Call me Vamp, He/Him. I write fanfiction sometimes, and I decided to make a blog for it :)
I currently write for (red = my favs to write for):
Actors:
- Mads Mikkelsen
- Sebastian Stan
- Hayden Christensen
Polar:
- Duncan Vizla
Hannibal NBC:
- Hannibal Lecter
- Will Graham
Marvel:
- Bucky Barnes
- Yelena Belova
Star Wars:
- Anakin Skywalker
Casino Royale:
- Le Chiffre // Jean Duran
Heated Rivalry:
- Ilya Rozanov
————————————————————————
I will write:
Fluff, angst, smut, most triggering topics. Dubcon is a strong maybe.
I will not write:
Noncon, minor/adult (big age gaps are okay as long as both characters are of age).
————————————————————————
If you request something, it may take me a while, though it varies heavily. I’m chronically ill, so at times I may not be able to write at all. However I’m also bipolar 1, and if I’m (hypo)manic I can easily write a full inbox in a couple of days (or even one day). Also varies on the type of mania though, I write better when hypomanic because at least then I can focus for longer than 5 minutes.
If you have any requests for a fic or a character, feel free to ask!! Though I’m not that huge on movies and such, and I’m pretty limited to my own interests and favorite characters (autism makes it hard to focus on anything or anyone else… 💔)
Summary: You’re with Hannibal, hallucinating something. He comforts you.
He noticed the first time you flinched.
You were in his kitchen, watching him prepare dinner, and your hand jerked suddenly, slapping at your forearm. He paused, knife suspended mid chop, and looked at you with that dark, inquiring gaze.
"Something wrong?"
You shook your head, too quickly. "Nothing. Just a bug."
He knew there was no bug. He had seen you do this before, the sudden, involuntary movements, the way your eyes would track something that was not there. He had catalogued every flinch, every stare, every moment you went still and silent, your gaze fixed on some invisible point in the distance.
He did not ask. He was patient. He waited.
The first time he saw you stare at a wall for ten minutes, he simply sat beside you and watched the same wall. He did not see what you saw. But he saw you, and that was enough.
You came to him broken. Not in the way most people were broken, with cracks that could be filled and smoothed over. You came to him in pieces, held together by sheer will and the desperate hope that someone, somewhere, would look at you and not look away.
He did not look away. Of course he didn’t.
He studied you. He was a psychiatrist, after all. He knew the signs. The sudden starts, the way you sometimes addressed the empty air before catching yourself, the long silences when your mind was elsewhere, trapped in a world that only you could see. He knew what you were, the way your illness presents, the way it could affect you.
And he loved you anyway.
You were sitting in his living room. The fire was crackling, low and warm, and you had been quiet for a long time. He was reading, or pretending to read, his eyes on the page but his attention fixed on you. You were staring at the corner of the room, your gaze intense, your breathing shallow.
"What do you see?" he asked, his voice soft, unhurried.
You blinked. Turned to look at him. Your eyes were distant, still caught in that other world full of of things only you can see.
"Someone is standing there," you said. "They have a hole in their chest. I can see their heart beating. It's... it's still beating. They should be dead. They should be dead, but they're just standing there, watching me."
He set down his book. He did not look at the corner. He looked at you.
"Are they frightening you?"
"No." You paused. "Yes. I don't know. They are just there. They are always just there."
He rose from his chair and walked toward you. He knelt in front of you, his hands resting on your knees, warm and steady through the fabric of your trousers.
"They are not real," he said. "You know this."
"I know." Your voice cracked. "I know they are not real. But I can see them. I can see their heart beating. I can see the blood dripping. I can hear it, Hannibal. I can hear it falling onto the floor."
He did not tell you that there was no blood. He did not tell you that the floor was clean, that the corner was empty, that your mind was playing tricks on you. You already knew. Telling you would not help.
He reached up and cupped your face. His thumbs traced your cheekbones, soft and slow.
"Look at me," he said. "Look at me and tell me what you see."
You looked at him. His face was calm, his eyes steady, his expression unreadable. He was real. He was solid. He was here, in this room, with you.
"I see you," you said.
"Good. Keep looking at me. Do not look away."
You tried. You really tried. But your eyes flicked to the corner, just for a second, and you saw the figure still standing there, still watching, still bleeding.
"Focus," he said. His voice was firm but not unkind. "You are here. You are with me. There is no one else in this room. There is only you and me and the fire."
"You don't know that." Your voice was trembling now. "You don't know what I see. You don't know how real it feels."
"I know." He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. "I know that it feels real. I know that it is terrifying. I know that you are fighting a war in your own mind, every single day, and that you are exhausted. I know all of this. And I am still here."
You closed your eyes. The figure in the corner was still there, but you could not see it now. You could only feel the warmth of Hannibal's hands on your face, the steady rhythm of his breathing, and his solid, grounding presence.
"I love you," you said. The words came out small and broken, like a confession.
"I know," he said. "I love you too."
You opened your eyes. The figure was gone. The corner was empty. You did not know if it had vanished or if you had simply stopped seeing it. It did not matter.
Hannibal kissed your forehead, soft and lingering.
"Stay with me," he murmured. "Here. In this room. In this moment. Let the other world wait."
"It doesn't wait," you said. "It never waits."
"Then we will face it together." He took your hand and pressed it to his chest, over his heart. "Feel that? That is real. That is me. That is the only thing you need to hold onto."
You felt his heartbeat. Steady. Sure. Consistent even when your own mind was not.
"I'm sorry," you said. "I'm sorry you have to deal with this. I'm sorry I can't just be normal."
He pulled back. His eyes were dark, but there was something soft in them, something that looked almost like tenderness.
"I do not want normal," he said. "I want you. Every part of you. Even the parts that see things I cannot see. Even the parts that flinch at empty air. Even the parts that are afraid. I want all of it."
"You're insane."
He smiled. It was his private smile, the one he kept for you.
"Perhaps," he said. "But I am yours. And you are mine. That is the only thing that matters."
He helped you to your feet. He led you to the couch and wrapped a blanket around your shoulders. He sat beside you, his arm around you, his hand resting on your hip.
"Rest," he said. "I will stay here. I will not leave you."
"I don't want to sleep," you said. "When I sleep, I dream. And when I dream, I can't tell what's real. It's worse. It's so much worse."
"Then do not sleep. Just rest. Close your eyes and rest. I will watch over you. If anything comes, I will be here."
You leaned into him. Your head rested on his chest, and you listened to his heartbeat. It was steady. It was real. It was the only anchor you had in a world that shifted and changed without warning.
"Promise me," you whispered. "Promise me you won't leave."
"I promise," he said. "I will never leave you."
You closed your eyes. The shadows danced at the edges of your vision, but you did not look at them. You focused on the warmth of his body, the sound of his heart, the steady rhythm of his breathing.
He held you as the hours passed. He held you through the flinches and the sudden starts. He held you when you stared at the wall, seeing things he could not see. He held you when you cried, silent and exhausted, your tears soaking through his shirt.
He held you until the sun rose, pale and grey, filtering through the curtains.
And when you finally opened your eyes, he was still there. He was always still there.
"I love you," he said. "Every part of you. Even the parts you wish you could cut away. Especially those parts. They are what make you who you are. And who you are is the most precious thing I have ever found."
You did not have words. You just leaned into him, and let yourself be held, and let yourself be loved.
It was enough. It was more than enough, to know he wouldn’t leave when things got difficult.
————
A/n: A very self-indulgent one here! This is entirely based on my own experiences with hallucinations as a chronically psychotic schizoaffective person, so of course other people’s experiences can look different. I’m planning to write some more fics where I cover more than just hallucinations, but since I’ve been hallucinating almost nonstop the past few days (which is why I haven’t posted) I wanted to write something comforting for myself.
