synopsis: You left the house due to a disagreement between you and Hannibal—just a few days to clear your head and not make things worse. However, when you return, you find Hannibal...well, drunk.
You hadn’t meant for the misunderstanding to escalate the way it did. A careless word, a sharp retort, and the silence that followed stretched too long. Hannibal’s brand of composure often made you feel like you were the only one burning, so this time you left. For space, for clarity.
Three days passed before you returned to the house. However, the usual curation of Hannibal's world was missing the second you stepped inside. The air was thick with an unfamiliar scent. Whiskey. A half-empty bottle glinted on the side table, something he normally would never leave out.
And then you saw him.
Hannibal, in disarray. His waistcoat gone, shirt untucked, hair slightly mussed. He turned at the sound of your footsteps, and the mask he always wore was fractured.
“(Y/N).” he breathed, voice slurred at the edges. He stumbled toward you, and before you could react, his arms were around you, iron-tight, his face pressed into the crook of your neck.
You froze.
Hannibal Lecter did not stumble. Hannibal Lecter did not reek of liquor. Hannibal Lecter did not cling.
“I thought—” his words broke, then tumbled over each other. “I thought you would not return. That you would leave me. And I—” He pulled back just enough for you to see his eyes, glassy with both alcohol and something heavier. “I cannot abide that.”
You searched his face, surprised at the rawness there. “Hannibal, you’re drunk.”
A broken chuckle left him, soft and bitter. “Yes. Terribly human of me, isn’t it?” His hand cupped your jaw, trembling more than you’d ever seen. “But you must understand, space from you is unbearable. You are my tether. Without you, I unspool.”
He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath warm and sweet with alcohol. “Forgive my foolishness. Do not—do not vanish from me again. My heart is not immune, no matter how I pretend.”
The sight was jarring. This man, usually a fortress of refinement, now laid bare in messy affection. His arms wrapped around you again, desperate, as if afraid you’d slip away.
For once, it was Hannibal who needed you to steady him.
cw: MDNI! Reader is having a bad day, reader is also lowkey a masochist, age gap!! (Hannibal is 50 and reader is 23), power imbalance, slight rough sex, oral (f receiving), smoking.
A/N: A fitting playlist♡. This is a very self indulgent fic. As always feedback is very appreciated.
Masterlist
"Just my luck" you mumbled to yourself as walked out the bar looking at the pouring rain.
Today had been a trying day, just the littlest things piling on one on top the other. First waking up late, you slept through your alarm. Burnt your toast as you juggled to get ready– you knew you couldn't multitask, why'd you even try. Then your car wouldn't start, had to take the bus to the hospital. And no it didn't end there, you had trouble finding the vein to insert the IV . "C'mon this is the most basic shit" you chastised yourself as the nurse stepped into help. You could only apologize, feeling like a burden. Thank God she was an angel reassuring you "Its alright kid, happens all the time, you're only an intern". You just gave a small guilty smile. Unfortunately that was the only good thing that happened as the patients you dealt with today were not so kind, calling you incompetent.
Gosh you felt incompetent when you couldn't answer a question your attending asked you, stuttered to find the answer but too caught up in your own head from the day to concentrate and say the answer that felt just on the tip of your tongue, so you just looked down apologized. Atleast it wasn't in front of everyone and he had grace to just give you the answer, while smiling soft knowing smile. Fuck, you couldn't even lift up your face and look him in the eyes or he'd see you blushing like a school girl. You'd never be able to meet his eyes ever again if that were to happen atleast you had your shame to hide your face in. The light at the end of the tunnel was that at last your shift was about to end, just another hour and you'd be able to drown in your feelings, and liquor but to add insult to injury, you overstepped your position. Did a procedure without direct supervision, but what else were you to do, the situation called for it! You wouldn't let your patient code because of stupid bureaucracy. So atleast you felt righteous as you got ripped a new one by the supervisor, and then worst of all your favorite attending scolded you as well.
Maybe you wouldn't have taken it so hard if you weren't helplessly infatuated with him. Gazing longingly at him in the mornings as stepped out of his car, the way he carried himself, the way he greeted everyone around him, the way he talked, the way he taught. Just the way he was. Maybe it wasnt just infatuation.
The barbed wire tightened around you throat. You sat down glancing around the dingy bar with your glassy eyes, ordering tequila, you didn't wanna remember today, just drink and sulk in the comfort of your own home. Yet you had to limit your shots, you still had to get home somehow.
11:42 pm
Stumbling, you walked to the exit. Okay maybe you had overestimated your limit you were definitely drunk. Pushing the heavy door as the neon red light from the signs hit your face, alongside the heavy pouring rain accompanied by thunder.
"Just my luck" you mumbled to yourself in a broken voice as you swayed and planted yourself against the brickwall in the quiet alley. Contemplating your life choices. Imposter syndrome kicked in as you pulled your last upside down cigarette out the pack throwing the pack somewhere you struggled with the lighter wheel clicking the stupid thing out if frustration as it left an indent on your thumb. You threw it in the general direction of the pack as your head hit the wall behind you the tears finally flowing. "Need a light?" A familiar voice called out, snapping you out of your pity party. Opening your eyes you saw him standing there in all his glory. "I uh uhm no, no" you shook your head fumbling with your words. You were fucking up every interaction with him royally. "Wh-what are you doing here Dr. Lecter?" You questioned. "I frequent here every so often, its kind of a ritual of mine". "Oh I am so sorry, you must come here to get away from work and seeing me here wouldn't be ideal" you said looking guilty." Also sorry about the procedure I know I overstepped. It- it won't happen again I'm so sorry".
"Oh no dear I don't have a monopoly on the bars around here" he chuckled "and besides you're a welcome sight and don't apologize for doing the right thing, you saved a life today." He said holding your shoulders halting your train of apologies. Was he fucking with you?
"Still need a light love?" "Mhm" you said bringing the cig between your lips and tilting your head up to him and he leaned down with his own cigarette lighting them both with one flame. Taking a drag he looked at your inebriated state and asked you "Difficult day?" "Hmm something like that" you hummed. He just looked at you with those eyes that had a way of making you talk. You sighed "I just feel like I don't belong" you said voice cracking again looking down tears starting to flow again "Don't tear yourself down dear. You're a brilliant doctor and we certainly are in need of people like you" "Really?" You looked up at him or maybe he made you look a him as his hands were holding on to your jaw. Not tight enough to hurt but tight enough to make your lips pout. Yet you wanted him him to hold tighter, tight enough to hurt. "Yes" he assured you hand caressing your face, thumb wiping away the tear falling down " You just need some... proper guidance" he hummed softly, blowing the cigarette smoke in your face, the smoke clouding your judgement or maybe it was the alcohol either way his words were like a siren's song, you could feel all your rationality slipping away as you seemingly moved closer to him. Gaze dancing between his eyes and lips and as if under a spell you reached up higher towards him and he covered the distance between you. The kiss felt like the first breath of air after a lifetime spent underwater. He pushed you towards the wall, caging you with his one hand beside your face and the other taut on your waist. The coldest trail of fire followed his hands sliding and gripping all over your body, his tongue controlling yours. Leaving you breathless his lips trailed down to your neck certainly leaving a bruise from his slight biting and nipping as you whined. He abruptly stopped and you looked up at him towering over you with your glassy eyes, wanting more. He just softly smiled at your fucked up demeanor. Oh how he'd have his fun with you.
"You need a ride sweetheart?". His words actually snapped you back to reality, that you were actually on a backstreet alleyway, making out with a man more than twice your age "yeah- yes actually" He took your hand and guided you towards his Bentley opening the passenger side door as you settled in and buckled in your seat belt he got in beside you and drove like almost fleeing a crime scene.
