The Second Course of Affection
Pairing: Hannibal Lecter x Female Reader
Summary: The scent of whiskey and vetiver reached you before his voice did. Combination that you can describe as addictive, sensual and unmistakably Hannibal
A.N: This is a continuation of The First Kiss of Love but can be read as a stand alone. It's been a long time (years) since I read and wrote a fanfic. Recently I logged back in to my tumblr and this account and decided to write a bit. Thank you to @jobean12-blog (her tumblr handle) for beta-reading this piece xD I am getting my obsession with Hannibal Lecter back on track. As always, comments and reblog are really appreciated ❤️. Let me know what you think about this. Enjoy :)
It had been a month since you last worked at Dr. Hannibal Lecter’s office. To be honest, you missed the quiet atmosphere there. Sometimes you find yourself listening for the soft, accented Good morning that never came. You could still remember how your relationship with the surgeon turned psychiatrist had taken somewhat a drastic turn. From professional bond to something far more personal.
Your new position at the university library was slightly different from your previous roles. Working for Hannibal had been more of a secretary with a hint of personal assistant. Before that, you have spent your days behind the counter of a quiet public library. Now, the university environment demands something entirely new - research coordination, a lot of workshops for students and facilitates faculty collaborations. It was exciting but also a little terrifying.
Hannibal had encouraged the move. And though it meant less daily contact, he still found ways to reach you. Occasionally, he sent you brief yet elegant handwritten letters. It was beautifully penned and was slightly formal yet deeply personal. One morning you found a letter on your desk from Hannibal that read 'You bring brightness to stillness that I find most restorative.’
That one line lives rent free in your brain. He was no longer your employer, yet somehow, he lingered even closer in your thoughts. Like he should.
Hannibal rarely texted, instead he called you, usually in the evening. His low, warm voice was like a nocturne playing softly in your ear. He would ask you about your day, your reading or your health. Sometimes he chuckled when you confessed how you nearly tripped after finishing a workshop.
He had always known how easily your thoughts outran your coordination. Once, after you spilled tea across his desk, he only smiled, as though it amused him rather than annoyed him. Later, during a quieter moment, he had said, “If you wish, I could arrange a consultation. Not as a critique, only to understand.” His tone had been careful, kind. You never took him up on it, but the offer stayed with you. Another strange way he seemed to see you without judgment.
When you missed his call, he would leave brief, poetic voicemails. Small treasure you replayed more times than you’d admit.
One late afternoon, as you stayed behind to organize return volumes, Hannibal appeared in the library. He was dressed in his usual elegance of navy suit with a fine silver pinstripe. A burgundy tie against a crisp white shirt, and a grey coat draped over his arm. You are so distracted by him that you nearly knocked a book from your hand.
During a call the night before, he told you he was going to visit the university to consult on a case. Your thought immediately went to Alana Bloom, although you hadn’t seen much of her since starting your new job.
As he walked towards you, you quickly slid the last of your books to the shelves. He smiled, and you couldn’t help but beam back. The scent of whiskey and vetiver reached you before his voice did. Combination that you can describe as addictive, sensual and unmistakably Hannibal.
“Good afternoon, my dear.” he greeted.
Since you finished your tasks, you both walked together to return the cart and head towards your small office. The conversation started polite, then gradually softened.
“You haven’t eaten, I presume?” Hannibal said, placing a paper cup and a small bag on your desk. You didn't even notice him carrying them.
“Thank you Hannibal,” you murmured.
When you sipped from the cup, you realized it was your favorite latte, made exactly to your liking. His gaze moved across your desk, the corner of his mouth curving. Not in judgement but in quiet amusement. Only when he saw your little collection of trinkets did he tease, “Shall I bring you the bronze table clock from your old desk? It seemed to comfort you.”
You laughed softly, “I’d love that.”
He smiled, pleased, before settling into a brief conversation about your current reading. When he finally glanced at his watch, you knew he was about to leave. You thanked him for the visit, for the coffee, and the lunch.
“Have you eaten though?” you asked.
“I have,” he replied gently.