Summary: You see Le Chiffre smile for the first time.
He did not smile.
You had noticed it early on, in the weeks after you first met him. He smirked, a thin, cruel twist of his lips that never reached his eyes. He sneered, when he was angry or when someone had disappointed him. He smiled, but it was a smile of performance, a mask he wore for poker tables and business meetings. It was the smile of a man who had learned that showing your real face was a vulnerability he could not afford.
But he did not smile. Not truly. Not the kind of smile that transformed a face, that softened the sharp edges and made a person look like they had once been genuinely happy.
You had been with him for months now. You had seen him at his worst. You had seen him bleed, exhausted, terrified, furious. You had seen him in the aftermath of a bad deal, when the numbers didn't add up and his eye wept that terrible dark tear. You had seen him in the quiet moments, when he thought you were asleep and his guard was down. But you had never seen him smile.
You wanted to. You wanted to so badly it ached.
You did not tell him this. You did not pressure him. You simply stayed, patient and steady, a constant presence in his chaotic, violent world. You learned his rhythms. You learned when to speak and when to sit in silence. You learned that he was afraid, always afraid, of losing everything he had built. You learned that he had never been loved, not truly, not by anyone.
Yet over time, ever so slowly, you watched the walls around him begin to crack.
It was a Tuesday. An ordinary Tuesday, the kind that should have been forgettable. He was at his desk, surrounded by papers, his brow furrowed in concentration. The numbers were not adding up. You could tell by the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw was clenched tight. He had been at it for hours, and he was losing patience.
You brought him tea. It was a small thing, a simple gesture, but you had learned that he appreciated the routine of it. He took the cup without looking up, his fingers brushing yours. A moment of contact, brief and electric.
"Thank you," he murmured, his voice flat and distracted.
You stayed. You sat in the chair across from his desk, not watching him, just present. You had learned that he hated being watched when he was working. He felt like he was being judged, evaluated, found wanting. So you looked out the window instead, watching the city lights flicker in the distance.
He made a sound. A frustrated noise, low in his throat. He pushed the papers away and rubbed his temples with his fingers.
"It is not working," he said. "Something is wrong. The numbers are wrong, and I cannot find where."
You turned to look at him. He looked exhausted. The dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced than usual, and his good eye was bloodshot. He looked like a man who had not slept in days, a man who was one bad deal away from losing everything.
"You need to rest," you said.
"I do not need to rest. I need to fix this."
"You cannot fix it if you cannot see straight."
He looked at you. Something flickered in his gaze, something that might have been annoyance or might have been gratitude. It was hard to tell with him. He was so practiced at hiding his feelings.
"Come to bed," you said. "Just for a few hours. I will wake you if anything changes."
He opened his mouth to argue. You could see it in the set of his jaw, the way his lips parted. But then he closed his mouth. He nodded, a small, tired gesture, and he let you lead him away from the desk.
He fell asleep almost immediately, his head on your chest, his breathing slow and even. You stayed awake, your hand in his hair, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. He looked younger when he slept. Softer. Almost innocent.
When he woke, he was different. Not much. Just enough for you to notice.
He blinked up at you, his eye still heavy with sleep. He looked confused, disoriented, like he had forgotten where he was. And then he saw you. He saw your face, your steady gaze, your hand still resting in his hair.
And then he said something. Something stupid. Something so utterly mundane and ridiculous that you almost laughed.
"I dreamed I was a banker," he said. "A real one. Not a criminal. Just a man in a suit who gave loans to people who wanted to buy houses. It was terribly boring. I hated it."
You stared at him. His expression was completely serious. He was not joking. He was genuinely telling you about his dream, this man who had killed and schemed and destroyed lives, and he was telling you about his boring dream of being a legitimate banker.
And then something happened.
His lip twitched. A tiny, involuntary movement, like he was trying to suppress it. His eye crinkled at the corner. And then he laughed. Not a mocking laugh, not a cruel laugh, but a real one. A surprised, warm, genuine laugh that seemed to startle him as much as it did you.
"God," he said, still laughing. "I have been in this business too long. I am dreaming of spreadsheets."
And then he smiled.
It was small. Crooked. His lips curved upward, just slightly, and the smile softened the sharp angles of his face. It made him look younger, almost innocent. It transformed him, utterly and completely, into someone you had never seen before.
You did not breathe. You did not move. You were terrified that if you did, the moment would shatter.
"What?" he asked, his smile fading. "What is it?"
"Nothing," you said. Your voice came out rough. "You just... you smiled. A real smile. I have never seen you do that before."
He looked confused. He touched his own face, his fingers brushing his lips, like he was checking to see if it was real.
"I do not smile," he said.
"You just did."
He looked at you. His eye searched your face, looking for something, some sign that you were mocking him. He found nothing but wonder.
"Did you like it?" he asked. His voice was small, almost vulnerable, like he was afraid of the answer.
"Yes," you said. "I liked it very much."
He stared at you for a long moment. And then, slowly, tentatively, his lips curved upward again. It was a shy smile, almost uncertain, as though he was still learning how to do it.
"I will try to do it more often," he said. "For you."
You leaned in and kissed him. It was a soft kiss, gentle and unhurried, and when you pulled back, he was still smiling. That small, crooked, beautiful smile that you had waited months to see.
"Thank you," you said.
He tilted his head. "For what?"
"For this. For letting me see this. For trusting me enough to let me see the real you."
He did not answer with words. He just leaned his forehead against yours, his smile still lingering on his lips, and let himself be held.
In the morning, he would go back to his desk. He would work until his eye ached and his head throbbed. He would be sharp, cruel, calculating. But in this moment, he was just a man who had smiled for the first time in years, and he had done it because of you.
You made a silent vow to make him smile like that every single day. Even if it took the rest of your life.
Summary: Hannibal tells you that he loves you for the first time over dinner.
He said it in the middle of dinner.
Not a special dinner. Not a dinner with candles and flowers and the kind of orchestrated romance that Hannibal excelled at. Just a Tuesday. Just a meal. Just the two of you at his dining table, the same table where he had served you a dozen meals before, the same table where you had slowly, inexorably, fallen into the orbit of a monster.
You were eating. Something rich and dark, a slow braised dish that had been cooking since morning. The wine was deep and velvety. The conversation had been light, easy, the kind of comfortable silence that came from months of knowing each other.
And then he said it.
"I love you."
You nearly choked on your wine. You set the glass down carefully, your hand trembling, and you looked at him across the table. His face was calm. His eyes, those dark, unreadable eyes, were fixed on you with an intensity that made your skin prickle.
"What did you say?" Your voice came out rough, a half strangled whisper.
He set down his fork. He folded his hands on the table. He looked at you like you were the most fascinating thing he had ever studied.
"I love you," he repeated. The words were measured. Deliberate. He was not testing them. He was not unsure. He was stating a fact, the same way he would state a diagnosis or a weather report.
You could not breathe. Your chest was tight, your heart pounding against your ribs. This was not how it was supposed to go. You were not supposed to be sitting here, in the home of a man who had killed more people than you could count, being told that he loved you.
"You're joking," you said.
"I do not joke. Not about this, at least." A small, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. "You know this."
You did know this. Hannibal Lecter did not joke about statements such as these. He did not say things he did not mean. Every word he spoke was chosen with the same precision he used to select a scalpel, with only the occasional cannibal joke or pun toward FBI agents who came over for dinner. And now he had chosen these three words, and he had laid them on the table between you like a live grenade.