He kept his eyes trained on the road as you bit your lip and admired his visage, shadows and highlights from the city lights all playing to his advantage. Jesus, you were enamored but were soon shaken awake from your gawking by the cold sensation of the metal of his watch as his hands rubbed your thigh. Fuck he totally saw you daydreaming, it was certain by the slight smirk on his face now as your own burned red hot. It burned hotter still when you realized you hadn't even told him your address. Where were you going? Maybe you were a little more than tipsy, devoid of all sense of self preservation but you couldn't give a fuck now, you just needed him, badly. God heard your prayers as you soon pulled up outside his mansion you could just marvel at the place, as he led you outside the car and led you to the house. Before you could fully study the timeless decor and paintings on the wall you were pushed back onto the rustic door with him holding your wrists down on either side of you hungrily attacking your neck, and almost immediately finding your weak spot that had your knees buckling but he immediately picked you up, hands kneading your ass and tongue deep in your mouth stealing your words. He very efficiently carried you up the stairs only breaking contact when throwing you on the bed with surprising force as the bed recoiled. Everything about him was just turning you on more by the second. He was on like a predator to his prey roughly taking off your shirt, then your pants, followed by your underwear, then he suddenly stepped back as you were on your elbows looking up at him with wide eyes swimming with reverence as he looked back at you, unbuttoning his cuffs, like his work of art making you feel small under him, smaller still as he was fully clothed whilst you laid bare. At least he looked disheveled, collar undone, blonde hair falling down his forehead, and the evidence of your desperation in his bitten lips. He soon lunged at you kissing from down your navel just avoiding the place where you needed him the most. "Pleasee" you whined. "Please what darling? Use your words" "Please... please I want your mouth on me" you shyed.
Taking mercy he licked a long stripe of your cunt making you arch your back which he wasn't a fan of as he pinned you down by his big hands over your waist holding you still as he slid his thick digit in your soaking folds followed by small licks. "Feel better darling?" He mused.
You could feel his smirk against your core. "Uh-huh m-much better" you said voice breaking as he slid in a second finger, continuing with harsh licks and soft kisses, leaving you lightheaded. Im- I'm gonna come" you warned, much to your dismay which slowed him down causing tears to well. "Whyy? Pleasee" you cried making him chuckle "Why? Well because you need to learn, pretty" "how about you beg". Before you could rationalize his request or feel any shame, you begged "Please doctor please I'll be good I'll do anything just please make me come" the desperation caused the tears to run down your cheeks. God how could Hannibal refuse your niceties now you looked like divinity itself and he was going to worship. "Good girl" his fingers gained their original speed back thrusting into you and he was making out with your pussy now as his thumb rubbed rough circles on your clit. It was all too much as you screamed and came, white flashing before your eyes as Hannibal fingerfucked you through your high. Returning to your senses you saw Hannibal finally taking off his shirt making you subconsciously bite your lip at the sight. After months of fantasising about your 50 year old attending you couldn't believe this finally happening."See something you like sweetheart?" "Yes." " I want you" you said kneeling on the bed hands reaching out to hold his and eyes peering at up at your supposed saviour. His dominant hand caressed your cheek thumb running a soft course under your eyes at the tear stains and eyes almost studying you and your intentions. As if they weren't already clear on your tongue. "And I want you y/n" his hands went from caressing your face to gripping your jaw craning you upwards to meet his lips as you moaned at the pleasureable pressure which got suddenly firmer "you like it when I hurt you love?" He said in amusement against your lips making you blush and hum in agreement "take me however you please. Make me feel it".
With that he pushed you back against the plush bedding and he on top of you sliding you up further towards the headboard with his fingers digging into your waist, sure to leave bruises and his free hand on your neck almost feeling your pulse under his touch. Racing. As he sucked violet on the opposite side. Once your head hit the pillow his hand migrated from your waist to his painfully hard cock stroking it near your weeping pussy. You could feel he was thick and long you don't know how he would he have slid in if it wasn't for his previous actions. "Please let me in" he whispered as he slid in making you gasp and arch your back "Always hungry for some more" he mocked your eagerness bottoming out in one quick stroke as you screamed, nails digging into his back. After waiting a while he started to move, reaching a pace that makes your eyes rolling back when he hits that spot leaving you to chant a string of uh-uh-uh with your head lolled back feeding into his ego. He slaps your face bringing you back to reality "Feel good kid?" "Mhm n-need your hands o-on me pleasee". Without any second thought his left hand has pinning both your wrists above your head while his right was on your neck alternating intensity. Although you seemed to like it best when oxygen was cut and his fingertips sure to bruise. It was the perfect high.His salt and pepper streaks bounced along with his thrusts increasing in intensity and thumb rubbing harsh circles on your clit making you scream his name as you came. He continued fucking you through your climax which even when it faded his punishing thrusts continued jolting your body. Tears welled from the overstimulation as you kept moaning his name and pleases. "Please what sweetheart what do you need?" "I d-don't know" you cried. You were already fucked stupid and had a very loose grasp of yourself. Helping you be somewhat coherent he asked "need me to come in you? Huh you want that darling" he brushed your hair out your face. More pleas and begs fell from your lips like he was your God. Like he was the oasis to your stranded traveler.
He snaked his hand to your crown gripping your hair pulling it back to expose your throat and lips to his mercy as he kissed you deeply, biting you lower lip in-between his teeth drawing blood as he finally painted your inner walls white with his come.
He rolled off to lay beside you as you both lay in blissful silence only the sound of panting to catch your breaths .You turned your head to face him, bathed in filtered moonlight– you must be dreaming. Until he his eyes locked onto yours and he kissed you again like he truly meant it– wanted it in the same way that you'd been yearning for it. Metallic taste of blood from your bitten lip mixing into the dance. Leaving you breathless as he pulled away. That's the last thing you remember as you soon passed out in his arms from the exhaustion creeping over your bones.
✉️ ⦂ first time writing for hannibal! I’m only on season 2 so hopefully nothing is too ooc [ wc ╱ 1.2k ]
The bedroom breathed low light—candle-flame stuttering on the dresser, moonlight carving thin slits past half-drawn drapes. You lay supine across the wide bed, naked skin drinking the icy bite of Egyptian cotton, arms stretched languidly above your head.
Hannibal stood at the bedside, crisp white dress shirt already stripped of its vest and tie, his sleeves turned to the elbow to reveal lean, corded forearms. His gaze drifted over your exposed skin, lingering on the curves of your hips and the soft seam of your thighs—a perfect little lamb arranged for sacrifice, one that was far too sweet for a man of his appetites.
Which, of course, was exactly why he wanted you.
He lifted a perfect ice sphere from the silver bowl, hand-blown glass catching firelight in fractured prisms. He held it suspended between thumb and forefinger, letting you watch the slow condensation bead and slide.
The sphere descended. Frost met your collarbone in an unforgiving kiss.
The cold seared instantly, bright and piercing, melting into a thin, glistening rivulet that arrowed between your breasts. You bit the inside of your lip to smother a whimper at the sting, skin prickling alive under his unwavering stare.
“You shiver already,” Hannibal observed, voice low and mildly amused. “Like a rare orchid forced into flower by the threat of winter. No exception to instinct, are you?”
He trailed the ice down to your chest, your nipples hardening instantly, shamelessly eager as he began to draw lazy figure-eights onto them. “Mmf… oh god…” Your breath hitched, back arching off the mattress in involuntary offering.
“Shhh,” he whispered, almost teasing. “Blasphemy is a poor substitute for breath.”
He continued—agonizingly patient—ringing each tight peak until they ached, flushing dark against gooseflesh. Meltwater pooled in the hollow of your waist, then spilled sideways across ribs, licking cold paths your body begged him to follow with heat.
When the sphere dwindled to a fragile shard he pressed it to your lower lip. “Open.”
You parted for him, mouth yielding like prey baring throat as he slid the remnant inside.
His eyes crinkled ever so slightly, pleased. “Good lamb,” he murmured. “Obedience suits you.”
“Now, suck.”
Your tongue curled greedily around it. Mineral-sharp sweetness dissolved against the roof of your mouth while you glanced up at him through damp lashes—wide-eyed and doe-soft, the very picture of innocence even as your pulse hammered at the base of your throat.
Hannibal tilted his head, ink-pooled eyes tracking every flicker of muscle, every swallow, practically cataloguing the mechanics of your hunger. He remained utterly composed—posture impeccable, breath measured—yet the fine wool of his slacks betrayed him: the thick, insistent outline of his cock strained against the fabric, a small dark bloom of pre-cum already darkening the tip.
He was starving. Not for food. For that frantic little pulse beneath the wool.
Another sphere. This one he dragged in one unhurried line down your midline—past navel, over the soft rise of your mound, then lower. His free hand nudged your legs apart until you spread completely exposed for him, your cunt slick and hot with no dignity left to hide behind.
The ice met your clit with a mean push. Shock lanced through you as soon as contact was made there, hips snapping upward before you could cage the reflex.
“Agh—- Hanni- too cold!…” Eyes squeezed shut, a wince.
