a stream of clear mucus across your lips.

“I’ll bet.”

Hannibal turns his head at a quizzical angle, and you perceive the very second of his understanding like the unveiling of some trick.

“You must explain yourself, darling,” he says. “What is it about this that has upset you?”

The logical answer should be that you wish to save Alana from him, that you cannot watch her beaming, black-haired head roll out from under the axe.

Instead, you blurt out, “Don’t you get it, Dad? How it makes me feel? You’re supposed to understand me, and I’m pretty sure you do. You knew that it would hurt me. You did this on purpose the way you wave me around in front of Will.”

Using the sink to right yourself you get to your feet, standing on pathetic, defiant tiptoe so that you might gaze into the devil’s face directly.

“If you have to do this, then please, just me. Just me. I can’t stand it. It makes me feel sick to think about you and her together. Knowing you’ll touch me afterwards. Don’t do this to me. Please."

“I see,” says Hannibal.

He speaks with such calm that you deflate from your anger at once.

“Very well,” he says. “I can make an excuse for Alana to leave. Would that please you, little one?”

This time you don’t answer, only stare at him with huge and terrible eyes until he retreats to the stairway.

“Oh, god,” you say, under your breath. “Amy, you’d really hate me right now, wouldn’t you?”

You hear Hannibal and Alana talking in low undertones, the female voice a coo of thoughtful sympathy. In time Alana collects herself to leave, but only when her car propels itself quietly from the driveway does Hannibal come to you again.

By now you’re sitting at your dresser, making a humiliated attempt to recollect your dignity with cosmetics. You know that Hannibal will not like what you’d made of your face—the eyes painted black, your lips the colour of your heart, a sinking, well-bound stone.

Yet all he says as he stands behind you is, “Look at me, little one.”

Your hand shakes, blotting your eyelid with an errant apostrophe of mascara.

“Don’t want to.”

“I know. I’d like you to, even so.”

The gentleness of Hannibal’s voice is an agony to you. You’ve never hated nor been more drawn to him than you are now, this impossible spirit in the vessel of a man.

Stiffly you turn on your chair, meeting his gaze to find it truly repentant.

“I won’t make love to Alana again,” says Hannibal, and you know as you do the reality of elements that he does not lie. “I see that this triggers your fear of abandonment too greatly. But it might not be possible for me to avoid all romantic advances.

“There are rumours abound as to our arrangement already, and it will seem suspicious if I don’t take a lover. But I’ll do my best to be faithful to our family.”

He pauses, watching you battle to suppress your disgust for him, for yourself, for all things in the bracken of his design.

“For now, I’d like you to relax,” says Hannibal. “This level of distress will make you ill. I’m concerned that it already has.”

Taking you by a hand as clammy as mermaid skin he leads you down to the living room to serve you from a pot of fragrant tea.

Though its calorific value is likely near to air you catastrophize with immediacy, unable to touch the cup, let alone drink.

“I’m not doing it on purpose this time,” you babble. “I’m not, Dad, please, you’ve got to believe me.”

Hannibal raises a hand to caress you— that, and only that, and yet you shrink against the couch in expectancy of a blow.

An appalled look tightens Hannibal’s expression, a hypocrisy of which he seems endlessly capable.

“There, now,” he says. “I can tell the difference between unruliness and genuine struggle. You and I both know that tea is only leaves and water— why do you believe against logic that it will affect your weight?”

“I don’t know,” you say, with a helpless shake of the head. “I feel like if I drink it I won’t be able to stop myself. I’ll eat and eat until I’m... big, and then I won’t be able to go back to the way I was. Everyone will see me differently. Treat me like they used to. People can be cruel.”

“And none crueller than you are to yourself,” says Hannibal, and he eases the cup between your hands so that you must take it or scald yourself raw. “There is nothing shameful in having a body of any kind, and any who judge you for that would wear their foolishness like a flag for all to see. Nevertheless, I’ve balanced your weight here, and will continue to do so if that is what’s needed for you to believe in my intentions.”

He aids you to drink, lifting the cup to your mouth over and over until the last drop. From the bitter taste you know it altered by some drug.

For once you do not care.