"Why?" The question came out cracked, broken. "Why do you love me? You know what I know. You know I've seen the basement. You know I've seen what you do. How can you possibly love me?"
He considered this. He tilted his head, that birdlike gesture that meant he was turning something over in his mind.
"I love you," he said, "because you see me. Not the mask. Not the performance. Me. You have seen the worst of what I am, and you have not run. You have not called the police. You have not tried to save yourself. You have stayed. You have sat at my table. You have let me cook for you. You have let me touch you. You have let me into your life with your eyes wide open. Do you understand how rare that is?"
You shook your head. You could not speak. Your throat was closed, your eyes burning.
"No one has ever seen me," he said. "Not truly. They see the doctor, the host, the charming European with impeccable taste. They see the monster, when I choose to show them. But you have seen both. You have seen the pieces and you have seen the whole. And you are still here. That is not nothing. That is everything."
He rose from his chair. He walked around the table, slow and deliberate, and he knelt beside your chair. His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb brushing across your cheek. He was warm. He was solid. He was the most terrifying thing you had ever known.
"I love you," he said again, softer this time. "I love the way you look at me when you think I am not watching. I love the way you say my name, as though it means something to you. I love the way you fight against the truth of what you feel, and I love that you always lose. I love you, and I will never stop loving you. Not even when you finally run."
"I'm not going to run."
He smiled. It was his private smile, the one he kept for you, the one that made him look almost human.
"I know," he said. "That is why I love you."
He kissed you. His lips were soft and warm, and he tasted like wine and the faint copper of blood that never quite washed away. He kissed you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered, like you were the only person who had ever been worth the effort.
When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours. His eyes were closed. His breathing was steady. He was utterly, completely present, and he was yours.
"Say it back," he murmured. "I want to hear you say it."
You swallowed. Your heart was pounding. Your hands were shaking. You looked at this man, this monster, this beautiful, terrible creature who had claimed you as his own, and you realized that you had known for months. You had known the first time he cooked for you. You had known the first time he held you. You had known the first time you saw the basement and did not leave.
"I love you," you said. "More than anything. More than I should. But I love you anyway."
The words felt strange on your tongue. Foreign. Heavy. But they also felt true, truer than anything you had ever said.
His eyes opened. He looked at you with an expression you had never seen before, something raw and vulnerable and terrifyingly human. His hand cupped your face, and he kissed you again, deeper this time, with a hunger that bordered on desperation.
"I will never let you go," he said against your lips. "You understand that, don't you? I will never let you leave. I will never let anyone take you from me. You are mine. Do you understand?"
"Yes," you said. "I understand."
He pulled back. His eyes were dark, his pupils blown wide, and his smile was wider, more bright than you had ever seen it. A glimpse of the human being under that perfect facade.
"Good," he said. "Now finish your dinner. It is getting cold."
You laughed. It came out cracked and broken, half a sob, half a release. He rose from his knees and returned to his seat, and he picked up his fork like he had not just rearranged the entire architecture of your life.
You looked at him across the table. He was beautiful. He was terrible. He was the most dangerous thing you had ever touched, and you loved him. You loved him so much it hurt.
Summary: Hannibal takes you to his tailor for a suit :)
He wanted to dress you.
It was not a request. It was a statement of intent, delivered over breakfast with the same casual certainty he used to comment on the weather. You looked up from your eggs, fork halfway to your mouth, and found him watching you with that dark, appraising gaze.
"I have an appointment," he said. "At my tailor. You will accompany me."
You swallowed. "I don't need a new suit."
"You do not need one," he agreed. "But you will have one."
There was no point arguing. You had learned, over the months you had been with him, that Hannibal Lecter did not ask. He simply arranged things, and you found yourself swept along in the current of his will. It was not unpleasant. It was, in its own way, exhilarating. Like being carried downstream by a river that knew exactly where it wanted to go.
The tailor was a small shop tucked away in a quiet corner of the city, the kind of place that did not advertise and did not need to. Hannibal was greeted by name, ushered inside, offered a glass of something amber and expensive. You stood in the centre of the room, feeling out of place, while Hannibal spoke to the tailor in low, measured tones.
They pulled out bolts of fabric. Dark wool, charcoal grey, a subtle pinstripe that caught the light. Hannibal ran his fingers over each one, his touch almost reverent, and then he turned to you.
"This one," he said. "Come. Let me see it on you."
The fitting room was small, panelled in dark wood, with a three way mirror that reflected your image back at you from every angle. Hannibal stood just outside the curtain, waiting. You stripped off your shirt, your trousers, and pulled on the trousers of the suit. The fabric was soft against your skin, the wool fine and warm. You shrugged on the jacket and stepped out.
Hannibal was standing by the mirror. He turned when you emerged, and his eyes swept over you with the same intensity he used to examine a painting. He circled you slowly, his footsteps silent on the wooden floor. He adjusted the collar, smoothing it down over your shoulders. He tugged at the sleeves, checking the length. He ran his hand down your back, feeling the fit of the jacket across your shoulders.
"Turn," he said. You turned. He examined the back, the line of the trousers, the way they fell across your hips. He knelt, adjusting the hem, his fingers brushing against your ankle. The touch was electric, a deliberate intimacy that made your breath catch.
"Stand straight," he murmured. You straightened your spine. He rose, his eyes meeting yours in the mirror, and something flickered in their depths.
"Yes," he said. "This is you."
He did not mean the suit. You knew he did not mean the suit. He meant the person wearing it, the shape of you beneath the wool, the way the fabric followed the lines of your body like it had been made for you. He meant the version of you that existed in his mind, the one he had been sculpting since the day you met.
He stepped closer. His chest was almost against your back, his breath warm against your ear. He reached around you, adjusting the lapels, his fingers brushing against your collarbone.
"You have good bones," he said. "Strong shoulders. A frame that carries weight well. You are a canvas, and this suit is the first layer of paint."
"I'm not a painting," you said, but your voice came out rougher than you intended.
"You are," he said. "You are a work in progress. And I am the artist."
He stepped back. You felt the loss of his warmth immediately, the absence of his body against yours. He circled you again, his eyes tracing every seam, every fold, every shadow.
"The trousers need to be taken in," he said to the tailor. "Just a fraction at the waist. The jacket should sit higher on the shoulders." He looked at you in the mirror, his head tilted. "And we will need shirts. A few. White, pale blue, perhaps a charcoal stripe. You will wear them with this suit. You will wear them well."
He bought the suit. He bought the shirts. He bought a tie, a deep burgundy silk that he fastened around your neck himself, his fingers working the knot with the same precision he used to tie off a suture. He stepped back to admire the result, and his smile was small and satisfied.
"Dinner," he said. "Tonight. You will wear this."
You wore it. You stood in front of the mirror in his bedroom, adjusting the tie, smoothing the jacket, and you barely recognised yourself. The man in the mirror looked sharper, more dangerous, more like someone who belonged at Hannibal's side. The lines of the suit made your shoulders broader, your waist narrower, your jaw more defined. It was still you. But it was a version of you that had been refined, polished, shaped into something worthy of his attention.
He appeared in the doorway. He was wearing a three piece suit of his own, a deep charcoal that brought out the silver in his hair. He looked at you, and his eyes went dark, that particular shade of hunger that he usually reserved for his work.
"You are exquisite," he said. It was not a compliment. It was a statement of fact, delivered with the same certainty he used to diagnose a patient. He walked toward you, his steps slow and deliberate, and he stopped just inches away. His hand came up to adjust your tie, even though it was already perfect. His fingers lingered on the knot, tracing the silk with a tenderness that made your skin prickle.