His palm flattened over your lower belly, thumb stroking just above the cold press where muscle knotted tight from need, anchoring you like territory thoroughly claimed.
“Breathe,” he said, kinder now, yet edged with command. “Let the chill carve itself into you… right here.”
He punctuated his words with a press, circling your hypersensitive bundle torturously, admiring how your cunt pulsed and wept in spasmodic answer. Arousal mingled with meltwater in obscene, shining trails down your folds, soaking the sheet beneath as you squirmed.
The sight earned a hum out of him—deep and delighted. “Such eager little contractions. Your body blooms beautifully under duress.”
He nudged the next chilled sphere shallowly inside you—just the tip—then withdrew, leaving your sex fluttering around emptiness, walls clenching at the ghost of intrusion.
Your knees quaked nonstop, mewls splintering into fevered gasps as lungs mutinied. “W-Wait,” you swallowed, throat working around the word. “Please…”
Hannibal paused, the ice hovering a cruel millimeter from your swollen labia, his dark eyes flickering up to meet your teary ones.
“Yes?”
“It’s… intense. I-It’s too much.”
A small, genuine smile touched his lips, making your stomach twist with equal parts fear and want. “That’s precisely the point, my love.”
Gently, he set the bowl aside, kneeling between your thighs, lowering his mouth.
Warmth after frost was devastating. His tongue swept along the full length of your slit, gathering the mingled chill and juices in a series of greedy swipes that made your toes curl.
His lids fluttered closed for a heartbeat, savoring. “You taste even sweeter thawed.” he noted, features flickering with amusement. “How delightfully predictable.”
His thumbs pressed your folds wider, holding you open while he feasted in a way both unabashed yet deliberate—flat, broad laps over your clit that built into tight, lethal flicks, then sealing the puffy bud between his lips. A delicate, testing pull at first… then harder, a deep suction that locked your fists bone-white into the sheets.
A shattered cry ripped out. “Hannibal!—-”
You bucked against his face, the sculpted ridge of his nose rubbing ruthlessly into your nerves as his jaw worked, hips chasing the delicious pressure on instinct.
“Mmm… my greedy little pet,” he purred against you, vibration curling fresh lightning through your core. Fingers laced with yours, grounding you while his tongue plunged in further, skilled strokes gliding along each hidden ridge—relishing how his little lamb thrashed for the wolf’s mouth alone.
Your moans rang off the high ceiling as you finally came apart on his mouth. Your thighs clamped around his shoulders, flooding him in tremor after tremor. He drank you through it all until you collapsed in a sheen of sweat, glittering and spent.
Hannibal rose smoothly, lips gleaming in the candlelight, his breath measured except for one shallow pull he made no effort to disguise. Even he allowed himself a moment’s indulgence.
He moved over to brush a strand of hair clinging to your brow, studying the shivers still passing through you and the disarray he had authored.
“Beauty in extremis,” he said quietly, words heavy with near-reverence. “You fracture so exquisitely under pressure. It is a rare privilege to compose such ruin.”
Still trembling, you managed a breathless laugh. “That mouth of yours is going to kill me one day.”
The corner of his mouth lifted, satisfied rather than apologetic, thumb smoothing along your temple as if calming a startled animal. “Rest assured, I have plans that require your continued… vitality.”
He then kissed you slowly, feeding you the taste of your own ruin straight from his tongue, a move so brazenly possessive it felt like etiquette in reverse.
He withdrew just enough to look at you. “Shall we proceed? The ice remains, and the night is still young with untasted potential.”
You reached for him, aching readily for the next cut despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”
His fingertips ghosted the glossy evidence the ice had left across your thigh, cruel in its restraint. “Impossible?” A soft huff of laughter escaped him. “No. Merely inevitable. You invited the wolf in… now, you must feed him.”
He leaned in, the grip on your flesh suddenly tightening. “And I find myself quite famished for the sound you’ll make when you break again.”
pairing: Hannibal Lecter x f!reader
genre: psychological horror • smut • hunger
notes: winner of my recent poll!
Your lovely evening activities with your beloved Hannibal are not exactly what 'regular' people indulge in.
You enjoy running, as a hobby, and Hannibal enjoys chasing you.
warnings: smut!, unprotected pinv, begging, praise, pet names, oral (m receiving), fingering, pet play (?)
MINORS DNI!!
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─── ꒰ 🌲 ꒱ ───
run run run
Hannibal had always possessed a peculiar understanding of affection.
For him, affection was observation. Fascination.
Possession.
And, eventually, pursuit.
It had begun innocently enough.
You enjoyed running.
Not on treadmills or city sidewalks, but through forest trails. The woods offered freedom and silence. A place where the restless energy beneath your skin could finally dissolve into movement.
That was where you first met him.
A man who looked impossibly out of place among the trees.
While you stood catching your breath at a fork in the trail, he had emerged from the trees in a pristine coat.
You remembered staring at him.
“I hunt,” he had told you when you asked what brought him so far into the forest.
You had laughed gently at that.
“I run.” you had answered him.
Something had shifted between the two of you then.
A spark of curiosity that didn’t leave you for a while.
Weeks later he found you again.
Then again.
Until eventually there was dinner.
Then another.
Then countless evenings spent beneath warm lighting and expensive wine, listening to that velvet voice discuss art, philosophy, music.
And somehow, without realizing it, you had wandered willingly into the beautiful trap Hannibal built around himself.
A trap lined with silk.
And tonight, as the moon hung pale above the forest, you found yourself once again playing your role.
His little rabbit.
The forest stretched endlessly in every direction.
Somewhere nearby an owl called.
Then silence.
Then the distant sound of your footsteps.
Hannibal moved carefully through the darkness.
His polished boots barely disturbed the leaves beneath them, he did not rush.
To anyone watching, he might have seemed leisurely.
Yet there was something unmistakably predatory in the way he walked.
The moonlight caught briefly on his face as he tilted his head.
Listening, waiting, carefully.
Then he heard it.
The snap of a twig.
A hurried footfall.
A breath.
A smile tugged gently at the corner of his mouth.
"There you are."
His voice drifted softly between the trees.
"Oh, bunny."
The sound sent a thrill through you.
You were already running before his words fully formed.
The narrow trail vanished beneath your feet as you darted deeper into the woods.
Leaves scattered.
Branches clawed at your sleeves.
The cold night air burned your lungs.
Your heartbeat hammered so loudly you were certain it could be heard from miles away.
Left.
Right.
Forward.
Every direction looked identical.
The forest had become a maze.
You stumbled over an exposed root and barely caught yourself before falling.
A curse escaped your lips.
Keep moving.
Keep moving.
You pushed onward.
Behind you, nothing.
No footsteps.
No voice.
That made uncertainty gnaw at you.
Where was he?
How close had he gotten?
You veered off the trail entirely, pushing through dense patches of bush.
Thin branches snagged your hair.
Leaves tangled in the fabric of your dress.
Your breathing grew ragged.
Finally, spotting a massive oak, you ducked behind it.
Your back pressed against rough bark.
Your hands covered your mouth.
Listen.
Nothing.
Only wind.
Only the frantic pounding of your own heart.
You squeezed your eyes shut.
Maybe you had lost him.
Maybe…
Crunch.
Your eyes snapped open.
A footstep.
Not far away.
Another.
Slow.
Measured.
Coming closer.
Hannibal emerged from the darkness, calmly stepping ahead as moonlight cast a pale shine across him.
A shiver raced down your spine.
You held your breath.
One second.
Two.
Three.
Then his head turned.
Directly toward your hiding place.
The smile that followed was subtle.
Almost affectionate.
“I can hear your heart.” he spoke, voice carrying easily.
“And you’re breathing much too quickly.”
You didn’t wait.
The moment he stepped closer, you burst from behind the tree.
You sprinted.
Branches whipped across your arms.
The forest became a blur of shadows and silver light.
Behind you came a low chuckle.
Warm.
Amused.
Dangerous.
The sound only drove you faster.
You darted between two fallen trees.
For a brief moment you dared glance behind you.
A mistake.
Because Hannibal was closer now.
Much closer.
Despite your best efforts to run, he seemingly kept pace without struggle.
As though he had known exactly where you would go.
As though every turn you made was merely another step in a route he had already mapped out.
Your pulse thundered.
You swerved left.
Then right.
Then doubled back through a patch of dense undergrowth.
Surely that would slow him.
Surely…
A branch snapped somewhere behind you.