Then, quite suddenly, Hannibal stepped closer. “You have something on your lips,” he said, reaching out to brush his thumb over the corner of your mouth. It lingered a heart beat too long. The small intimacy of his touch, oh his gaze made your pulse stutter. Your mind traveled back to the kiss you shared in his car. The warmth of it was still imprinted on your skin. You wanted that again oh, how you wanted it. But this is a library, you remind yourself. The public space, in the background, hummed with restraint.
He seemed to sense your nerves. Instead of claiming another kiss, he took your hand and pressed a tender kiss on your knuckles and winked at you before whispering his goodbye.
After he left, you opened the paper bag. Inside, a still warm frittata wrapped neatly in foil and a smaller bag containing your favorite pain au chocolate. Of course it was homemade. Hannibal’s care was always deliberate, never casual.
You sent him a brief voice note, thanking him and confessing how you loved what he’d brought. Then, alone in your small office, you sat in the lingering warmth he left behind.
Replaying that kiss you shared with Hannibal has never been an occasional thing. Sometimes you repeat it a little bit too much, like a prayer. Weeks had passed since that moment, and though your relationship was now official, he had told you plainly that he was courting you, there hadn’t been another. You reminded yourself that Hannibal was deliberate in all things. Still, sometimes doubts crept in.
He had encouraged you to take the new position, insisting on ‘maintaining pure professionalism with his coworker,’ but you wondered if that distance had other meaning. You tried to quiet the thought. He was not a man who left you insecure without reason. He always gave reassurance, even in the smallest ways. That was something your previous relationship had lacked.
Still, sometimes you caught yourself jealous of the woman in his past. Imagining their poise, their maturity. You buried your face in a pillow and groaned. ”Calm down, woman,” you muttered to yourself.
Each morning before work, you found yourself fussing over what to wear, wondering if you might see him that day. You had always enjoyed dressing well. Although your style now leaned more towards the elegance in academic setting. You still remember the contrast between your office attire and the way you dressed when accompanying Hannibal to conferences: modest pencil skirt in silk or wool, delicate blouse with ruffled collars or bishop sleeves. He had once told you, with a rare amusement, that he approved of your leather skirt.
Now at the university, your shoes were flatter, and your colors softer. But you realized that Hannibal's influence lingered. You never quite stopped seeing yourself through his gaze.
He didn’t visit again in person, but during one evening call, his voice softened, somewhat longing. “Would you allow me to see you for lunch this Thursday?”
“Of course,” you said. Perhaps a little too eagerly.
Whenever his schedule allowed, you shared lunch once a week, often at a discreet bistro nearby. Hannibal always listened more than he spoke. You could feel his eyes on you, the quiet way he studied the movement of your hands, or the shape of your smile.
At the end of the lunch, he told you he would be flying out of state to assist Jack with an FBI case that evening.
“I’ll let you know when I'm back,” he promised. Pressing a brief kiss on your right cheek before leaving. The kiss left a faint warmth on your skin, an ache of wanting.
A week passed. Hannibal called when he could, voicemails when he couldn’t. Each one calm and brief, yet filled with affection.
Then, on Tuesday morning, a letter appeared on your desk. Inside, pressed between sheets of fine paper, was a pale pink flower. Beneath it a paper in Hannibal’s handwriting flowed in dark ink:
You began as a companion to my quiet.
Like an alstroemeria's first blush,
you have become something more -
an affection I did not intend to name,
You blinked, startled by the poetry of it. You quickly reach out for your phone and search the meaning of the flower Hannibal sent you on the internet.
“Alstroemeria…,” you hummed quietly while typing the letter on the search engine. You haven’t really received much flower in your life, that you admit you aren’t knowledgeable at all in any of its language.
The screen on your phone shows several websites. You opened the top link provided on the screen. It showed you how the flower has other names such as Peruvian Lily or Lily of the Incas. You read the explanation based on the color and your eyes stopped when you saw pink alstroemeria. The explanation said that the pink color of this flower represents romance and playfulness. It’s the perfect flower to give when friendships turn to love. Although you wouldn’t dare call your relationship progress that far, you understood what he meant.
Your smile grew soft as you traced its petals. Carefully, you tucked the flower and the note in your planner, where it would stay close. You continue your work as usual. Carefully put a stack of documents on your right hand before leaving for a meeting.