"I have dressed many people," he said. "I have chosen clothes for many bodies. But I have never seen a suit so perfectly become the man wearing it." He met your eyes. "You are not just wearing this suit. You are inhabiting it. It is an extension of you. And you are beautiful."
You opened your mouth to respond, but he kissed you before you could speak. His lips were warm and firm, and his hand cupped the back of your head, threading through your hair. He kissed you like he was tasting you, savouring you, cataloguing every detail for later.
When he pulled back, his thumb traced your lower lip. "We will be late for dinner," he said, but he made no move to leave. He just stood there, looking at you, like you were the most exquisite thing he had ever created.
"I'm not a painting," you said again, but this time it was a whisper, a surrender.
He smiled. "No," he agreed. "You are something far more rare. You are a collaboration. And I am not finished with you yet."
He took your hand and led you out of the bedroom. The suit was perfect. The man inside it was perfect. And Hannibal Lecter, for all his hunger and his darkness, looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that had ever been worth creating.
Warnings: Mention of murder. It’s Hannibal, after all.
Summary: You cook a meal with Hannibal.
He invited you into his kitchen.
Not as a guest. Guests were served in the dining room, presented with plates that appeared like magic, never witnessing the alchemy that brought them into being. He invited you in as something else. Something rarer. He handed you an apron, a simple white one that matched his own, and he tied it around your waist with the same care he used to select a wine.
You had never been in here before. You had always been kept at a distance, watching through the doorway as he moved with that fluid, predatory grace, his hands a blur of precise motion. Now you were inside, standing at the counter, and he was showing you how to sear a cut of meat.
"Listen," he said, his voice low and close. "The sound tells you when it is ready."
He placed his hand over yours on the handle of the pan. His fingers were cool and dry, and they guided your wrist with the lightest pressure, tilting the pan just so. The meat hissed and crackled, and you could smell the butter browning, the rosemary releasing its oils into the hot fat.
"The heat should be high enough to create a crust," he said, "but not so high that the surface burns before the interior cooks. It requires patience. Attention. A willingness to trust the process."
You did not look away from the pan. You let him guide your hand, let him adjust your grip, let him stand so close that you could feel the warmth of his chest at your back.
"Good," he murmured. "You are a quick study."
He released your hand. You missed the weight of it immediately.
He directed you through the rest of the meal. You chopped shallots, his hand hovering over yours to correct your angle. You deglazed the pan with wine, the steam rising in a fragrant cloud. You reduced the sauce, stirring in butter and herbs until it thickened into something glossy and dark. He watched you with those dark, unblinking eyes, and every time you glanced at him, he was already looking.
When the meat was rested and the sauce was finished, he taught you how to plate.
Plating was an art form. He showed you how to place the protein at a slight angle, how to spoon the sauce in a deliberate arc, how to garnish with a sprig of thyme that looked like it had grown there on purpose. He adjusted the position of a single green bean, moving it a quarter inch to the left, and then stepped back to admire the result.
"Perfect," he said. "You have an instinct for it."
"It's just food," you said, but even as you said it, you knew it was not true.
He looked at you. His head tilted, just slightly, that birdlike gesture that meant he was dissecting something. "Is it?"
You did not answer. You could not. Because the way he was looking at you, the way he had guided your hands and praised your work, made you feel like you were the one being prepared for something. Like you were the dish being plated, being arranged, being made ready for consumption.
He set the plates on the table. He pulled out your chair. He poured the wine, a deep ruby red that caught the candlelight. He sat across from you, his posture perfect, his hands folded on the table.
"Taste it," he said. "Tell me what you think."
You lifted your fork. The meat was tender, perfectly cooked, the sauce rich and complex. It was the best thing you had ever eaten. It was also, you knew, not entirely what it appeared to be.
"It's incredible," you said. And you meant it.
Hannibal smiled. It was not his public smile, the one he used for dinner parties and colleagues. It was his private smile, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made him look almost human.
"I am glad," he said. "I wanted to share this with you."
"This" meant the meal. But it also meant the kitchen. It meant the trust. It meant the knowledge that he had let you see him in his most sacred space, had let you touch his tools and handle his ingredients, had let you participate in the ritual that he kept hidden from everyone else.
He was offering you something. He had been offering it for months, in a thousand small ways. The key to his house. The seat at his table. The truth about what he was. And now this.
You set down your fork. You met his eyes across the candlelit table.
"I don't know if I'm brave enough," you said. "For what you're offering."
He did not pretend to misunderstand. He did not deflect. He simply looked at you with that dark, patient gaze and said, "Bravery is not the absence of fear. It is the decision to proceed in spite of it. You are braver than you know."
"I'm a little scared of you."
"I know." He took a sip of his wine. "But you are still here. You have always been here. That is not nothing."
You looked down at your plate. The sauce glistened. The herbs were perfectly placed. It was beautiful. It was terrifying. It was everything.
"I want to stay," you said. "I want to keep being here. But I don't know how to be with you and pretend that I don't know what you are."
"Do not pretend," he said. "I would never ask you to. I only ask that you accept what you see. All of it. The good and the terrible."
"Are there good parts?"
He smiled again. That private, devastating smile. "There are. You are looking at one of them."
You chuckle. "Yeah, dumb question. Of course there are. I wouldn’t still be with you otherwise."
You reached across the table. Your hand found his. He turned his palm up, letting your fingers rest in his. His skin was warm, his grip steady, and he watched you with the same intensity he had used to watch the meat sear.
"Okay," you said. "I'll try."
He lifted your hand and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. His lips lingered, soft and warm, and he looked at you over your fingers with something that might have been reverence.
"That is all I ask," he said.
You finished your dinner. You helped him wash the dishes, standing side by side at the sink, your shoulders brushing in the candlelight. He did not let you dry. He took the plate from your hands and dried it himself, his motions deliberate and precise, as though he were performing a ritual.
And when you finally left, walking through the door of his house with the taste of his cooking still on your lips, you realised something.
You had just eaten a meal prepared with hands that had killed. You had let those hands guide yours. You had looked into the eyes of a monster and told him you would try.
Summary: You see Hannibal kill for the first time.
You knew what Hannibal was.
You had always known. It was not something he had told you explicitly, not in so many words. It was something he had shown you in a thousand small ways. The way he looked at certain people, like they were already dead and just hadn't realised it yet. The way he spoke about rudeness as though it were a capital offence. The way he handled his knives, with a reverence that bordered on religious.
You knew. You had always known.
But knowing and seeing were two different things.
You had come to his house unannounced. That was your first mistake. You had let yourself in with the key he had given you, because he had given you a key, because he trusted you, because you were the only person in the world who had ever been allowed inside his home without an invitation. That was your second mistake. You had called his name, soft and casual, expecting him to appear in the doorway with that perfect, placid smile.
He did not appear.
You walked through the house, your footsteps echoing on the polished floors. The kitchen was empty. The dining room was empty. The study was empty. The smell of something coppery and warm drifted through the air, and you followed it like a curious animal following the scent of blood.
You found him in the basement.
The basement was not a basement. It was a gallery. A temple. White walls, perfect lighting, and a man suspended from the ceiling like a piece of art. He was alive, barely, his chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged gasps. His face was a ruin of blood and bruises. His hands were bound above his head, his feet barely touching the floor.
And Hannibal stood in front of him, his back to you, his hands clean and his suit immaculate.
He was not wearing an apron. He was not wearing gloves. He was wearing his usual three piece suit, the one he had worn to dinner last night, the one that had brushed against your arm as he poured you wine. There was not a single speck of blood on him. That was the most terrifying part. He looked like a man who had just finished arranging flowers.
"Ah," he said, without turning around. "I was wondering when you would arrive."