Followed by another.
The forest stretched endlessly ahead.
Every attempt you made to lose him only sharpened his focus.
His will to catch his prey.
“Where do you think you’re going, my little rabbit?” he called.
His voice carried easily between the trees.
You didn’t answer.
Your legs burned.
Every step sent fresh aches through your feet as you pushed yourself harder.
You took a sharp right turn.
Then another.
Certain you were finally putting distance between the two of you.
But moments later you froze.
The massive oak.
You knew that tree.
You had passed it minutes ago.
A chill crawled down your spine.
No.
No, that wasn’t possible.
You spun around and ran again.
Faster.
Desperation pushed you onward until the trees suddenly thinned.
You stumbled through a wall of bushes and emerged into a small clearing bathed in pale moonlight.
The grass shimmered with dew.
Mist hovered low above the ground.
For the first time in what felt like forever, you stopped.
Your chest rose and fell violently.
Your lungs screamed for air.
Sweat clung to your skin despite the cold night.
For several precious seconds, there was nothing.
No footsteps.
No voice.
No sign of him.
Then he emerged from between the trees again.
His coat was immaculate despite the chase.
But his expression mirrored something wild that you held as well.
A faint smile tugged at his lips.
“You’ve led me on quite the chase, little bunny.”
His voice was warm, almost conversational.
“But it appears you’ve finally exhausted yourself.”
He approached slowly.
The wet grass barely stirred beneath his shoes.
Moonlight caught in his eyes as he studied you.
Your tangled hair.
Your flushed cheeks.
The rise and fall of your chest.
The evidence of just how hard you had fought to stay free.
Something about that seemed to please him.
You swallowed another breath and straightened.
“You haven’t caught me yet.” you managed between breaths.
Before he could respond, you lunged sideways.
One final burst of energy.
For a brief second, it almost worked.
Then Hannibal moved.
His hand closed around your arm with startling speed.
Firm.
Certain.
You stumbled as he pulled you back.
As though he had anticipated the attempt from the moment the thought crossed your mind.
A soft chuckle escaped him.
“My little rabbit.”
The words carried equal parts amusement and admiration.
“Still trying.”
You twisted against his hold.
Refusing to surrender.
But your body had reached its limits.
Your legs trembled beneath you.
Your lungs still burned.
Every muscle protested.
But…, you slipped free from his grasp.
You couldn’t tell if he let you or if you managed to.
Victory lasted less than a second as your foot caught in wet grass.
The world tilted.
Then suddenly you were falling.
The damp earth met you hard.
Cold grass flattened beneath you as you landed, leaves clinging to your clothes.
Hannibal laughed, the sound low and genuine.
He stepped forward until his shadow swallowed yours.
Towering above you in the moonlight.
“It seems,” he said softly, “the game is coming to an end.”
You stared up at him for only a moment before scrambling backward.
You planted a hand against the ground and pushed yourself upright.
Every part of your body protested.
One moment you were forcing your exhausted legs forward, determined to disappear into the forest once more.
The next, a strong arm wrapped around your waist.
A startled gasp escaped you as the world tilted.
Wet grass rushed up to meet you again.
The impact knocked the breath from your lungs.
Leaves scattered around you as you landed on the forest floor once more.
You panted, trying to twist away.
Your body refused to cooperate.
Every muscle ached.
Your lungs still burned from the chase.
Yet instinct drove you to struggle anyway.
To keep moving.
To keep running.
Hannibal knelt above you before gently but firmly preventing your escape.
His hands settled on your hips, holding you in place.
“You really do love running.” he mused.
Admiring.
As though your determination fascinated him.
You pushed against him again.
Another futile attempt.
The forest spun slightly around you from exhaustion.
A low chuckle escaped him.
His dark eyes studied you carefully.
Only your breathing filled the silence.
Rapid.
Uneven.
His gaze moved across your face.
Taking everything in.
The dirt smudged along your cheek.
The stubborn determination still shining in your eyes despite your obvious exhaustion.
You swallowed hard, chest rising and falling as you finally met his eyes.
Hannibal’s expression softened slightly as he watched you settle.
A small smile touched his lips.
"Good little bunny."
You breathed heavily under him, staring up with wild eyes.
“Beautiful and exhausted.” he murmured, watching you with a satisfied smile, his gaze roving over your disheveled state.
His hands shifted, still holding you in place.
Thumb tracing slow circles against the soft skin of your hip.
With a last attempt you struggled and squirmed under him but the growing heat between your thighs made it hard to think about running when there was something completely different on your mind now.
He leaned forward, one hand lifting to brush tangled locks of hair from your face.
His eyes were dark.
Predatory.
“You're trembling.” he hummed.
“Is it the exhaustion? Or the thrill of the chase?”
You stayed quiet, eyes focusing in on him now as he pinned you down.
His gaze roved over you once more.
The rise and fall of your chest, the flush on your cheeks, the slight catch in your breathing.
“No fight left in you, little rabbit?” he mocked gently, his fingers continuing to trace small circles on your hip.
You couldn’t help but gently arch into his touch.
He noticed the subtle movement, and a small smirk curved his lips.
“Such a sweet little bunny.”
He shifted slightly, his body pressing closer against yours, trapping you beneath him completely.
“Is that why you’ve gone so quiet? Are you finally surrendering to the inevitable?”
You couldn't help the embarrassment rise hot in your cheeks.
Flushing your skin as you looked away slightly, your nose twitching as you let out a sharp breath.
“Hanni…”
The sound of your nickname on your lips made that smirk deepen.
“Yes, darling?” he replied, his tone teasingly innocent.
“You suddenly seem a bit...flushed.”
You let your head sink back into the high grass, dew wet against your skin as his hand moved under your dress and up your stomach.
A soft whine escaped you, you wriggled and squirmed beneath him, “Hm– please…”
“Please what?” he purred, his tone dripping with mock concern.
“Use your words, little rabbit.”
His hand continued its slow glide up the soft skin of your stomach, his touch leaving a trail of heat.
“Please– take your prey–” you let out.
He knew he had you now, his little prey finally caught.
“So eager all of a sudden, darling?” he teased.
His hand brushed over the swell of your breast, your breath hitching in your throat.
You nodded, eagerly, making it clear that this was what you wanted.
“Such an impatient little rabbit…” he murmured.
“You truly want me to take you right here in this cold forest, don’t you, love?”
You nodded again.
Hannibal sat up gently, giving you a subtle tap.
You sat up, hand gently traveling up his clothed chest.
He responded with a kiss, finally, his hand shifting to the back of your head to pull you closer.
His other arm snaked around your waist, holding you tight against him.
His tongue slipped past your lips, tangling with yours in a possessive, hungry kiss.
You almost moaned into it, that’s how hot the knot in your stomach already was.
You were almost drunk on the adrenaline and want.
Slowly he let off you and within moments he was hovering above you, standing at his full height as you cowered meekly in the damp dirt.
Your eyes traveled up to him, half lidded with want as you already nuzzled your head against his clothed crotch.
He grunted softly at the sensation, his hand moving to thread through your hair.
“Eager little bunny.” he mused, his voice thick with arousal.
You made quick work of his button, unzipping the fly of his pants before your eyes looked up asking for permission as you still nuzzled your head against his leg.
His gaze darkened, his fingers tightening in your hair as he looked down at you with a predatory expression.
“Go ahead, darling.”
He watched you carefully as your fingers worked, his body tense with anticipation.
“Show me how much you want it.”
You freed his length from his slacks, your mouth eagerly falling open, lips pressing against his flushed tip.
Your tongue darted out to lick over his tip.
Hannibal let out a sharp intake of breath, your tongue teasing him in such a sinful way.
Your eyes never wavered from his, filled with a wanton desire.
Eagerly you lapped at his tip before letting your jaw fall slack.
His length passed your lips into your warm mouth, you let him sink deep until he hit the back of your throat.
Hannibal's breath caught in his chest, a low groan escaping him as you did so.
He stroked your hair in an almost gentle gesture, his eyes never leaving yours.
“That’s it, darling.” he breathed, his free hand reaching down to grip your chin, his thumb tracing over your lips as they stretched around his length.
Spit drooled at the side of your mouth as you let him sit in your throat, your tongue licking at the underside of his cock, flicking over a thick vein.
He grunted, the noise half growl, half groan, as you looked up at him, your eyes watery from the strain.
“You look so perfect like this.” he said gruffly.