The night has left you so ashamed of your bearing that you’re half joyful to be done with it, sinking back as euphoria transforms all things that touch you into nirvana.

Your fingers drape across your body in aimless exploration, stopping only as Will enters the room with Hannibal at his side.

The younger man’s eyebrows jump as you giggle and hide your hands behind your back.

“You’re smiling,” says Will. “And I’m not sure how I feel about the circumstances.”

“Our girl is relieved to see you, Will,” says Hannibal. “A familiar face is a balm for even the most taxing day.”

Will looks from you to Hannibal ponderously.

“Alana was here earlier,” he states.

“She was, much to our little one’s chagrin.”

“Do you have to talk about her?” you interrupt, in loose-tongued irritation.

Hannibal chuckles.

“We do not. There are other topics I’d find far more engaging.”

You watch from under heavy lids as the men discuss the Lover’s case in low, library murmurs.

“Tanya Marrow was found washed up by the Patapsco River this morning,” says Will, with a grim regret. “Her wounds were fresh, meaning the Lover only mutilated Tanya and placed her into the doll when he was ready to throw her away. He was content with how closely she resembled the woman he’s desperate to make, for a while.

“But she wasn’t close enough. In the end he had to remind her that she was just a toy to him, and punish her for her lacking.”

The contrast of these dreary horrors with the rainbow light of feeling through your needy cunt should sicken you, but your mind is in disorder, barely one thought akin to the next.

“We’ve made a breakthrough in regards to the dolls,” Will continues. “The well-made ones are expensive; for one person to have so many implies that the Lover is either a wealthy collector, or that he’s able to access them at a considerable discount. Possibly for free.”

“I’m assuming the factory producing these dolls has been identified,” says Hannibal.

Will swallows a mouthful of whiskey.

“There are only four vendors known to produce the style of doll the Lover uses. Jack’s got someone looking into their customers, narrowing down the suspects to buyers in Virginia. Considering how specialised these clients are that shouldn't take long.”

The older man listens with a solemn intensity, scarcely drinking from his own glass.

“I see the Lover almost exactly now,” says Will. “He knows he has to take his bride eventually; he’s circling her, choosing women that are closer and closer to her physical proximity. The next target will be someone she knows.

“It’s a dangerous move, but by now the Lover wants someone that’s stood so close to this woman that he can taste her. Imagine her beneath him when he defiles the inferior victim.”

Fear swims, crocodilian, within you, disturbing your narcotic stupor.

Seeming to sense it, Hannibal says, “Let’s continue this line of conversation later on. I wouldn’t want to give our surrogate daughter bad dreams.”

Will glances at you, watching you fumble idly with the hem of your dress.

“You don’t plan to cast her as our daughter in tonight’s play, do you?” he asks, plainly.

“That would unnecessarily chasten the evening,” says Hannibal. “She’s the woman for whom we are legally responsible, and what we deem fit for her continued health is ours to determine.”

You recline across the couch like an empress, watching the firelight glance shadows across your skin like a garment in a dream. Hannibal slips a hand from your shoulder to your breast, teasing the tiffany lace across your nipple, and the warmth and delicacy of the touch breathes through you a shiver of ermine delight.

Only vaguely do you acknowledge your revulsion, a whisper at a keyhole on the other side of the house.

“What did you give her for her to let you touch her like that?” asks Will, curiously.

His hands play upon the sides of his whiskey glass, and the thought of them upon your thighs or between them drives your lower lip between your teeth with unbeckoned desire.

“I’ve offered her release from her spirited rebellion,” says Hannibal. “Even having promised us fealty, this act she wouldn’t easily endure. I wish for her to experience intimacy unhindered by her mental bounds.”

His fingers glance beneath the neckline of your dress and cross your bare skin as a swan's wing meets the sky, rushing a moan from you more akin to a sob in its juddering resonance.

“Besides,” Hannibal continues, “she’s had a trying afternoon. Her body welcomes this.”

Will’s face, washed honey bronze by firelight, is so neutral that even if you were not high you’d fail to extract the mechanisms of thought behind it.