It had been two weeks since you last saw him. You glanced at your phone, the glowing screen reading just past nine.
“Another Thursday already.” you sighed, sinking deeper into your sofa.
You had a strong premonition that he would call. Sure enough, the phone rang minutes later.
“H-Hello…,” you tried, and failed, to hide your excitement.
Hannibal’s low chuckled wrapped warmly around your name.
“I hope you are doing well today,” he said, voice smooth as dark velvet.
You just smiled into the silence, waiting. He always had more to tell when he travels. He told you a little bit about the case he’s working on. Never explicitly sharing the gruesome part of it. It seems that he didn’t like you to hear about the extreme violence most of the perpetrators did. Since most of the cases he got consulted on were non ordinary ones.
“I’ve just gotten back, my dear,” he continued.
“I’d like to see you. Dinner tomorrow night? If you’ll indulge me.” There was a restrained thrill in his voice.
“Yes,” you answered at once. “Of course.”
Your pulse raced. Already your mind drifted to what you might wear tomorrow.
You spotted him before he saw you. Or perhaps he had noticed you long before and only pretended not to.
You stayed a little bit longer in the library today. You lead a workshop for a new batch of graduate students. Though Hannibal offered to pick you up, you insisted on meeting at the restaurant in case you were delayed. Fortunately, the event ended early, leaving you time to freshen up before heading out to the restaurant.
You slipped into the restroom. Traded your cream knitted blouse with a dark green half sleeve silk one. The one that complimented your complexion. You picked a ruched accented and mock neck style blouse. You paired it with a kitten heels boot today, you think it's a perfect match for a dinner date. Complementing your top and your black leather skirt. For a finishing touch, you reapplied a little bit of lipstick while also adding a hint of fragrance. You told yourself it was a coincidence you’d worn something beautiful tonight.
The restaurant Hannibal chose was set on a quiet street near Mount Vernon. Half hidden behind a narrow garden wall threaded by climbing ivy.
A soft jazz hummed under low amber light, it was the kind of place where time felt politely suspended.
Hannibal reserved a table in the corner, his posture straight with a glass of red wine resting before him, untouched. The candlelight cast gold across his cheekbone, softened his sculpted form. He looked completely at ease.
Your pulse quickened. It had been more than a month since your first kiss… and the ache of it had lingered stubbornly beneath your skin.
When you reached his table, Hannibal stood at once and helped you with your coat and your bag. His movement was fluid, almost rehearsed.
“You look beautiful,” he said simply. No further no less as his eyes did the rest. “I am pleased you came.”
You nearly forget how to say thank you. “I hope I’m not late,” you add.
He guided you to your chair with a light touch behind your shoulders. It was light, but it sent a quiet spark down your spine.
“Not at all. I simply enjoy being early. It gives me time to imagine what expression you’ll wear when you walk through the door.”
Heat flamed your cheeks. “You imagine that often?”
“Only on days ending in y.”
It earned a small laugh from you and a visible smile from him.
You sighed I am fucked didn’t I?.
He signaled the waiter for the bottle and poured it for you first. “You’ll find this pleasant. Elegant, without presumption.”
You accepted the glass, trying not to tremble. The first sip was smooth, deep with cherry and oak. “It’s lovely,” you murmured.
“I’m relieved,” he said. “Since we are seeing each other exclusively - I would prefer you not be tempted by another wine connoisseur.”
You nearly choked as he sipped his own wine, entirely too satisfied with your fluster.
“I’m teasing, of course,” he added mildly. “But I do mean it. Exclusivity. Courtship is a discipline of focus.”
“I’m not very good at being… courted,” you admitted, tracing the rim of your glass. It was true. Your previous relationship has been a whirlwind of rush passion. The kind of thing that leaves you anxious and questioning your worth.
“I don’t know how to respond appropriately,” you continued.
His gaze softened. “You respond with truth. That is all I ask.”
Dinner arrived. Duck confit, figs, a delicate reduction that smelled faintly of honey. Every detail seemed curated for calm indulgence. You tried not to notice how his sleeve brushed the edge of your wrist, or how the faintest smile played in his mouth when you spoke about your days.
Halfway through dinner, he asked, “Do you often dine out alone?”
You shook your head, smiling faintly. “Not really. I usually bring a book when I do.”