You tried to really let him rest there for longer but you had to pull your head back before you began to gag on his length. You sucked in a sharp breath as his tip rested in the front of your mouth now.
Your hand came up to wrap around the base of his length, a string spit connecting your lip and his tip as you pulled him free.
He hissed at the sensation, but the visual aspect of you on your knees for him almost brought him just as much pleasure.
You let his length sink into your mouth again, your nose almost brushing his pelvis.
He growled softly, his hand tightening in your hair, guiding you back just enough to let you breathe before you almost sputtered and gagged around his cock again.
He could feel the tension in your body, the way your fingers tightened on his hip.
“Is that what you want, darling? To make me happy?” he groaned.
You almost moaned around his length at the words coming from his lips.
His hand gently guided you now, up and down his length as you let him enjoy your mouth like he pleased.
Your eyes began to water slightly at the sheer lack of air and force of his thrusts.
He watched as you gagged around his length, your eyes tearing up, your body shaking.
But you loved it, you loved being on your knees for him, even as you struggled to breathe.
He ran a gentle hand through your hair, withdrawing for a moment, letting you gasp for air.
You sucked in a cruel breath of air, sputtering and almost coughing on saliva as he already pushed your head back down before you even had the chance to catch your breath.
Your eyes rolled back just a bit, wetness and heat in your stomach growing hotter at the sheer dominance he had over you.
“I’m close, love,”he told you, his voice low and rough. “Can you take it? Can you be a good bunny and take it for me?”
You let out a whiny sound around his length, drool collecting at the corner of your mouth as you let him thrust into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat each time.
He let out a low, ragged growl as he watched the drool run down your chin, your neck, the sight and sensations almost driving him mad.
“Just a little more.” he reassured you.
Your head felt dizzy, the world spinning around you.
You looked up at him as he suddenly pushed himself deep into your mouth.
With a groan he released himself into your mouth, the sticky warmth filling your mouth.
He looked down at you, his eyes dark, his chest heaving with ragged breaths as he watched you swallow his release.
You pulled back enough to catch your breath, his now twitching length resting against your lips for a moment until you pulled back completely.
Your tongue gathered the rest of drool and fluids from your lips, swallowing before your eyes caught his again, clearly drunk on pleasing him.
The sight of you like that, so eager to please, stirred something animalistic in him, something needy and greedy.
“Come here.” he hummed, his voice a low command.
He crouched down, reaching for you and gently pulling you to him.
You immediately did as you were told, basically launching at him, pushing at his coat, hands grabbing greedily at him as you couldn’t help but let your lips lock with his.
He groaned against your lips, tasting himself on your tongue as you kissed him hungrily, your hands roving over his body.
He nipped at your bottom lip lightly, “Greedy little thing..”
You felt him give you an almost patronising pat. You knew what that meant.
You whined, gently flipping over, stomach now in the tall wet grass as you lifted your ass and hips towards him, back arched in near perfection.
He chuckled again, the sound low and rumbling in his chest as you presented yourself to him in such a perfect way.
Oh, he loved when you were like this, needy and desperate for him.
His hands roamed your thighs, tracing at the lace with a large wet stain, your heat eager underneath it.
Your hand aimlessly held onto nothing but the dirt and grass in front of you, the uncertainty of not seeing what he was doing there behind you only made you feel more in heat.
His hands continued to roam, slowly, teasingly, tracing patterns on your bare thighs.
Your hips ground back at him into nothing until his fingertip danced along your lace covered slit, you let out a needy sound at that, a whiny moan.
“So desperate, darling.” he teased.
His finger continued to tease, tracing over your wet lace, feeling you writhe and squirm beneath him.
“Such a needy little thing, my bunny.”
You let the sounds just tumble from your lips now, your eyes falling shut.
His finger easily hooked into your panties, pulling aside the lace to expose your glistening cunt.
A gasp left your lips as his fingers pushed into you, two at once, making you squirm.
“Fuck–” you let out immediately, hips rocking back against his fingers like in mindless heat.
He chuckled lowly as he felt you gasp and squirm against his fingers.
He could feel how wet you were, how much you needed this, how much you wanted him.
“Needy little thing.” he teased again.
He increased the pace of his fingers, the movement steady and rhythmical.
“You are mine, aren’t you? My lovely bunny to do with what I please.”
You nodded and moaned, your cunt drooling with slick a his fingers pumped into you.
“I’m all yours..”
He groaned as he heard the words leave your mouth, his fingers pumping into you at a steady pace.
“That’s right.” he growled. “Mine to hunt, mine to catch, mine to have.”
You let out a whiny moan as his fingers thrust into you, curling to hit the spot that made you see stars.
His fingers continued their pace, his thumb flicking over your clit as he felt how swollen and sensitive it was.
“Oh, love.” he murmured, his voice rough.
“You’re so sensitive. I could easily make you come just like this, with just my fingers. But I don’t think I want to give you that release just yet. No. I like hearing you whine and beg for it, my little bunny. I like seeing how desperate you get for me.”
He chuckled darkly as he withdrew his fingers, watching as you let out a pathetic whine, lifting your head off the ground.
There was a slight smudge of dirt on your flushed cheek, as you let out a whiny, “Please– Hanni–”
He leaned in close, gently running his thumb over the smudge of dirt on your cheek.
“Please what, love? Tell me what you want.”
Your heat twitched and clenched uselessly around nothing as you let out another whimper,
“Please– ah– please fuck me…”
He growled softly at your words, “Is that what you want, my little bunny? To take care of that heat, that ache between your thighs?”
You nodded, hips wiggling a bit in the air as your back arched even more.
He chuckled softly, his hands moving to your hips, holding you in place.
You must have looked pathetic, back arched with your ass up, face half in the dirt and wet grass, your dress half shoved up your body.
“Please– Hannibal, please I need you, please– please–” your words became increasingly more needy and whiny.
He let out a low, growled laugh.
You felt his hand on your ass as he ran his hot tip through your folds, making you squirm even more.
“Please– fuck me– fuck me until I... I can't think of anything... please…” you whined.
He groaned at your words, hearing the desperation in your voice, the needy pleading, the want in your tone.
“You beg so perfectly for me.” he praised you.
At that you felt the delicious pain of the head of his cock nudging into your slick entrance, he wasn't even fully inside and you already let out a whimpering moan, backing your hips into his, causing him to slide inside much quicker.
He groaned in response, feeling your body move against his, desperate for more.
“Is that what you wanted, my little bunny? Is that what you need?” he growled.
You nodded, head resting against your arm on the floor to not completely drag yourself through the mud.
Your hips connected with his and he filled you up to the hilt.
“That feels good, doesn't it, bunny?” he murmured, his voice low and rough.
“Yes– yes yes” you let out in between breathy moans as he began to thrust into you, with the urgency of someone in heat.
He groaned at how easily he could slide in and out of you, how desperate your body was for him.
Hannibal fucked into you with enough force to make your head spin with dizziness, your eyes fell shut as the only thing you felt, was his cock stretching your walls.
Your heat clamped down on him, walls fluttering around his cock.
You felt too good, the heat pooling in her stomach felt like it was going to overflow any moment now.
He groaned as you tightened around him, the sensation almost too much to bear.
He could sense how close you were, your heat and need for him almost overwhelming.
You couldn’t help the moans now senselessly tumbling from your lips, eyes heavy lidded as you tried to focus on anything but the burning knot of heat in your stomach.
Your hips pushed back to meet his with each of his thrusts. His cock buried deep inside you, hitting your cervix with every thrust.
You let out a few mumbled moans and pleas, urging Hannibal to thrust into you hard enough you were sure he was internally bruising you.
Suddenly your release wrecked through you as you were reduced to a moaning mess, walls fluttering around him.
You were dripping with slick at that point, the knot in your stomach snapping undone.
“Such a good little bunny,” he groaned, voice filled with a mix of praise and possessive pride.
You let out overstimulated moans and mewls as he kept fucking into you, kept shoving his cock into your spasming pussy and making your head feel hot with heat as he chased his own orgasm.
“You've made a lovely mess, haven't you, little bunny?” he panted, voice low and rough with approval.
You let him fuck you, use you even after you came as his thrusts made overstimulation blank out your mind.
Your moans dissolved into muffled whines and whimpers, your pussy leaking.
“Come on, sweet thing. Let me hear your pretty little noises.”