“We’ve both succeeded in bringing her to climax,” says Hannibal, as his other hand folds your skirt against your pelvis. “But never her consent. Tonight, perhaps we will.”

“In this state she has no real autonomy,” Will argues. “We’re witnessing an illusion.”

Hannibal pauses, his face like that of an antiques dealer slyly unveiling some stolen wares.

“Not exactly,” he says. “Little one: you’ve described me as handsome. Do think that Will is good-looking?”

Your concentration wavers as two digits inscribe an ouroboros in your arousal. The wrongness of it all only enhances the sensation, the thought of being a lovely toy for older men to play with.

Your name on Dr Lecter’s lips recalls his question.

“Yes,” you say. “I— I do.”

You don’t know why you’re honest. Even a child, embarrassed, could lie.

Will smiles, and for a moment there is something almost sweet in his expression.

Then the dark of him slithers behind it again with predatory ease, and he leans forward, knees apart, possessed of a revelation of self-assurance.

This is the self he becomes when challenging Dr Lecter, the arrogant observer of all living things.

“I already knew that,” says Will. “I don’t mind hearing it clarified, though.”

You can’t imagine him ever admitting that you’re beautiful in return. Hannibal would, has done so already in such a succulence of language that your mouth could water with it, but not Will, not in so many words.

All that he will allow thus far is that you are not ugly. Blearily you vow to unwind from him his obsession.

“Puppy love,” says Hannibal, looking into your face with a gentle irony. “You’d like him to touch you, wouldn’t you, little one?”

This you don’t answer, and rather than press you again Hannibal makes you come with three fingers inside you, patient as you cry out and roll your head aside in conflict and delirium.

You cannot decide if he means to reward you for your participation with Will or to humiliate you for that same eagerness. It is bewildering and erotic, this envy they have for one another; to quell it you must kneel to the hierarchy, submissive always to your covetous masters.

“Join us, Will,” says Hannibal, at last.

Briefly you think that he won’t, a scoffing lord, above it all.

Then he crosses the room, sets down his whiskey and kisses you, first your mouth, then your neck, leaving the taste of smoke and almonds wherever his lips meet.

Whimpering, you kick your feet on the couch as each petal of ecstasy comes loose from a branch within you.

Sometimes Will’s teeth push against your flesh, not quite biting; Hannibal, on the other side of your neck, gently does, as though inheriting the expected assault from his would-be lover.

His fingers form a cylinder of delight in you, the pad of his thumb undoing another orgasm in a trio of strokes.

“How gifted we are to receive such delights,” says Hannibal, and as you groan he docks his arousal in your own, filling you so entirely with his cock that you think and feel only the fucking and nothing more, a witless hole.

Will brings your hand to his erection, and there is no uncertainty in that motion, nor in his lips about your breast. His rough tongue, the saliva like a paste jewel on your nipple—

Writhing, panting, you stir through pleasure upon pleasure like the layers of the earth, soft, dark, deep.

Your palm tightens on Will’s cock like a night sea about the lighthouse it yearns to bring down, working him with a knowing purpose. As Hannibal continues his pelvic rolls against you Will draws back, avoiding the early release that your cunning fist would bring.

Not once do the men make contact in a sexual manner with each other, and you don’t understand it, this avoidance of the ultimate lust. Yet perhaps it is that they fuck through you, for when Hannibal achieves his orgasm and moves away Will pushes into you without caution of the other man’s seed still warm in that same place.

He looks up into Hannibal’s eyes as he does it, watching his response as he weaves pleasure from a loom of servile flesh.

But then you make some shapeless sound of need, one hand extended, not quite touching him, and Will's eyes return to you with such intensity that you forget that brief, lost woe.

He mimics Hannibal’s command of your body, hands moving, unrushed, from breast to hip as he opens you further to him. His violence is a mage’s dance, something once done around fire, and charged now through the vessel of a young and studious man.

No wonder, then, that you have neither strength nor will to repel him. You roil, loose-limbed as the dead, only your noise and perspiring response to sensation to evidence your ongoing life.

Hannibal’s arms go loosely around you, holding your head in his lap as Will makes love to you with a brooding fervour. Every touch is like the discovery of a new and indescribable existence, having traversed to some frontier of feeling only sects of pleasure have previously founded.