You could not move. Your feet were rooted to the floor, your hands frozen at your sides. The man hanging from the ceiling made a wet, gurgling sound, and you realised with a distant sort of horror that his tongue had been removed.
You had seen Hannibal kill before. No. You had seen the aftermath. You had seen the news reports, the crime scene photos, the elaborate tableaus that the FBI called "the Chesapeake Ripper's work." You had always told yourself that it was different, somehow, that the man you knew could not possibly be the same man who did those things.
You had been wrong.
Hannibal turned. His face was serene. His eyes, those dark, unreadable eyes, found yours, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the ragged breathing of the man on the ceiling and the faint hum of the ventilation system.
"Would you like to know what he did?" Hannibal asked, his voice soft and conversational, as though he were discussing the weather.
You shook your head. You could not speak. Your throat was closed, your lungs tight.
"He was rude," Hannibal said. "To a waitress. He called her a name I will not repeat. He made her cry. He left without apologising, without tipping, without a single thought for the human being he had just humiliated." He tilted his head, studying you. "You do not approve."
It was not a question.
"I don't..." You stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. "I don't know what I approve."
"Then let me help you understand." He walked toward you, slow and unhurried, his footsteps silent on the concrete floor. He stopped a few feet away, close enough to touch, close enough to smell the faint trace of his cologne beneath the copper tang of blood. "I have never lied to you. I have never pretended to be something I am not. You have always known what I am. You have simply chosen not to look."
You looked now. You looked at the man on the ceiling, at the blood pooling on the floor, at the intricate, artistic precision of the wounds. You looked at the monster in the three piece suit, the monster who had made you breakfast and held your hand and listened to you talk about your day with the patience of a saint.
"I love you," you said. The words came out before you could stop them, ragged and raw and entirely wrong for the moment.
Hannibal's expression shifted. Something flickered in his eyes, something that might have been surprise, or wonder, or hunger. He stepped closer, his hand coming up to cup your face.
"You are not afraid of me," he said.
"I should be."
"Yes," he agreed. "You should be. And yet."
After finishing the job, quickly and efficiently, Hannibal kissed you. It was a soft kiss, almost tender, completely at odds with the horror behind him. His lips were warm and gentle, and you felt yourself leaning into him, your hands coming up to grip the lapels of his jacket.
When he pulled back, he looked at you with something that might have been reverence.
"I would never hurt you," he said. "You must believe that."
"I do." You did. That was the worst part. You believed him completely.
He smiled. It was a small, private smile, the kind he only ever gave you. He took your hand and led you away from the basement, up the stairs, back into the warm, elegant home you had entered an eternity ago.
"Stay for dinner," he said. "I was going to prepare something special. I think you will enjoy it."
You looked down at your hand in his. His fingers were long and elegant, the fingers of a surgeon, a pianist, a killer. They were warm. They were steady. They were holding yours like you were the most precious thing in the world.
"Okay," you said. "I'll stay."
He kissed your forehead, and you followed him into the kitchen, and you did not ask what was for dinner.
You already knew.
————
A/n: Can you tell I’ve been writing all day?? This is my… 4th?? Fic?? And I have some more that I wrote that I’ll upload in a bit. I have 3 more that I’m working on, they’ll be uploaded tomorrow so I have time to finish them. I’m exhausted, lol. But when you get into that flow you just can’t stop. The creative juices were flowing bro I’m locked tf in
Summary: You wake up to find Duncan after a nightmare, his gun pointed at you.
You woke to the sound of a gun cocking.
It was a small sound. Mechanical. A single metallic click that cut through the darkness of the cabin like a blade. Your eyes snapped open, your heart already hammering, and you found yourself staring at the silhouette of a man standing at the foot of the bed.
Duncan.
He was naked from the waist up, his torso a map of old scars and fresh stitches. The fire had burned down to embers, casting long shadows across his face, and in his right hand, he held his pistol. It was aimed directly at you.
He was breathing hard. Too hard. His chest rose and fell in ragged, uneven gasps, and his eyes were wide open but somehow not seeing you. He was somewhere else. In a different room. A different life. A different kill.
"Duncan." Your voice was soft. Steady. You didn't move. You kept your hands above the blanket, palms open, showing him they were empty. "Duncan, it's me."
He didn't respond. His finger rested on the trigger. His grip was white knuckled. Sweat ran down his temple and dripped onto his shoulder.
You had seen him like this before. But never this bad. But you knew the shape of it, the hollowed out look of a man fighting a war that had ended years ago. He was trapped in a memory. A nightmare that had crawled out of his skull and wrapped itself around his throat.
You said his name again. "Duncan."
Something flickered in his eyes. Recognition, maybe. Or just the ghost of it. His aim wavered, just a fraction, and you took that small shift as permission to keep going.
"You are in the cabin," you said. "In our bed. The fire is almost out. It's snowing outside. You came home yesterday. You were hurt, and I stitched you up, and you fell asleep in my lap. Do you remember?"
His breath hitched. A sound came out of him, low and broken, like an animal caught in a trap. The gun trembled in his hand.
"There is no one else here," you said. "Only me. Only you. You are safe."
The word safe seemed to hit him like a physical blow. His face crumpled, just for a second, before he forced it back into that familiar, stony mask. But you had seen it. That crack was enough.
"Come back to me," you whispered. "Please. Come back."
The gun dropped.
It hit the wooden floor with a heavy thunk, and Duncan stared at it like he had never seen it before. His hands hung limp at his sides. His whole body was shaking now, fine tremors running through his shoulders and down his arms.
Then his knees buckled.
He went down hard, landing on the floor with a thud that made you wince. He didn't try to catch himself. He just folded, collapsing into himself like a house of cards, and when you scrambled out of bed and knelt in front of him, he wouldn't look at you.
"Don't," he said. His voice was raw. Hoarse. "Don't come near me."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"I could have killed you." He was staring at his hands now, turning them over like they belonged to a stranger. "I had the gun on you. I had my finger on the trigger. I could have..."
"But you didn't."
"I saw someone else. In my head. I saw his face. I saw what I did to him." His voice cracked on the last word. "And you were just laying there. And I couldn't tell the difference."
You reached for him. He flinched away. So you sat back on your heels and waited. You had learned, in the months you had been together, that Duncan Vizla could not be forced. He could only be met. He had to walk toward you on his own.
The fire popped and hissed in the hearth. The wind rattled the windows. And in the darkness, surrounded by the ghosts of his past, Duncan finally broke.
A sound came out of him. Not a sob, exactly. Something deeper and more terrible, a raw, wounded noise that seemed to come from the very bottom of his chest. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, and his shoulders shook, and you watched the deadliest man on earth fall apart on the cabin floor.
You didn't move. You stayed exactly where you were, a few feet away, close enough to reach but far enough to let him choose.
He chose.
His hands dropped from his face. His eyes were red rimmed and wet, and he looked at you with an expression so naked, so utterly unguarded, that it stole the breath from your lungs. He looked like a man drowning. Like a man who had been drowning for years and had only just realized that someone was standing on the shore.
"I don't know how to do this," he said. His voice was barely a whisper. "I don't know how to be this. With you. I keep waiting for you to leave. I keep waiting for you to see what I really am and run."
"I see you," you said. "I see all of it. And I'm still here."
His face crumpled again. He reached for you, clumsy and desperate, and you caught him. You pulled him into your arms, and he buried his face in the crook of your neck, and his whole body shook with the effort of holding himself together.
You held him. You held him tight, your hands pressed flat against his scarred back, your heartbeat steady against his frantic one. You rocked him, just a little, like you would rock a child or a wounded animal.
"I've got you," you murmured into his hair. "I've got you. You're okay. You're not there anymore. You're here. You're with me."