You let out a soft, “Hanni– 's too much…” between breathy moans.
You felt his cock twitch inside you, with no care for the overstimulation that seemingly made your head spin.
“You're doing so well,” he encouraged you, hand pressing firm against your hips.
You nodded, you wanted to make him feel good after all.
Soft moans kept tumbling from your lips, your heat clenching hard around him until he finally shoved his hips into you in one solid motion and buried himself deep inside you.
He groaned in satisfaction as he spent himself inside you, his hand tightening on your hip as he held you securely against him.
You felt your legs trembling, your heat dripping with slick and other fluids.
He withdrew from you slowly, taking in the sight of you, trembling and spent.
His hand came up to run through your hair, a soft gesture of affection.
“Look at you… You're a mess, my little bunny. But you're a beautiful mess.” he hummed.
You slowly sat up halfway, trembling all over as the sudden heat left you and you were reminded that you are in fact on the cold forest floor with Hannibal.
You leaned into him immediately seeking his warmth and comfort.
He chuckled softly and wrapped an arm around you.
After, quite formally tucking himself back in, despite his now quite disheveled appearance.
He picked you up, supporting your weight as if you weighed nothing at all.
His gaze scanned over you, taking in your mud-streaked body and the glistening wetness between your thighs.
You couldn't help but smile a bit, head nuzzling against his chest.
His hand came up to stroke your hair, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“You did very good, my little bunny,” he praised, his voice low and dark with approval.
“You were so good for me. You gave me everything I wanted, took everything I gave you.”
You leaned up to press a soft kiss to his lips, cuddling into him as he held you.
He returned your kiss, his hand running through your hair affectionately.
“As much as I'd love to stay here with you like this, we should probably head back soon. We don't want you catching a cold, or getting... any dirtier.”
You nodded, holding onto him as he began stepping over branches and leaves back to the path to his house, “I love you, Hannibal…” you murmured against his neck.
Pairing: Hannibal Lecter x f!reader x Will Graham (not necessarily always in that order)
a/n: I know it's been a while! The comments were right, this is lowkey becoming a script for a tv show, so, you can read this story even if you haven't seen the show Hannibal. Better if you read part 1 first here. Part 2 here.
You were still in Will's bed when the first grey light began to seep through the curtains, but you had not slept.
Beside you, Will stirred. A sound escaped him, the kind of noise a man makes when he is drowning in a dream and cannot find the surface. His hand spasmed against the mattress, fingers curling into the sheet. You watched the tension crawl across his brow, the rapid flicker of his eyelids. Whatever he was seeing behind them, it was not kind.
You reached over and laid your palm flat against his chest. His heartbeat hammered against your fingers like a trapped bird. Then, slowly, it began to calm.
His eyes opened a sliver. Unfocused. Searching the dim room until they found your face.
"Hey," you whispered.
He blinked. The nightmare loosened its grip. He did not speak, perhaps could not, but he turned his face toward you, pressed his mouth to the curve of your shoulder in a kiss that was dry and clumsy with sleep. A moment later, his breathing evened. His body surrendered back to unconsciousness like a stone sinking into dark water.
You did not follow.
The ceiling above Will's bed was water-stained in one corner. You had noticed it the first night you stayed, traced its shape with your eyes like a Rorschach blot: a bird, maybe, or a hand with too many fingers. Now you stared at it without seeing. Your mind was elsewhere, moving through the same labyrinth it had been pacing since the interrogation room.
The post. The library. McKean County.
It did not fit.
The FBI had their evidence board, their neat lines of string and printed screenshots. They were building a case the way they always did: outward from the center, connecting dots until a shape emerged. But the shape they were drawing looked wrong to you. It was too clean. Too convenient. A public library login, traced to a dead man, pointing in a direction that led nowhere. It had the texture of a stage set, something arranged for the benefit of an audience.
You could not shake the thought that had been circling in the back of your mind since you had first seen that photograph of your knife on the forum: Hannibal had not made that post. Someone else had. Someone had taken a gift that was meant to be private, an instrument of precision, of intimacy, a blade that carried the weight of his attention and the danger of his regard, and turned it into a spectacle. A lure. They had hung a lantern on something that was meant to exist only in the space between two people, and in doing so, they had drawn moths.
You did not know what Hannibal had intended with that knife. You did not know what he had intended with you. Perhaps he had meant to teach you something. Perhaps he had meant to watch what you would do. Perhaps he had meant nothing at all beyond the pleasure of giving a beautiful object to someone who might appreciate its edge. You would never know now, because a third party had intervened, had taken that delicate, dangerous thing and made it into a hunting signal. And Hannibal, whatever else he was, did not strike you as a man who tolerated interference in his designs.
The thought should not have bothered you. He was a killer. But the violation of it, the theft of something that belonged to the quiet, strange, unsettling thing that existed between you, that bothered you on his behalf. And that bothered you even more.
You turned your head on the pillow and looked at Will. In sleep, the sharpness of him softened. The perpetual furrow between his brows smoothed out. His mouth, usually tight with the effort of holding back everything he felt, relaxed into something almost boyish. You reached out and touched one of his dark curls, damp with the sweat of his nightmare.
You leaned over and pressed a kiss to his hair.
Then you slipped out from beneath the blanket.
The dogs lifted their heads as you moved through the living room. Watched you with knowing eyes but did not bark. You paused to scratch behind their ears, whispered a soft goodbye, and let yourself out into the cold predawn air.
The cab arrived within minutes. You had called it from the porch, voice low, coat pulled tight around your shoulders. The driver did not ask questions. You gave him your address and watched the trees blur past the window, black silhouettes against a sky just beginning to pale at the edges.
Your house was exactly as you had left it.
The yellow tape was gone now, removed by the police after they had finished their sweep. But the residue of their presence lingered: faint smudges of fingerprint powder on the doorframe, the chemical ghost of evidence-processing agents in the air. Your back door had been repaired, the lock replaced, but you still hesitated before stepping inside, your hand hovering over the light switch.
The kitchen was clean. Too clean. You had scrubbed it yourself after the first intruder, Hannibal guiding your hands, his voice calm and steady as he walked you through the motions of erasure. Now the floor gleamed under the overhead light, stainless and silent. The knife block sat on the counter, every blade accounted for. Including the sujihiki.
You did not look at it.
You went instead to your study.
The room was small, cluttered in the way of people who think best surrounded by evidence of their own industry. Bookshelves bowed under the weight of research materials: forensic textbooks, historical treatises on poisons, bound copies of old court transcripts. Your laptop sat on the desk, closed and waiting. The police had combed through your emails, your browser history, your search records. You had given them access willingly: nothing to hide there, nothing that would help their investigation.
But they had not asked about your unpublished manuscripts.
There was no warrant. No subpoena. No probable cause to dig through the private writings of a novelist who had not been charged with any crime. And so they had left them untouched, those digital folders nested inside folders, labelled with working titles and dates and cryptic abbreviations only you understood.
You opened the laptop.
The files were still there. Dozens of them: fragments, outlines, half-finished chapters. Some were years old, abandoned projects you had lost interest in. Others were newer, still bleeding at the edges, still waiting for you to return and stitch them into something whole.
You did not open them to read. You already knew what they contained.
The way you wrote had always been this: you began with the murder. Not the motive, not the characters, not the setting. The kill itself. You constructed it piece by piece, methodically, obsessively: a locked room drowning, a poisoning that mimicked natural causes, a fall from a great height that looked like suicide but was not. You built the mechanics first, the architecture of death, and only then did you begin to build the world around them.
And then, because you were writing fiction, because you needed your killers to be caught, you introduced the flaw.
A witness who survived. A piece of evidence overlooked. A moment of bad luck, bad timing, bad judgment. The crack in the perfect facade that let the light in, that let the detective see, that let justice find its way. You had to write a good book, not a manual for murder. That was the line you had always walked conscientiously, even when some part of you wondered what it would be like to leave the crack unopened.
But the unfinished ones, the fragments, the outlines, the early drafts before the flaws had been introduced, those were different. Those were blueprints. Private explorations of the kind of darkness that had no place in a published novel, the kind that existed purely for your own understanding.
Too many strangers had been in your house already. Too many eyes were on your trail. You did not know who was watching, or how much they had seen, or what they might do with whatever they found. You would not leave these pieces of yourself lying around for anyone to claim.