You know yourself wanted by both men, now, feel it through their mutterings of ecstasy, the unending pressure of mouths and hands upon your skin. They crave your wanting of them in return, lap up your slightest sign of it, tainted as it is by Hannibal’s poison.

Will pours in you his ending, his breath a kiss against your eardrum.

You come again with both men gazing upon you, their faces as close and beautiful together as stringed pearls.

Dimly you fear that they will succeed in their work with you, no matter how fiercely you defy their twofold will.

“Hey,” says the younger man, nudging your shoulder lightly. “Snap out of it. You’re bleeding. Did we hurt you?”

Your first thought is, “yes, of course you did.”

The next, having looked down at the red dart through the milk of semen on your thigh, is the same nip of terror you know from an unexpectedly high number on the scale.

The final cognition—and one almost certainly true—is that this carnival of sex has brought that crimson forth like the incitation of bacchanalian madness.

The shock of it wrings you near dry of the doctor’s drug, a bald winter sobriety.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “It’s my period. I haven’t had one in years.”

#manna fic #hannibal fic #hannibal lecter #hannibal lecter x reader x will graham #hannibal lecter x reader #will graham x reader #tw noncon #tw eating disorders #tw bulimia #tw anorexia #tw dubious consent #tw nonconsensual drug use #tw fatphobia

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nalyra-dreaming · 29 days

Note

Hi,I hope we are not too annoyed with all our questions.

I'm new to the fandom,and after watching the show I really thought that Loustat would be the popular ship.I know most people are multi-shipper here,but it's funny how Louis and Lestat are not popular together. It seems like you've been here longer than many of us (books and Tv show)from you observations do you see major differences between fans favorite in the show and the books?

Also,have you changed your opinion on a character because of the show?

Not really to the latter.

I think the show cast the characters perfectly, so they fit for me. :) I like this Louis more, if anything. They enhanced him (though they did enhance them all, imho).

We lucked out so badly.

As per Loustat... *sighs*

You have to understand that Lestat is seen by many as the big bad abuser ™, and nothing else. No matter how often cast, crew, writers and creators have said that we have seen only half the story, no matter how often errors in the tale have been pointed out, no matter how often I have dug out the episode insider with Rolin pointing out the "tinkering" even then... anyone who doubted Louis' tale in any kind of fashion was met with accusations of racism and slurs.

I'm not kidding. I wish I was. I still have comments on my fics that I left there, on purpose. I have the asks here. There are people who call themselves my "number one hate blog".

I don't want to rehash all that now.

But imagine trying to write coming from the books, knowing what will happen, seeing the "seeds" in the show (as Assad called it), reading the interviews, knowing the tale will shift... and being met with something like that.

And now imagine not having the book background, and being harassed on anon, or with comments. And not having the background to defend your ship.

And I don't even mean actual criticism here, if valid or not.

No, I mean harassment. Accusations, death threats. Comparisons to the KKK. Whole campaigns against me, and others. Not kidding. I put my rants into my bio if you're interested, lol.

This is the fandom where I started blocking in earnest, and I come from friggin' Hannibal.

A tale like this, with racial changes in a color-conscious way (which actually brought the difficult topics into play (and I love them for it!)), left hanging for 18 months... that didn't do the fandom any good.

And some of the comments in the podcast didn't do it any good either with the expectations it raised, and which will be now... well. Not wholly disappointed, but... some took that as gospel. When it's not. It will be a bit messy soon, and with what's to come wrt to Claudia, too.

Soooo... that is why Loustat isn't particularly popular right now.

That will change though.

Rolin, as well as Sam and Jacob keep repeating that this show is built around Loustat.

Loustat are at the heart. They are the heart.

The books start and end with them.

The show foreshadows their dance at the end.

I for one am continuing to write for them, even if I have currently hit a wall on my current fic, but I was mightily distracted by all the new content^^ (like everyone else I think^^).

I love that they are so complicated, and messy, and petty, and so, so IN LOVE.

Jacob called it that, too. "Petty and in love".

And they are.