He clung to you. His fingers dug into the fabric of your shirt like you were the only solid thing in a world that kept shifting beneath his feet. His breathing was ragged, wet, uneven, but it was slowing. Little by little, the tremors subsided. His grip loosened. His body went heavy against yours.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I'm so sorry."
"You have nothing to be sorry for."
"I woke you up. I scared you."
"You didn't scare me." You pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. His face was blotchy and wrecked, and he was still shaking, but he was there. He was back. "You scared yourself. That's different."
He let out a breath, something between a laugh and a sob. He leaned his forehead against yours, and you let him, letting him take the comfort he would never ask for.
"We should get back in bed," you said. "It's cold down here."
He made a small sound of agreement, but he didn't move. He just stayed there, forehead to forehead, breathing you in like you were the only clean air in a room full of smoke.
"I love you," he said. The words were so quiet you almost missed them. He had never said them before. Not like this. Not with his walls down.
You pulled back and looked at him. His eyes were closed, his jaw tight, like he was bracing for you to throw it back in his face.
You cupped his cheek. His stubble was rough against your palm.
"I love you too," you said. "Now get in the damn bed."
He laughed. It was broken, but it was real. He let you help him to his feet, and he let you guide him back to the mattress, and he let you wrap yourself around him like a shield.
The gun stayed on the floor where he had dropped it. Neither of you picked it up.
Outside, the snow kept falling, soft and silent, covering the world in white. And inside, in the warmth of the cabin, Duncan Vizla finally let himself be held.
He slept through the rest of the night. No nightmares came.
He had you now.
————
A/n: The second fic of my little writing frenzy. I love writing Duncan, he’s one of my favorite characters played by Mads :)
Along with Hannibal and Le Chiffre. They hold a special place in my heart.
Summary: Duncan comes back to the cabin after a job gone wrong.
The door to the cabin opened wrong.
You knew it before you even looked up. Duncan always opened the door with a specific rhythm: a hard shove, a pause to kick the snow off his boots, then a low grunt as he hauled whatever supplies he'd brought inside. But this time, the door swung open too slowly, too heavy, and it didn't close all the way behind him.
You were on your feet before the draft hit you.
He stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the white expanse of snow and grey sky. His black coat was darker in patches. Wet, you thought at first. Then the firelight caught the sheen of it, and you realized it was blood. A lot of it. His left hand was pressed against his side, fingers curled tight, and his face was the colour of old parchment.
He looked at you. His eyes were glassy, unfocused.
"Don't," he said. His voice was a rasp, barely audible over the wind. "Don't make a fuss."
You were already crossing the room. You didn't run, because running would have made him stubborn. You walked with the steady, deliberate calm of someone who had learned that panic was a luxury neither of you could afford. You reached him, took his weight, and guided him inside. His good hand clamped down on your shoulder, and he was heavy, so much heavier than he looked, a dead weight of muscle and bone barely holding itself upright.
"You're bleeding through my floor," you said. It was a stupid thing to say. You couldn't help it.
He huffed something that might have been a laugh. It turned into a wince.
You got him to the kitchen chair. It was the only chair in the cabin that could support his weight without wobbling. He collapsed into it, head lolling back, jaw tight with pain. The hand pressed to his side came away slick and dark, and you could see the tear in his coat, the shredded fabric of his shirt beneath. A knife wound. Deep. Angry. Too close to his ribs.
"Let me see it," you said.
"No."
"Duncan."
He met your eyes. For a moment, he was still the Black Kaiser, still the man who had survived a hundred ambushes and a thousand bullet wounds. That cold, guarded mask slid over his features. He was going to refuse. He was going to bleed out on your kitchen floor just to prove he didn't need help.
Then his mask cracked. Just a little. His shoulders sagged, and he let out a long, shuddering breath.
"Fine," he said. "Fine. But don't look at me like that."
You didn't ask what "like that" meant. You just grabbed your first aid kit from under the sink, the big one with the industrial grade supplies, and got to work.
The wound was ugly. The knife had gone in deep, just below his ribs, angled upward. A professional strike. Someone had wanted him dead. You bit the inside of your cheek and cleaned it with careful, methodical precision. He didn't flinch. He stared at the far wall, his jaw so tight you could see the tendons in his neck, but he didn't make a sound. He never made a sound.
You stitched him up with the same steady hands you used to repair his coats and mend his shirts. You threaded the needle, pulled the skin together, tied off each knot with a practiced economy. He watched you out of the corner of his eye. His pupils were blown wide, more from adrenaline than blood loss, but the bleeding had slowed. You were winning.
When you finished, you wrapped his torso in clean gauze and taped it down. Your hands were stained red to the wrists. You didn't care.
"Stay there," you said. "I'm making tea. You need sugar. You need to sit still for at least an hour."
He didn't argue. That was how you knew he was really hurt. He just leaned back in the chair, closed his eyes, and let his head rest against the wall. His breathing was shallow, but it was steady. You put a kettle on the stove, your back to him, and tried to stop your hands from shaking.
The kettle boiled. You made the tea. You put a spoonful of honey in his cup, the way he liked it, and placed it in front of him. He opened his eyes and looked at it like he'd never seen anything so complicated.
"Drink," you said. "I'm not arguing with you."
He picked up the cup. His fingers were still trembling. He took a sip, then another, and some of the colour came back to his face. You sat on the floor beside his chair, not touching him, just present. The fire crackled. The wind howled. The blood dried on your hands.
"I thought I wasn't coming back this time."
His voice was so quiet you almost missed it. He wasn't looking at you. He was staring into his tea like it held the answers to every question he'd ever asked.
You didn't answer. You couldn't.
He set the cup down. His hand, the one that had held the gun and the knife and the lives of so many men, reached down and found yours. His grip was weak. That terrified you more than the wound ever could.
"I thought about you," he said. "In the middle of it. When he had the blade against my throat, I thought about you sitting here. Waiting. I thought about you not knowing."
"Don't," you said, your voice cracking despite yourself. "Don't do that. Don't think like that."
"Someone has to." A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "I'm the one who does the thinking in this relationship. That's the deal."
You laughed. It came out wet and broken, and you hated it, but you couldn't help it. He squeezed your hand, and you squeezed back, and for a long moment, neither of you said anything.
Then he shifted. He was trying to get down on the floor with you. You opened your mouth to protest, but he silenced you with a look, that old, stubborn, impossible look that said he would crawl across broken glass just to prove he still could. He slid down from the chair, heavily, painfully, and sat on the floor beside you. His back was against the cabinet, his injured side was protected, and his head fell forward onto your shoulder.
You wrapped your arms around him. He didn't resist. He just let himself be held, this man who had never let anyone hold him, and he breathed against your neck in slow, shaky rhythms.
"I'm here," you whispered. "You're here. You came back."
"Told you I would."
"You didn't tell me anything. You just bled all over the floor and told me not to make a fuss."
A low, rumbling laugh vibrated against your collarbone. It hurt him, you could tell, but he didn't stop.
"Next time," he said, "I'll bleed on the rug. It's easier to clean."
You pressed your lips to his hair. His hair was still cold from the snow outside, and it smelled like iron and smoke. You didn't let go.
Outside, the snow fell harder. The fire burned low. And Duncan Vizla, the deadliest man in the northern hemisphere, stayed in your arms until his breathing evened out and his grip on your hand finally loosened into sleep.
He came back.
That was all that mattered.
————
A/n: I wrote a few fics just now, so I’m just gonna upload them back-to-back. One more Duncan and 4 Hannibal!!
(Old fic I wrote this almost a year ago it may suck lol)
Hannibal Lecter x gn reader
Tags: Fluff
Warnings: Murder, violence, a single mention of suicide.