You pulled two flash drives from your desk drawer and began to copy the files. Every fragment, every outline, every unbroken murder. Your fingers moved across the keyboard with practiced speed, dragging folders, dropping them into the drives' directories. When the transfers were complete, you went back through the laptop and deleted the originals. Not just moved to the trash. Deleted, overwritten, scrubbed until there was nothing left but empty space where your darkest thoughts had been.
The drives went into your bag. The bag went over your shoulder.
You left the house without looking back.
The cab dropped you at the end of Hannibal's street. You walked the rest of the way on foot, your breath misting in the cold morning air, your bag clutched against your side. The houses here were grand and silent, set back from the road behind wrought iron gates and old trees. You had made this walk before, in what felt like another life, when you still believed you were simply going to dinner.
Hannibal's door was unlocked.
You did not question it. You had stopped questioning the small impossibilities that surrounded him weeks ago. The man moved through the world like a chess player who had already seen the endgame, arranging pieces with such subtlety that you only noticed the pattern after it had closed around you. He had probably known you were coming before you had decided to come.
You stepped inside and closed the door behind you.
The house smelled of coffee and something richer beneath it: braised meat, perhaps, or a reduction simmering low on the stove. The lights were on in the kitchen, warm and golden, spilling across the marble counters and the copper pans hanging in their precise rows. Everything was in its place. Everything was beautiful. Everything was waiting.
Hannibal was at the stove, his back to you.
"I wondered when you would arrive," he said without turning. "There is coffee in the press. It is still hot."
You did not move toward the coffee. You stood in the doorway, your bag clutched against your side, and watched the elegant line of his shoulders beneath his shirt. He was dressed already, immaculate as always, not a hair out of place. As if he had been expecting company.
"Did Will sleep well?" he asked, still not turning.
"He slept. It wasn't peaceful."
"Understandable. The mind processes trauma in its own time. Dreams are the body's way of rehearsing survival. Will's mind has always rehearsed more diligently than most." He lifted a wooden spoon to his lips, tasted, nodded faintly. "You, on the other hand, did not sleep at all."
"You sound very sure of that."
Now he turned. His eyes moved over your face with the same attention he gave everything: thorough, unhurried, missing nothing.
"Your pupils are dilated," he observed. "Fatigue thins the skin beneath the eyes, particularly in the delicate tissue along the orbital bone. You have been crying, though not recently...the redness has faded but the slight puffiness remains. And you are wearing yesterday's clothes." A pause. "Also, you are here."
"I wanted to see what you have been doing."
"Have you?" He tilted his head, and there was something almost amused in the angle of it. "Or have you come because the FBI's theories have begun to unravel, and you hoped I might help you reweave them?"
You did not answer immediately. You stepped further into the kitchen and set your bag on the counter. The flash drives inside clicked softly against each other.
"I have been thinking about the knife," you said.
Hannibal's expression did not change, but something behind his eyes sharpened. "Have you."
"The post. The photograph. The man who broke into my house." You met his gaze and held it. "Someone took a gift you gave me, something that was meant to be private, whatever it meant, whatever you intended, and turned it into a public spectacle. They made it a landmark. A destination. They sent people to my door because of it."
"Yes," Hannibal said quietly. "They did."
"But whoever did it knew about the Sujihiki. Knew it came from you. Knew it would draw attention." You paused, choosing your words with care. "They took something that existed between us and weaponized it. Not against me. Against whatever this is."
Hannibal was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was soft, almost contemplative. "You are angry on my behalf."
"I am trying to understand," you said, "why someone would go to such lengths to insert themselves into a dynamic they were never part of. They did not just observe. They intervened. They took something delicate and made it vulgar. And I do not believe for a moment that the trail to McKean County is anything other than a carefully laid false scent."
"Neither do I." Hannibal turned back to the stove and ladled something from the pot into a shallow bowl. He garnished it with a sprig of something green and set it on the counter beside you. "Eat. You will think more clearly with something warm in your stomach."
You looked down at the bowl. A stew, dark and fragrant, studded with root vegetables and tender chunks of meat. You did not ask what kind. That question had ceased to matter weeks ago.
"This person," you said, picking up the spoon, "they are not just a stalker. A stalker fixates. A stalker consumes. This person is curating. They are arranging things. The post, the intruders, the breadcrumbs for the FBI...it is all too purposeful. Too structured."
Hannibal leaned against the counter, watching you eat with that same attentive stillness he brought to everything. "You are describing a narrative instinct. Someone who sees the world in terms of story. Of plot. Of rising action and climactic revelation."
"Yes."
"Someone rather like yourself."
You set the spoon down. "I write fiction. I do not stage it with living people."
"There is a difference," Hannibal agreed, "between the page and the world. But the instinct is the same. The desire to shape events into meaning. To arrange chaos into form." He paused. "Whoever is doing this, they are not merely obsessed with you. They are obsessed with the story of you. The narrative. The arc. They see themselves as its author, and we are merely characters moving according to their design."
"Then why involve you?"
Hannibal's smile was thin and knowing. "Because I am part of the story. I have been since the beginning. The knife was the inciting incident. The intruders were complications. And now…" He gestured vaguely at the air between you. "Now we are in the second act. The tension rises. The stakes escalate. The audience waits with bated breath for the climax."
You stared at him. "You speak as if you admire the craftsmanship."
"I admire precision in all its forms," Hannibal said. "That does not mean I will tolerate being a pawn in someone else's game. I am not a plot device. And I do not appreciate having my gifts repurposed without my consent."
There was something cold beneath the surface of his voice, something ancient and patient and utterly without mercy. You recognized it. You had heard it before, on the night he had helped you clean the blood from your floor.
"You want to find them," you said.
"I want to understand them first. Understanding is the prerequisite for effective action." He studied your face. "You have brought something with you. Something in your bag. You have been guarding it since you arrived."
You hesitated. Then you reached into the bag and pulled out one of the flash drives. You held it in your palm, small and black and deceptively ordinary.
"These are my unfinished works," you said. "Fragments. Outlines. Early drafts. The ones where the murderer has not been caught yet. Where the flaw has not been introduced." You closed your fingers around the drive. "I removed them from my laptop because I did not want anyone else to find them. Too many people have already been in my house."
Hannibal's eyes moved from the drive to your face. "You are protecting your work."
"I am protecting myself. There is a difference." You met his gaze. "I am not going to give these to you. I am not going to ask you to read them. But I wanted you to know they exist. Because whoever is doing this, whoever is trying to write the story of my life, they may be looking for something. Material. Inspiration. I do not know. But if they have been watching me as closely as it seems, they may have seen things I did not intend anyone to see."
Hannibal was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "You are concerned that your private writings have been compromised."
"I am concerned that someone has been inside my life for longer than I realized. That this did not start with the knife. That the knife was simply the moment they chose to reveal themselves." You put the flash drive back in your bag. "The FBI traced the post to McKean County. It is too neat. Too easy. I think someone wanted them to find that trail. I think someone is leading us in circles while they watch from somewhere much closer."
"You believe the true author of this drama is someone you know."
"I believe the true author of this drama is someone who knows me." You looked at him steadily. "And if they know me, they may know you as well. They may have been watching both of us for some time."
Hannibal considered this. His expression was unreadable, but you could sense the calculations moving behind his eyes, the pieces rearranging themselves on the board.
"There is a particular quality to your work," he said finally. "I have noticed it in every book you have written. A fastidiousness. A precision. You write about violence the way a composer writes a fugue, with attention to structure, to counterpoint, to the interplay of theme and variation. It is not gratuitous. It is architectural."
You did not know whether to be flattered or unnerved. "What is your point?"
"My point is that the person who posted that photograph shares that quality. The framing of the image was deliberate. The lighting was considered. The caption was cryptic but not chaotic. They were not trying to threaten you. They were trying to create something. To frame a moment. To compose a scene." He tilted his head. "Whoever they are, they have studied you. Your sensibility. Your aesthetic. Perhaps even your prose."
A chill crept down your spine. "You think they are a writer."
"I think they are someone who believes they understand the art of narrative as well as you do. Perhaps better." Hannibal's voice was soft, almost gentle. "And I think they are trying to prove it."
You stood very still, the weight of his words settling over you like a shroud. Outside, the morning light was growing stronger, pale and watery through the kitchen windows. Somewhere in the house, a clock ticked. The coffee in the press had long since gone cold.
"I should go back," you said finally. "Will will be waking soon. He will not appreciate finding me gone."