“Of course,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I imagine the company suits you.”
There was no mockery in his tone, only understanding. He had learned that your silences were not awkwardness but a thought, and you, in turn, had come to see that his quiet was a kind of invitation.
You chuckled, “Though I always feel bad - the food gets cold.”
“That is the food’s burden, not yours.”
When the plates were cleared, he poured you a second glass of wine.
“I’m glad we’ve both survived our respective schedules,” he said, and you laughed softly.
“You make it sound like a test.”
“Perhaps it is,” he continued, eyes steady.
“True. After all, I haven’t seen you in two weeks,” you said quietly. Professing on how you indeed missed him.
“Absence sharpens the appetite, my dear. Not just for food.”
You could feel your heartbeat against your ribs - a quiet, reckless rhythm. Hannibal reached for his wine but didn’t drink it. Instead, his gaze lingered on your lips before meeting your eyes again. Slow and intentional.
You felt the space between you felt charged with something unspoken - soft, careful, inevitable.
When the meal ended, the maître d’ approached and presented a single white orchid. You stared, startled. You thanked the man before turning to Hannibal. He never ceased to surprise you with his gesture.
The Bentley thrummed quietly through the night. You glanced at him as passing streetlights slid across his profile. He seemed a little tired from the travel, but not diminished - simply human.
When he opened your door, the night air cooled your flushed cheeks. Streetlights cast soft golden shadows along the pavement.
He offered his arm and you took it. Of course you did.
“Did you enjoy yourself tonight?” he asked.
“Yes. More than I should, probably.”
“There is no moderation required in joy.”
You reached the bottom of the stairs leading to your apartment entry. For a moment, neither of you spoke. You could feel your heartbeat, fast, waiting.
“I’ve thought of our last evening together,” he said quietly. “I wondered if I overstepped.”
“You didn’t,” you whispered quickly. “I keep thinking about it too.”
That seemed to please him. You saw it in the soft flicker of his eyes.
You ran your hand over your coat shyly. You wanted to thank him for the dinner and the flower that safely tucked inside your bag. But the words died when he stepped closer. Not close enough to be presumptuous. Only near enough that you felt his warmth through the fabric of his clothes. He lifted his hand, slow enough for you to retreat if you wished. When you didn’t, his fingers traced a strand of hair behind your ear, then lingered against your jaw. His eyes searched yours. not a demand, but a question.
“May I?” he asked quietly.
You nodded before your voice could betray you.
When you rose slightly on your toes, he met you halfway.
The kiss began as a whisper, gentle. The world narrowed to the warmth of his breath and the faint taste of wine. But then - weeks of restraint gave away.
His hand slid to the nape of your neck, guiding you closer. His mouth deepened against yours - warm, sure, and savoring.
Your hands found the lapel of his coat, not to pull, but to stay grounded.
His thumb traced beneath your jaw, a delicate hold.
Then, with one breath, his lips parted yours - a slow, hungry slide of warmth that made your knees weaken.
A single, stolen moment of unguarded desire.
And he was the one who pulled back.
His forehead rested lightly against yours.
His breathing controlled, but not calm.
“I promised patience,” he murmured, voice rougher than before.
“But patience does not mean absence of desire.” His hand lingered just beneath your jaw, thumb brushing once against your chin.
You smiled, breathless. “I’m starting to understand that.”
“Good.” He brushed a final kiss against the corner of your mouth. more exhale than touch. A promise he refused to rush.
“It would be very easy to be unwise tonight.”
Your fingers curled weakly against his lapel.
You understood exactly what he meant.
“But I prefer to wait,” Hannibal continued softly, “until you want me as much as I want you.”
He stepped back. Only slightly, giving your lungs room again.
“Allow me to take you to dinner again next week,” he said. “Exclusively, of course.”
You laughed softly, the sound catching in the cold night air. “I’ll hold you to that.”
“I was hoping you would.”
“Goodnight,” he murmured. His expression once more composed, though his eyes betrayed the warmth beneath.
“Drive safely.” you said. He nodded.
The night swallowed him as he slipped into his car.
Your lips still tingled, your pulse still frantic.
For the first time in a long while, you felt both calm and tremblingly alive.