PS: And no worries re asks :) I love talking to you guys^^

#Anonymous #asks #ask nalyra #amc iwtv #iwtv #amc interview with the vampire #interview with the vampire amc #iwtv amc #iwtv 2022 #interview with the vampire #lestat de lioncourt #louis de pointe du lac #loustat #fandom wank

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defectivevillain · 10 months

Text

this broken design, ch7

summary: “Dr. Lecter?” You blink a few times, convinced that you’re dreaming. The man’s gleaming eyes and concerned expression seem a bit too realistic to be conjured by your sleeping mind, though. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen him look worried. You quickly decide that you don’t like it.

“Hannibal, please,” the doctor responds nonchalantly. You stare at him in utter confusion. Just what is happening right now? You thought you were dreaming, but this feels a bit too vivid. “What are you doing out here?”

read from the beginning here! [this won’t make much sense, otherwise]

ao3 version [the formatting is much better over on ao3, thanks to better html]

i've also made a Spotify playlist if you like listening to music as you read :0

As you pull your car into a parking spot at Hannibal’s office, you are very stressed. After all, you went into work this morning under the assumption that it would be a perfectly normal day, only to find Franklyn Froideveaux’s corpse in your office. To make matters worse, you have an ugly feeling that his death is on your hands. You’ve grown to know the Ripper as you’ve grown to know Hannibal himself, and you have to wonder if the encounter at the opera house pushed him to kill Franklyn. In an ideal world, you probably wouldn’t be voluntarily going to a therapy session with the very same murderer who dumped a corpse in your office. Unfortunately, beggars can’t be choosers.

As you walk up the steps and into the waiting room, you can’t shake the thought that Hannibal’s sudden availability is somewhat unusual. You were under the assumption that the man was fully booked throughout the day. Perhaps he set aside time for you? You quickly stop that thought before it turns into the slippery slope of a logical fallacy you know it to be. As you hover awkwardly in the waiting room, you notice that the space is empty—per usual. However, there’s a strange, unsettling aura clinging to the shadows that the chairs cast on the wall behind them. You frown and fidget restlessly, waiting to be allowed inside. You’re sure Hannibal has given you explicit permission to enter when you please, but you still feel as if the door to his office is an insurmountable obstacle.

“Please, come in.” Hannibal’s voice breaks you out of your thoughts. He’s lingering at the door and holding it open for you. Ever the gentleman, you scoff internally. Per request, you pass through the door, ignoring the strange shiver that goes down your spine as you brush shoulders with him.

As you walk into the space, you’re immediately struck by the feeling that something is different—it doesn’t take you long to realize what it is. The chairs are pushed even closer together than last time. You try not to read into that too much, despite the undeniable knowledge that the distance between them has been shrinking each session. You can’t pinpoint a logical reason for Hannibal to push the chairs. You can think of several illogical explanations, but they’re too far-fetched.

“Is this about Franklyn’s murder?” Hannibal is perceptive, as always. Although, you suppose that's a rather obvious conclusion. Anyone would be startled at the notion of a man turning up dead in their office. Your brief encounter with Franklyn a few days ago continues to run through your mind. Should you have done things differently?

It takes you several moments to make sense of your thoughts. Hannibal graciously waits for you to continue; meanwhile, you spend an immeasurable time pacing around the office restlessly. You can’t sit today—you feel like you’re on the precipice of a big discovery. You walk around in circles over and over again, ignoring Hannibal’s heated gaze. You can feel him staring throughout the entire time you’re pacing.

“Something’s missing,” you choke out, your voice raspy from lack of use. You clear your throat and continue. “I tried to see it through the Ripper’s eyes, but… things were missing. I felt his disgust, contempt, and irritation easily enough. But, there was something else… Something lurking beneath the surface. I tried to get at it, but I couldn’t do it. That’s never happened before.”

“Jack seemed to think the murder was committed out of love.” You must react rather ostentatiously at that, because Hannibal raises a brow. “You seem surprised.” He remarks. There’s a trace of amusement flickering from under his carefully crafted mask.

