I can help you

if you ask me to. Closed RP account.

[ifyouaskmeto]

opheliaavery:

“You know me…” With her head tucked beneath his chin, she smiles, even though Hannibal can’t see it. This is what is truly remarkable. 

“Which one?” She sips her drink, relishing the tart with the sweet, then puts the glass down to free her fingers. Cold and creeping, her hands lift to his shoulders where they rest light and contented. “I’ll add it to my collection, it’s growing so quickly.”

‘Auto immune disorders and their relationship to psychosis,’ he replies, the hand not holding his drink holding Ophelia. ‘I had the idea scratching at the back of my mind for a while - now seemed like the right time to open the door.’

Something pops in the oven, a pocket of fat on the lamb. 

‘Did you manage to eat anything this afternoon? I hope your lawyers didn’t suck you dry.’ The thought of her missing a meal is more upsetting to Hannibal than he’d care to admit, tempered only by the knowledge he can correct that now. 

[ifyouaskmeto]

opheliaavery:

ifyouaskmeto:

‘This was a particularly mischievous lamb,’ Hannibal reassures her. He quarters the carcass, portioning the meat into what they’ll eat tonight and what can be stored away in the fridge. Of course, nothing will go to waste - not even the bones, which he will broth later. 

With that done, and everything simmering away, Hannibal wipes his hands on the dish cloth draped over his shoulder and ducks down to kiss Ophelia’s cheek. 

‘It was good,’ he says. ‘Peaceful. And yours?’

She lifts her face up to him, lashes fluttering closed against her cheek as he delivers his kiss. 

“Less than peaceful, but it was productive.” The word is chosen thoughtfully, spoken firmly. “Lawyers, you know. But I’m peaceful now, and the good kind of tired.” She hands him a glass, then pauses to fit herself close to him in her curious way, like part of her is held apart, poised for flight. “I’m glad to be home.”

Like everything she puts her hand to, Ophelia’s drink is on the strong side. Hannibal takes a sip and lets it go down, a warm burst in his stomach chasing the fresh berries and citrus. 

His hand smooths down her flank, lingering on her waist. A spot of blood transfers from his thumbnail to her clothes.

‘Circled by sharks all day, yet still looking impeccably fresh. Remarkable, Miss Avery.’ He takes another sip. ‘I submitted another paper today. They’re expecting to publish it next month.’ 

[ifyouaskmeto]

opheliaavery:

“Oh,” she sighs, “poor little lamb.” She’s biting her lip as she goes by, like she’s cradling a secret close to her chest, or holding in laughter. These summer nights stretch on forever, but Ophelia is relishing each moment as the air carries such fragrance. “Don’t summer evenings smell like magic? Like Puck is in the garden making mischief.” She drifts past, still watching Hannibal from the corner of her eye. Such attention to detail is rare. 

Ophelia tucks herself out of the way with a few ingredients, muddles blackberries and lemons with a charm-makers intent. 

“How was your day?”

‘This was a particularly mischievous lamb,’ Hannibal reassures her. He quarters the carcass, portioning the meat into what they’ll eat tonight and what can be stored away in the fridge. Of course, nothing will go to waste - not even the bones, which he will broth later. 

With that done, and everything simmering away, Hannibal wipes his hands on the dish cloth draped over his shoulder and ducks down to kiss Ophelia’s cheek. 

‘It was good,’ he says. ‘Peaceful. And yours?’

[ifyouaskmeto]

opheliaavery:

@ifyouaskmeto

“What are you making?” Like a housecat that comes and goes, Ophelia arrives with the lightest pitter-patter, bringing a gust of cool night air. She hovers at the edge of the kitchen and watches, revelling in the peculiar rush of fondness she feels when she watches Hannibal work.

“It smells heavenly.” She comes closer. “Shall I make drinks?”

The windows are thrown open, and he works in front of them, enjoying the scent of cut grass and ginger. 

Red up to the elbows, he wrestles with a particularly stubborn limb, tongue pinched between his lips in concentration as he eases the joint from its socket. He’s rewarded with a satisfying pop! as it finally comes apart. 

He draws his shoulder up to his ear to mop at a bead of sweat, and hears Ophelia come through. 

‘Spring lamb,’ he answers. ‘And potatoes, roasting in the oven.’ Hannibal smiles when she offers to make drinks, but doesn’t kiss her - not yet. He’s distracted by the food, and each meal deserves his full attention.

[ifyouaskmeto]

oh.

[ifyouaskmeto]

opheliaavery:

He is quick, and yes, handsome. One of these things is pleasing but dangerous, and the other is a shallow observation. She laughs, and is surprised by how soft it sounds, when inside she feels like shattered glass waiting to cause injury.