Hannibal's smile was faint and unreadable. "I would expect nothing less. Loyalty is one of your more stubborn virtues." He turned back to the stove. "Go. Reassure him. And when you are ready to discuss strategy, you know where to find me."
You gathered your bag and moved toward the door. At the threshold, you paused.
"Hannibal," you said, without turning around. "Whoever did this, they slighted you as much as they threatened me. Perhaps more."
A silence. Then, very softly: "Yes."
"Do you intend to punish them for it?"
The silence stretched longer this time. When Hannibal spoke, his voice was like silk drawn over a blade. "I intend to remind them that there is a difference between writing a story and becoming one. Authors are not immune to their own plots. And those who seek to manipulate monsters often discover that monsters do not appreciate being handled."
You nodded once and stepped out into the cold morning.
The sky was threatening rain. You pulled your coat tighter and began the walk to the main road, where you could flag another cab. Behind you, Hannibal stood at the window and watched until you disappeared from view. Then he returned to the stove, to the pot still simmering, to the quiet order of his kitchen.
The dogs greeted you at the edge of Will's property. Winston first, then the others, tails wagging, noses pressing against your palms in that uncomplicated way animals had of announcing that you were expected, that you belonged here now, that your scent had become part of the household's vocabulary. You crouched to scratch behind their ears and let their warmth ground you.
When you straightened, Will was standing on the porch.
He did not look angry. He looked like a man who had woken to an empty bed and spent the last hour convincing himself not to spiral into the kind of catastrophic thinking his mind was built for. His hair was disheveled, his shirt still half-buttoned from the night before. He held a mug of coffee in one hand, and the other was braced against the doorframe as if he needed the support.
"You're back," he said.
"I am back."
He simply stepped aside to let you in, and when you passed him, his free hand brushed your elbow, a fleeting touch. A question he was not quite ready to put into words.
You stopped in the living room and turned to face him.
"I went to my house first," you said. "Then to Hannibal's."
Something flickered in Will's eyes. Not anger. Something closer to resignation, mixed with a weariness so deep it had its own gravity. "Did you find what you were looking for?"
"The beginning of it." You sat on the edge of the couch, suddenly aware of the exhaustion pressing down on your bones. "There were things on my laptop I did not want anyone else to find. Manuscript fragments. Early drafts. The kinds of things that exist only as process. I removed them. They are on flash drives now. Safe."
Will set his coffee down and sat beside you. His knee brushed yours. "And Hannibal?"
"I did not show them to him. I am not a fool, Will. I know what he is. I am not going to hand him a catalogue of ways to kill people." You looked down at your hands. "But I needed to talk to him."
"And?"
"He sees it the same way I do. Someone is writing a story. They are using us. The post was the inciting incident. The intruders were complications. The false trail to McKean County is a red herring designed to keep the FBI looking in the wrong direction while the real author sits somewhere closer, watching."
Will was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "Someone who knows you."
"Someone who knows both of us. Or has been studying us long enough to fake it." You turned to face him. "The photograph of the knife was not a threat. It was a composition. Whoever made it has an artist's sensibility. They understand narrative. They understand aesthetics. They understand how to create a moment that draws the eye and holds it."
"You are describing a writer."
"I am describing someone who thinks like one." You hesitated. "I keep a very careful separation between my work and my life. The murders I invent are for the page. They are fictions constructed to be deconstructed. But someone has been blurring that line. Someone has been taking elements of my world and rearranging them into a plot of their own."
Will reached for your hand. His fingers were warm and rough against yours. "Do you have any idea who?"
"No. But I am starting to think it does not matter yet. What matters is that they want us to chase them. They want us to follow the breadcrumbs, to unravel the clues, to play the parts they have written for us. Every move we have made so far: calling the police, going to the FBI, tracing the post, has been part of their script."
"Then what do we do?"
"We stop following." You met his eyes. "Whoever this is, they have been directing the action from the beginning. They set the stage, and we have been dancing on it. If we want to find them, we have to step off the stage. We have to stop reacting and start anticipating."
Will's jaw tightened. He was thinking, you could see it, the way his mind turned over details, searching for purchase, for the crack in the logic that would let him pry the whole thing open. "You want to stop cooperating."
"I want to force their hand. If they cannot predict what we will do next, they will have to reveal themselves to regain control. And when they do, we will be waiting."
"It's risky."
"Everything about this is risky. But I am tired. I am tired of finding strangers in my house and messages on my doorstep and photographs of my kitchen on the internet." Your voice cracked, just slightly, before you steadied it. "I did not ask for any of this. But I am in it now. And I refuse to be passive."
Will looked at you for a long moment. Then he lifted your hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, a gesture so unexpectedly tender that it caught the breath in your throat.
"Okay," he said. "We do this your way. But we do not do it alone."
"Hannibal is already involved."
"I know. That is not what I meant." He lowered your hand but did not release it. "I meant you and me. Whatever else is happening, whatever games Hannibal is playing, whatever traps this other person is setting, you and I are in this together. I am not letting you face it by yourself."
Something in your chest loosened, a knot you had not realized you had been tightening. "I know."
"Good." He stood, pulling you gently to your feet. "Now come. We can start figuring out how to derail a conspiracy after breakfast."
The dogs settled around your feet as you sat at the kitchen table. Will poured you a mug of coffee and set it in front of you, then sat across from you with his own.
Outside, the rain began to fall, soft at first, then steadier, a grey curtain that blurred the trees and the fields and the distant road. You wrapped your hands around the coffee mug and let the heat seep into your fingers.
"Tell me something," Will said after a while. "When you were at Hannibal's, what did you really talk about? Beyond the case."
You considered the question. "We talked about violation. About what it means to have something private turned into something public. He did not say it in so many words, but I think he was angry. Not at me. At the person who took his gift and made it a spectacle."
"Hannibal does not strike me as someone who tolerates interference."
"He does not. And I think that may be useful." You took a sip of coffee. "Whoever is doing this has made an enemy of him. They may not realize it yet, but they have. And Hannibal is not the kind of enemy you want to have."
Will's expression was complicated. "You sound almost pleased about that."
"I am not pleased. I am realistic." You set the mug down. "Hannibal is dangerous. I have always known that. But right now, his danger is pointed in the same direction as ours. And I would rather have him as an ally than an adversary while we figure out who is trying to destroy us."
"And after? When this is over?"
You did not have an answer to that. You were not sure one existed yet.
Will seemed to understand. He did not press. He simply reached across the table and laid his hand over yours.
Later, after the rain had stopped and the dogs had been fed and the morning had stretched into afternoon, your phone buzzed with a message.
It was from Hannibal: I have been thinking about access. Whoever took that photograph was inside your home before the first intruder arrived. They may have been inside for longer. Check your devices for anything unusual. And trust no one who has had unsupervised access to your space. We will speak again soon.
You read the message twice, then handed the phone to Will.
"Then we need to be more careful than we already are." Will stood and began to pace, the way he always did when his mind was working faster than his body could contain. "Who has had access to your house in the last year? Friends? Colleagues? Maintenance workers? Anyone who might have had the opportunity to plant something or copy your files?"
"I have been trying to think. There is no one obvious. I live alone. I do not host parties. The only people who come regularly are my agent, and she is about as sinister as a cashmere sweater."
Will stopped pacing. "What about your research? You said you consult with people for your books. Experts. Professionals. Anyone who might have taken an unusual interest in your work?"
You opened your mouth to answer, and then stopped.
There was something. A memory, half-formed, lurking at the edge of your consciousness. A conversation you had had months ago, before any of this began. Someone who had asked questions that were a little too specific.
"I need to check my correspondence," you said slowly. "My emails. My notes. There might be something there."
"Then we check them together." Will returned to the table and sat down across from you. "You know your readers' psychology better, and I can help. FBI probably just did the general sweep. You receive thousands of emails monthly from your fans, after all. This time, we do not hand anything over to anyone until we know exactly what we are looking at."
You nodded. You just had to find the right thread.
a/n: Liked the fic? You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
just read a fic where hannibal secretly crept into will's house and watched will jack off while picking on the fresh bite wound hannibal gave him the night before, and then reaching his climax while gasping hannibal's name, without knowing that hannibal was watching him like a fucking creep, bricked the hell up from seeing this scene and smelling will's arousal mixed with the scent of his coppery blood. just made me remember that blog that says "saltburn is nothing compared to hannibal fics" and they're right, motherfucker they're right