“He never told me anything along those lines…” You sigh. Hannibal has an intriguing expression on his face, as if he expects you to display more of a reaction. It almost seems as if Hannibal is deliberately trying to cause strife and discord between you and your coworkers. You feel rather uneasy about that realization and you instead decide to dissect Jack’s theory. “And… love? I don’t understand.” The clock on the wall ticks loudly, creating an uneasy monotony.

“I imagine the Ripper feels as if no one understands him,” Hannibal murmurs, leveling you with an intent gaze. It feels as if he’s looking directly into your soul. Vulnerable to his dissecting stare, you take a shuddering breath in. The world around you blurs and all you can see is Hannibal.. “No one… except, perhaps, you.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” you say instinctively. Admittedly, your heart is roaring in your ears. The fireplace against the wall is crackling. You pace around a little more, before finding yourself at Hannibal’s desk. You look down at the surface, unsurprised to find that it’s neatly organized. There’s a piece of parchment with a graphite pencil resting on top of it; you look down and realize that it’s a sketch of Achilles lamenting the death of Patroclus. The more you look at the sketch, the more you’re struck with a strange feeling of familiarity. Those figures don’t look like Achilles and Patroclus… They look like Hannibal and you. Unnerved, you look back at Hannibal and try to find the conversation again. “I mean, I’ve just been making deductions about the Ripper.”

Hannibal looks relaxed, despite the attentive manner in which his eyes follow you around the room. After a few more moments spent pacing about, you give in and take a seat at your designated chair. Hannibal’s eyes are glittering when you look over at him. “Your deductions have been correct so far.” You suppose that’s true.

“Even so, that’s not love; that’s just… understanding.” You trail off. Love is a rather large leap in logic, in your opinion. Surely, the Ripper doesn’t love you.

“To the Ripper, understanding is love,” Hannibal asserts, his lips quirking up at the sides. You’re not sure where he’s finding humor in this situation. Perhaps he’s trying to toy with you. Unfortunately for him, you know that he’s the Ripper. Regardless, it appears as if Hannibal enjoys stringing you along like this. You inhale slowly, trying not to fidget and reveal how restless you truly feel. “You are the first person to see through his facade, through the layers of his mask.”

“Oh,” you remark, suddenly feeling as if you were dumped in a vat of cold water. A shiver rolls down your spine and your skin prickles in the brisk air of the office. You suddenly understand what he’s insinuating. You scramble to find something else to latch on to—a diversion that will take you away from the turn this session has taken. The conversation has turned far too meta for your comfort, and you’re unsure how to tread these tumultuous waters.

“I fear the ordinary mind wouldn’t be able to handle his love,” you find yourself saying, breaking through the tense silence that momentarily descended on the space. Hannibal looks up and stares at you with an inexplicable expression on his face. His mask seems to be fastened to his skin rather tightly today. You, on the other hand, aren’t as composed; you’re currently combatting several different emotions at once. You know you’re on the crux of an important, potentially earth-shattering realization… but you’re too apprehensive to accept it. Instead, you decide to indulge Hannibal. You’ll play his verbal games, dodge the truth for long enough that the falsehoods take life and become reality.

“You’re far from ordinary,” Hannibal murmurs inexplicably. You instinctively stiffen, your shoulders tightening. The remark isn’t exactly unwelcome, but it feels like a diversion from the current conversation. You have to grit your teeth and remind yourself not to snap at him.

“That’s not quite relevant, is it?” You frown, feeling your hackles rising. You subconsciously straighten your posture, if only to take advantage of the few inches of distance it gives you from him. Hannibal leans forward in his chair in response. You feel bolted down to your chair, frozen under a predator’s watchful eye.

“Who can say?” Hannibal asks infuriatingly. That habit of his—answering a question with another question—is really grating on your nerves.

“Do you always have to be so cryptic?” You roll your eyes, trying to pretend as if this is just a playful conversation. There are no stakes here. You’re not risking anything by sitting in this office, across from a practiced killer. “I’m horrible with ambiguity; you’re going to have to be clearer.”

“This killer wrote you a poem,” Hannibal declares. After that remark, you can’t help but think back to Franklyn’s corpse—the grotesque mutilation juxtaposing the bloody tears artfully falling down his face. You loathe the fact that you can see the poetic beauty hidden beneath the gore. “You shouldn’t let his love go to waste.”