“I don’t think a shattered ankle would save me from walking down the isle.” What must happen will happen with or without injury. She wishes it was as simple as gnawing herself free. “But I appreciate the gesture.”

Ophelia meets his gaze, allows herself to be interested. Who are you? Who will you be to me?

“Did they say anything about me?” It feels childish to ask, but she does anyway.

She’s right. Save one of them dying - and let’s not scrub anything off the table just yet - this is going to happen. 

“That you’re beautiful - which you are - and that I should keep my eye on you - which I don’t have a say in either way.” All said matter-of-fact, though pleasantly enough. 

Hannibal walks over to the window, gazes out. “And what about me? Did they mention I’m a notorious serial killer?” He smiles. Joking, of course. 

[loveholic198]

35/∞ -  red sweater

[ifyouaskmeto]

opheliaavery:

Details. The ivory silk of her dress, cool against the skin. The petals of her bouquet, softly blushing pink. The drop of pale golden perfume, applied just here and there. The wrist. The back of her neck.  The only movement is in her chest as she breathes in and out. Small things, so she can manage quite well from one moment to another. 

“I said you can go in and meet him now.” Her grandmother is repeating herself, which she loathes to do.  Ophelia comes away from the window, and its clear view of the sunlit gardens. Amber light, jasmine vines. It will be a very beautiful calamity. 

So Ophelia walks to meet him. Still barefoot, without her veil. 

“Hello,” she says simply, cool and pleasant. Her biting gaze travels over her almost-husband and around the room. She decides not to sit, but ventures closer. “I suppose it’s too late for a plan b.”

Hannibal wonders what the worst reaction could have been. Sobbing wouldn’t have upset him, nor abject fury and horror. To be insulted would have been unpleasant, but not for the reasons one might expect. 

A bovine acceptance might have killed him.

Levity is a safe middle ground, then.

“I could open the window for you,” he suggests, barely a second wasted. “I suspect you’d break an ankle or two, but the view on the way down would be astonishing.” 

[ifyouaskmeto]

an arranged marriage [ @opheliaavery ]

There's a cut on the palm of his hand and when he makes a fist a worm of pain burrows deeper.

Funny, he isn't certain how it happened, but he finds it grounds him now.

Not that he's...dishevelled. But today is an important one, and he hasn't decided how he feels about it yet. Right now, he is simply curious to watch it all unfold, nevermind the bitter aftertaste.

In the reflection of the mirror, his mother watches him dress.

"You look like your father today," she says. And yes, there's a resemblence there, though his eyes are hers. The window to his soul.

Hannibal offers her a smile, though they both know he's unhappy about being coerced. At least he has - in his own way - accepted it.

"I thought you might like a moment alone with her, before the ceremony," his mother continues. "To...gather yourselves."

"Fine," he says placidly, fastening his tie.

[thesilenceofthefannibals-blog]

[helloyangmal]

[katiazamolodchikova]

hannibal lecter meme → 3/9 three-piece suits ↪ maroon suit & orange shirt

[ifyouaskmeto]

opheliaavery:

ifyouaskmeto:

“It’s you,” he agrees, eyes alive as his gaze passes between the art and its muse. He thinks he’ll frame it for her. 

Hannibal smiles reassuringly at Ophelia. “She asks about you in our appointments. She’s a quiet girl, but never then, not when we speak about you. I hope you don’t mind.” 

It might be the place for nervous laughter, but Ophelia’s composure is regained quickly. Besides that, a gleam of interest in her eyes. How unexpected. 

“I don’t think I mind.” She smiles, a little bemused perhaps. Settling herself into a chair, she’s still holding the drawing carefully by its edges. “I can’t think why she’d be so curious about me, but.. I’m sure she has her reasons.” 

He purses his lips together, hums in agreement; each and everyone one of his patients has their reasons.

“I would be more interested if she wasn’t curious about you,” Hannibal follows up with, carefully lifting the picture from Ophelia and slipping it back into his briefcase for safekeeping.

[ifyouaskmeto]

opheliaavery:

ifyouaskmeto:

“I see no reason why not,” Hannibal says, allowing a smile. 

He walks into the drawing room and sets his briefcase down, opens it up. Ophelia’s present is pressed between the pages of his journal. He withdraws it carefully and slides it towards her.

A child’s drawing of a woman, infantile but so lovingly coloured in with pencil. You would only recognise it as Ophelia if you knew her body from the skeleton out.

“From one of my patients. She’s six.” 