Summary: The Chesapeake Ripper has been treading on your territory. But after a nice dinner, you decide you’ll be working together from now on.
Reader is gn but wears a suit!!
The Chesapeake Ripper was a skilled killer, to say the least. Someone not easily unmasked, whom the FBI had been chasing for far too long now without any concrete evidence as to who it could be. Of course, Hannibal took great care to not get caught. But you knew better. You had spent several years tracking him, matching his patterns, studying his art. You understood him in ways Jack Crawford and his team never could. You had a certain… fascination, for his work. You were not so different from him, after all.
Your own work was quieter, less of a spectacle. A disappearance here, a tragic accident there. You operated quietly and effectively, a fixer for those who could afford to make problems vanish. The bodies you left behind were never found, never mourned. You were a ghost in your own right, never caught, never suspected.
But Hannibal Lecter had been stepping on your territory. Two of your clients had gone missing, their bodies eventually discovered in grotesque tableaus that made the front page of every newspaper in Baltimore. The Ripper was sending a message, you realized. He knew about you. He was challenging you. You should have been furious, but instead… you were intrigued.
The invitation arrived on a Thursday. Cream colored card stock, elegant script, no return address. It simply said: "Dr. Hannibal Lecter requests the pleasure of your company for dinner. Saturday, eight o'clock." On the back it said his address: 50 Lowther Avenue, Baltimore, MD.
You smiled. The audacity was breathtaking.
You spent the next two days preparing. You researched him obsessively, reading every article, every psychiatric paper he had ever published. You studied photographs of his face, the way he held himself, any tells you could find to see if he’s uncomfortable, or lying, or anything else that makes him vulnerable. Though, you couldn’t find any. He presented himself as a masterpiece of control.
——
Saturday arrived with a chill in the air. You dressed carefully, choosing a deep burgundy suit that had been tailor made especially for you. You wanted him to see you as an equal, not a conquest. You drove to his house, a beautiful Victorian nestled in the heart of Baltimore, and paused at the door. Then, you knocked twice.
The man who opened the door was even more striking in person. Tall, broad shouldered, with eyes that seemed to see straight through you. His smile was warm, practiced, and entirely false.
"Please, come in," he said, stepping aside. "I was beginning to wonder if you would accept my invitation."
You walked past him, taking in the foyer with calculated disinterest. The house was impeccable, every surface gleaming, every piece of art carefully chosen. It was a museum dedicated to the man himself.
"I was curious," you replied, turning to face him. "It's not every day I receive a dinner invitation from a complete stranger."
Hannibal's smile widened. "Are we strangers? I think we have known each other for quite some time, in a manner of speaking." He gestured toward the dining room, and you followed him. The table was set for two, fine china and crystal gleaming in the candlelight. A bottle of wine sat breathing on the sideboard.
"I hope you don't mind," he said, pulling out a chair for you. "I took the liberty of preparing a special menu. I find that food is the most honest form of communication."
You sat, watching him pour two glasses of deep red wine. "And what are you trying to communicate?"
Hannibal took his seat across from you, his movements fluid and precise. "That I value precision. That I appreciate the art of a well executed plan. That I recognize a kindred spirit when I see one."
The first course arrived, a delicate arrangement of oysters and caviar. You took a bite, savoring the briny sweetness. It was exquisite.
"Your reputation precedes you," you said carefully. "I've heard you're quite skilled at... understanding people."
"I am a psychiatrist," he replied, his eyes never leaving yours. "Understanding people is my profession. But I find that some people require a different kind of understanding. A deeper connection."
You set down your fork. "Is that what this is? A connection?"
Hannibal leaned forward slightly. "You've been following my work. You know what I am. And yet you came here tonight, alone, unarmed. That takes a certain kind of courage. Or perhaps a certain kind of curiosity."
You felt a thrill run down your spine. He knew. Of course he knew. This was never a simple dinner invitation. Not that you had thought it was.
"I came because I wanted to meet the man who has been ruining my… business," you said flatly. "Two of my clients have turned up dead in the last month. That's bad for word of mouth."
Hannibal's expression didn't change. "Your clients were... unsatisfactory. They lacked vision. They were using your services to escape consequences they had earned. I simply corrected the balance."
"By killing them? By displaying their bodies in a church?"
"By elevating them," he corrected gently. "Their deaths were art. They became something beautiful, something meaningful. Something they never could have achieved in life."
You stared at him, trying to find the lie in his eyes. There was none. He believed every word he was saying. You should have been disgusted. Offended, maybe. But instead, you felt a strange sense of recognition.
The second course arrived, a perfectly seared lamb with a reduction sauce. You ate in silence, considering your next move. He had laid his cards on the table, or at least enough of them to make his position clear. Now it was your turn.
"I understand your work," you said finally. "I've studied it extensively. The detail, the precision, the theatricality. It's impressive, really. But it's also reckless."
Hannibal raised an eyebrow. "Reckless?"
"You leave too many clues. You play games with the FBI. You want to be caught, or at least you want to be seen. That's dangerous for someone who operates in the shadows."
"Are you offering me advice?"
"I'm offering you a choice," you said, leaning forward. "We can continue this dance. You kill my clients, I interfere with your work. Eventually, one of us will make a mistake, and that will be the end. Or..."
"Or?"
"Or we could find a different arrangement. One that benefits us both."
Hannibal sat back in his chair, studying you with renewed interest. "What exactly are you proposing?"
You took a sip of your wine, letting the moment stretch. "I have information that could be useful to you. Potential targets. Resources. Connections. In exchange, you stay out of my territory, and you make yourself available for certain... collaborations."
"Collaborations," he repeated, tasting the word. "You make it sound so clinical."
"It's business," you said simply. "Nothing more."
But even as you said it, you knew it was a lie. There was something electric in the air between you, a tension that had nothing to do with business. He was the first person in years who had seen you clearly, who had recognized the darkness you carried. It was terrifying. It was intoxicating.
"I should be going," you said, rising from your chair. "It's getting late."
Hannibal walked you to the door, his hand resting lightly on the small of your back. The touch burned through the fabric of your suit.
"I look forward to our next meeting," he said softly. "We have so much to discuss."
You turned to face him, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his eyes. "I'm sure we do."
The drive home was a blur. Your mind was racing, replaying every word, every gesture. You had gone to his house expecting a confrontation, a battle of wits. Instead, you had found something far more dangerous.
An equal.
——
The weeks that followed were a study in anticipation. Hannibal called you regularly, his voice smooth and unhurried on the phone. He invited you to dinner again, and then again. Each time, the conversation grew more intimate, more revealing. He spoke of his childhood in Lithuania, the loss of his sister, the darkness that had shaped him. You shared your own secrets, though carefully curated. Always holding something back.
But he knew. You could see it in his eyes, the way he watched you. He was waiting for you to drop your mask completely.
The first collaboration came in the form of a man named Theodore.
"His name is Theodore Littleton," Hannibal said, pouring you a glass of wine in his study. "He's a financier. He preys on vulnerable women, promising them investment opportunities and then stealing their life savings. Three of his victims have committed suicide."
You studied the photograph he handed you. Theodore was unremarkable, a bland faced man in an expensive suit. "What do you want me to do?"
"I want you to help me make him disappear," Hannibal replied. "He's been... difficult. My usual methods would attract too much attention. But you have resources I don't."
You felt a familiar thrill. This was what you had been waiting for. A chance to prove yourself worthy of his partnership.
"Consider it done," you said.
The plan came together quickly. Theodore was a businessman, a sucker for riches, and you were nothing if not adaptable. You arranged a meeting at Hannibal’s home, playing the part of a wealthy man looking for financial advice. Theodore was eager, and completely oblivious.