“You’re being cryptic again,” you sigh, resisting the urge to grab Hannibal by the collar and just shake him. “Besides, I’d argue that his love has already been wasted on me.” You can’t even let yourself entertain the thought of the Ripper—and, by extension, Hannibal— being in love with you. It’s a cruel joke and nothing more.

“Evidently, he does not think so.” You rub your eyes roughly, feeling the sudden overwhelming urge to cry. You wait a few moments before chancing a glance at Hannibal, only to find that he has a perceptive look on his face. “You are not, nor have you ever been, a waste,” Hannibal remarks, as if sensing the sudden negative turn your thoughts are taking.

“That’s nice of you to say,” you laugh sardonically. The laugh is broken and jagged, and it hurts your throat. You’re unable to get rid of the hysterical grin that is inexplicably tearing at your cheeks. Everything stings and burns. You feel horribly inadequate and vulnerable.

“As your psychiatrist, I’m limited to formalities,” Hannibal admits, clasping his hands and leaning forward. His lips are pulled taut and he almost looks concerned. You have to remind yourself of his caring mask. “As your friend, however, I must say that I care for you deeply and that you are absolutely worth loving.”

“Thanks,” you remark after too many moments of silence. There’s an unshakeable confidence in his voice and you really wish you could replicate it. You wish you could see yourself as anything but a burden. You place your hands over your eyes, feeling incredibly overwhelmed. You feel like you’re slipping, like your grip on reality is slowly slackening. What’s wrong with me? You don’t realize that you’ve spoken aloud until you catch the troubled pull to Hannibal’s lips.

“This world has a lot of wrongs in it, but you are not one of them,” Hannibal asserts quietly. There’s a buzzing sound reverberating through your skull. Your head is pounding, as if you had just delved into your criminal profiling abilities and seen the world through Hannibal’s eyes. You put your hands over your eyes and relish in the brief solace the darkness provides you.

“I’m required to inquire about your wellbeing and safety,” Hannibal remarks. The ensuing silence hits you like a punch to the gut. You keep hoping, waiting for something to happen… but it never does. Why do you still hope? Furthermore, what are you even hoping for? Your doubts are clouding your thoughts, leaving you in a tormented haze of regret, shame, guilt, and grief. Hannibal is required to inquire about your wellbeing and safety—he would not, otherwise. The realization hits you hard, robbing you of breath.

“I’m fine,” you say, repeating the sentiment over and over in your head. Unfortunately, the repetition doesn’t make the feeling any more believable. You pinch the bridge of your nose and take a deep breath. It feels as if the world is crumbling around you. Hannibal’s gaze has yet to leave your face and for the first time, you feel significantly unnerved by the thought. You push yourself to your feet and stand in front of him. Looking down on him doesn’t give you a surge of power in the way you hope it will.

“Pray forgive the discourtesy, but that doesn’t seem to be the case,” Hannibal says, not unkindly. His kindness feels patronizing. You clench your fists at your sides and take a deep breath. Ultimately, you let your guard down too much in front of the psychiatrist. Hannibal is not your friend—he is a working professional who is required to inquire after your wellbeing. No matter how much he may pretend to care, no matter how many opera outings you may share, he is your psychiatrist. It had been easy to forget that in the wake of Hannibal’s constant presence.

“I believe our session is over?” You ask, raising an eyebrow at him and manifesting a sense of confidence that you certainly don’t feel at the moment. Hannibal’s eyes fall down to his wrist and he stares at his watch with furrowed brows.

“Apologies,” he responds. His hand falls to rest on the arm of the chair. Now that the watch has fulfilled its purpose, Hannibal’s gaze is fixated on you again. “I find the time to simply… slip away in your presence.”

You know that if you stay for even a second longer, you’ll give into your foolish hopes. You’ll fall for the cleverly crafted allure that Hannibal has cloaked around himself. You’ll read into every single minute detail, every chivalrous gesture and every warm smile that hides sharpened teeth.