Ophelia takes up the picture, studying it silently. A kind of likeness is there, etched out in bright colours. She thinks she has a question, but for once, falters. Unprepared, wide-eyed. 

“It’s me.” Pale fingers graze across the drawing. She’s finding that her heart, which is often lacking, beats a little harder. “You must thank her for me.” When her gaze lifts to Hannibal, she looks younger, somehow. 

“It’s you,” he agrees, eyes alive as his gaze passes between the art and its muse. He thinks he’ll frame it for her. 

Hannibal smiles reassuringly at Ophelia. “She asks about you in our appointments. She’s a quiet girl, but never then, not when we speak about you. I hope you don’t mind.” 

[ifyouaskmeto]

masonverger-rising:

ifyouaskmeto:

>Hannibal smiles. It’s friendly, jovial, even. If you didn’t know him that well. “Fatalism is a doctor’s bread and butter, but it’s good to keep things in perspective, isn’t it? To see how we each occupy our space in this world.” The words are on a knife’s edge between humbleness and malice. 

He inhales, enjoying the dusty sunlight filtering into the room. “Your glass is always half full, isn’t it, Mason?”

“I’d say most of the time it’s filled to the brim, Doctor Lecter.” And isn’t it? God and his father have ensured that Mason is never left wanting.

“The way you occupy your space is … interesting.” Lecter is a cypher and it’s impossible to gauge whether he’s coming or going. But whatever is hiding under the garish suits, Mason thinks it’s worth goading him, prodding to see what might be revealed through the flashy plumage. “Or maybe eccentric is a better word.”

At least here they are agreed. “May I take that as a compliment?” An errant idea passes through his mind, and on a whim he decides to snatch at it. 

Leaning back in his chair, Hannibal recrosses his legs slowly and smiles at Mason again. This time it’s wider, softer. 

[ifyouaskmeto]

‘ some days it’s easier to just stop fighting it & succumb. ’ ~historyxboy

Hannibal maneuvers his expression into one of concern, a crease appearing between his eyes. He leans forward imperceptibly. 

“What are you succumbing to, Billy?”

[ifyouaskmeto]

historyxboy:

“Sorry! I guess that was more … I didn’t mean to sound morbid or anything.” He wonders if he’s supposed to apologise to a therapist or not, certainly he could have phrased it in a way that didn’t sound so desperate.

“It’s just my … my …” He has a print-out of his parents’ latest email, and his hand is sweating as he holds it, his thumb smudges the ink a little, and the page creases faintly where it rests across his lap. “I try hard, you know? I try to work hard.”

“But sometimes I think maybe they’re right, maybe I’m not really … cut out for this … for school and all. I … I try so hard and it’s not good enough. So maybe I’m not good enough, and …” It makes him sick to say it, he sounds like some whiny kid.

“I appreciate everything they do for me, I mean I know it’s a lot – it’s a good school and it’s expensive and … sometimes I think I should just quit, and maybe then they’d … like me better. If I studied something … useful.”

“I’m sorry. I guess that’s stupid.” He flattens the paper against his knee and decides he won’t show it to the doctor. It’s tacky and it embarrasses him, the things his parents say to him.

A polite smile. “There’s no need to apologise, Billy.” In this line of work, Hannibal is used to dealing with his patients’ theatricality, but Billy seems a humble character, incapable of hyperbole. 

He watches the slip of paper in the boy’s hand, and thinks they are very different. To apologise for his art seems as ludicrous as apologising for having hands. Hannibal clears his throat politely, and nods softly to the note. “Is that what they’ve said to you?”

[ifyouaskmeto]

masonverger-rising:

ifyouaskmeto:

“Yes it does,” Hannibal agrees. “Although I’ve found money doesn’t fare so well against chance. Who can anticipate what’s around the corner? A nasty strain of flu, an infected cut you didn’t even realise was on the sole of your foot until it’s too late…” These are all things he’s seen fell even the sturdiest of patients during his career as a surgeon. 

“Well the Lord giveth and he taketh away,” Mason drawls. 

“Really, Doctor Lecter, that all sounds a little fatalistic. You feeling okay? Maybe you should talk to someone, in a professional capacity.” Does Lecter want him to feel anxious about all that? Or is it a game he isn’t seeing yet?

Hannibal smiles. It’s friendly, jovial, even. If you didn’t know him that well. “Fatalism is a doctor’s bread and butter, but it’s good to keep things in perspective, isn’t it? To see how we each occupy our space in this world.” The words are on a knife’s edge between humbleness and malice. 

He inhales, enjoying the dusty sunlight filtering into the room. “Your glass is always half full, isn’t it, Mason?”