You led him to the living room, and then you called Hannibal.
He arrived within seconds, moving with the silent grace of a predator. Theodore barely had time to register the new presence before Hannibal was behind him, a blade pressed to his throat.
"Please," Theodore whimpered. "I have money. I can pay you."
"Money is not what I want," Hannibal murmured. "I want your fear. I want your suffering. I want to watch the life drain from your eyes."
You watched, transfixed, as Hannibal worked. It was clinical, precise, and horrifically beautiful. Theodore's final moments were certainly not lacking of terror and pain.
When it was over, Hannibal turned to you, his hands stained with blood. "Well?"
You stepped forward, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body. "I think you're magnificent."
The kiss was inevitable. It was desperate and hungry, months of tension finally exploding between you. His hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer. You tasted copper on his lips, from the blood splatter that came from Theodore’s throat mere seconds ago.
"Tonight," he breathed against your mouth. "Stay with me.”
And of course, you didn't argue.
——
The months that followed were a blur of blood and passion. You became inseparable, a partnership built on both violence and desire. You worked together, killing the wicked and the undeserving, leaving behind works of art that baffled the FBI. Jack Crawford grew increasingly frustrated, his team unable to make any progress on the Ripper case. And surprisingly, they hadn’t figured out that the Ripper didn’t work alone anymore.
Through it all, you and Hannibal danced around each other, sharing beds and sometimes secrets, but never quite giving everything.
You knew he was holding something back. There was a part of him that remained untouchable, a core of darkness that even you couldn't reach. It both infuriated and fascinated you.
"You're afraid," you said one night, lying in his bed. "Not of being caught. Of letting someone truly know you."
Hannibal was silent for a long moment. Then he turned to face you, his expression unreadable.
"And what if I let you know me?" he asked quietly. "What would you do with that knowledge?"
"I would cherish it," you replied. "I would keep it safe."
He reached out, tracing the line of your jaw with his fingers. "You're dangerous, you know that? More dangerous than anyone else I’ve met."
"I know," you said, smiling. "That's why you love me."
And Hannibal didn't deny it.
————————
A/n: Part 2? Maybe?
This one is pretty old, I think I wrote it almost a year ago? But I wanted to post it here anyway. So if I write a part 2, maybe the style will be a bit different. Idk, lol. I hope it was okay. I think you can really start to see when I get out of that flow state, this one started off really nice but then it got a bit… mechanical? Like I was writing on autopilot. Which I do a lot tbh… Eh, whatever. I just need to get out of writer’s block, that’s half the reason I started this blog lol
Summary: The Black Kaiser has spent a lifetime being a weapon. In the quiet of his cabin, with the snow piling up outside, he finally lets himself be something else.
The cabin was quiet.
That was the first thing you noticed when you let yourself in, stamping the snow off your boots and hanging your coat on the hook by the door. The fire was still crackling in the hearth; Duncan always kept it going, sometimes even when he wasn't home if he wouldn’t be out long. But the man himself was conspicuously absent from his usual spot on the worn leather couch.
You frowned, scanning the room. His rifle was propped in the corner, untouched. His boots were by the door. His black cowboy hat hung on its peg. He was here, somewhere.
"Duncan?"
…No answer.
You padded through the cabin, past the kitchen, past the small bedroom with its rumpled sheets, until you reached the back corner, the one he'd turned into a reading nook. The one with the massive, fur-lined blanket you'd bought him last winter, the one he said was "too soft for a man like him." He had grumbled about it for a week. But he hadn't taken it off the couch since.
And there he was.
Duncan Vizla: The Black Kaiser, the most dangerous assassin in the northern hemisphere, the man who had walked through a hail of bullets and emerged with nothing but a few scars and an annoyed scowl, was curled up on the floor.
He had dragged the blanket down from the couch and arranged it into a nest. A messy, lopsided nest of faux fur and wool. And he was lying in the middle of it, knees tucked up to his chest, eyes half-closed, looking smaller than you had ever seen him.
Your heart clenched.
You lowered yourself to the floor slowly, giving him time to register your presence. His eyes flicked to you. Those pale, watchful eyes that could dissect a room in seconds… but instead of the usual guarded alertness, there was something else. Something vulnerable. Sleepy.
"Hey, kitty," you murmured, keeping your voice low.
His brow furrowed, but he didn't correct you. He never corrected you anymore. That first time, three months ago, when you'd called him that by accident, he'd given you a long, flat stare and said, "I have killed more men than you have had hot meals." You'd apologized, but the next time you said it, he'd just... hummed. And the time after that, he'd leaned into your hand.
Now, he just blinked slowly, his eyelashes casting shadows on his sharp cheekbones.
You reached out and ran your fingers through his hair. It was thick and a little greasy, he hadn't showered today. That was fine. You didn't care. He leaned into the touch, his head tilting to the side like a cat pressing into a sunbeam.
"There you are," you whispered. "There you are, baby."
A sound escaped his throat. It was barely audible, more a vibration than a noise, but you felt it in your chest. He was purring. Or at least, as close as a human can get. A low, rumbling hum that vibrated through his whole body, a sound so incongruent with the man who once snapped a man's neck with his bare hands that it made your eyes sting.
He shifted, and the movement revealed the small, frayed piece of fabric clutched in his hand. It was the old t-shirt you'd worn to bed last week—the one he'd stolen from the laundry pile and pretended he hadn't.
You bit your lip to keep from cooing.
"Are you sleepy?" you asked softly. "Or do you want pets?"
He made another sound, a tiny, wordless hum, and nudged his head against your palm.
Pets, then.
You settled onto the floor beside his nest, crossing your legs, and he immediately curled into your lap. He weighed more than a cat, obviously. A solid, heavy weight of muscle and bone, but he arranged himself with a kitten's instinct: tucking his head under your hand, draping his arm across your thigh, letting his feet dangle awkwardly because he was just too long to fit properly.
You scratched behind his ear, and his purring noises intensified.
"Good boy," you murmured. "Such a good boy."
His eyelids fluttered. He was fighting it. The man could fight anything, that was the tragedy of him, but he was losing. The fire crackled. The wind howled outside the cabin walls. And in your lap, the world's deadliest assassin made a soft, quiet sound of contentment and closed his eyes.
You watched him for a long moment. The harsh angles of his face softened in the firelight. His mouth, usually set in a grim line, had relaxed into something almost peaceful. His hand, the one that had killed so many, was loosely fisted in the fabric of your shirt, holding on like he was afraid you'd vanish.
You didn't move. You just kept stroking his hair, tracing the shell of his ear, gently scratching the stubbled curve of his jaw.
He let out a breath. And then, very quietly, he made a small meowing sound.
It was tiny. Accidental, barely escaping his throat. He was asleep. Actually asleep, his breathing deep and even, and the noise had slipped out without his permission.
You pressed your lips together to hold in the overwhelming wave of love threatening to spill out of you.
"Sleep," you whispered. "I've got you. No one's coming. No one's getting past me."
He shifted, burrowing deeper into your lap, and his purring picked up again, a rumbly noise of pure, unguarded peace.
The cabin was quiet. The snow fell outside. And Duncan Vizla, the man who had survived a lifetime of violence, was just a sleepy kitten in his partner's arms.
You leaned your head back against the wall and closed your eyes, one hand still buried in his hair, the other resting on the curve of his shoulder. You stayed like that until the fire burned down to embers, and the snow piled higher against the windows, and the world outside ceased to exist.
You fell asleep with him, right there. No nightmares plagued him tonight, and the next morning, he was sure to wake up well-rested for once.