Before you can even begin to contemplate how to dismiss yourself in a socially acceptable manner, your body is moving to leave. You faintly recognize Hannibal asking after you, but you’re exiting the office and closing the door behind you before you can process what he’s saying.

The car ride home passes by in a timeless blur. When you pull your car into your driveway, there’s something that immediately makes itself known to you. There appears to be something taped to your front door. You make sure to exit the car and lock it up before focusing your attention on the piece of paper on your door. Frowning, you take it off and read it.

TattleCrime

The Mark of a Killer: How the FBI’s “Best” Criminal Profiler Killed Franklyn Froideveaux

By Freddie Lounds

A corpse was recently discovered in the office of the FBI’s most prolific criminal profiler; the body was found to be mutilated nearly beyond recognition. The FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit later confirmed the body to be that of Franklyn Froideveaux—who had been presumed missing after a friend reached out to the police in concern.

Froideveaux was dead for several hours upon discovery. Current working theories attribute the murder to the Chesapeake Ripper, and the FBI is insistent on the notion that the Chesapeake Ripper—the dangerous serial killer that mutilates his victims by removing their organs and presumably feasting on them—has returned. However, the victim’s body was found in the office of the same agent that has been consistently embroiled in these murders. Perhaps the consistent practice of “slipping into the mind of a killer” (1) has caused more harm than good. Jack Crawford, head of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit, maintains that his profiler did not commit this murder. However, the sudden appearance of Froideveaux’s corpse brings up many unanswered questions (2). Furthermore, inside sources claim that there was little to no evidence left at the crime scene.

Crawford is currently heading an investigation into the murder of Froideveaux, alongside the Behavior Analysis Unit—consisting of Beverly Katz, Jimmy Prize, Brian Zeller, and the aforementioned profiler. The FBI is remaining characteristically tight-lipped about the investigation, which naturally prompts many questions surrounding the nature of the murder and the crime scene’s discovery.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” an anonymous source (3) responds in regards to the culpability of the criminal profiler whose office serves as the scene of the crime. “Jack always had his favorites.” The inside source refused to elaborate further or answer any more questions.

The FBI’s silence has only shed more light onto the possibility that the murder was an inside-job. After all, the headquarters in Quantico are known to be heavily fortified and extremely secure—with tedious security checks and a fully staffed security team. The Chesapeake Ripper seems to be a convenient suspect—he had been presumed inactive for months. However, it’s hard to fathom that the Ripper snuck through the FBI’s headquarters and dumped a body in an agent’s office. An employee or agent, on the other hand, would have the security clearance to roam about the building with relative ease.

For some, the murder of Franklyn Froideveaux comes hand-in-hand with the return of the infamous serial killer, the Chesapeake Ripper; for others, Froideveaux’s murder is yet another secret that the FBI intended to keep hidden from the public eye.

Quote attributed to Jack Crawford, the head of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit.

The FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit—which houses the aforesaid criminal profiler—did not respond to TattleCrime’s request for further information.

This source elected to remain anonymous.

For inquiries, reach out to [email protected].

If you have more information surrounding the murder of Franklyn Froideveaux or the killer widely known as the Chesapeake Ripper, reach out to [email protected].

You can’t help but let out a disbelieving laugh. A million thoughts are running through your mind simultaneously. Unfortunately, this is far from the first time that you’ve been featured in a TattleCrime piece—especially when the writer is Freddie Lounds (she seems to have a strange vendetta against you). As is typical of TattleCrime, there is hardly anything in the piece that provides hard evidence of your supposed role in Franklyn’s murder. Finally, you have to wonder how Freddie Lounds got all this information. Jack made sure to keep the discovery an internal affair—or, at least, that’s what you thought. It appears there’s a leak somewhere in the bureau. You think back to the look in Zeller’s eyes when he confronted you earlier. He was likely the “anonymous source” that Lounds procured.

Shaking your head, you walk into your house and take off your shoes. While the article alone isn’t enough to irritate you, the events of the day had already left you in a sour mood. Now, this TattleCrime piece is enough to send you over the edge. You crumple the paper up angrily and throw it into the fireplace. Within a few moments, the fireplace roars to life. The article dissipates and burns to ash, but your doubts still remain.

next chapter

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