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addicted-to-the-knife · 3 hours

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I've come to realise that there are two ways people mischaracterise Will. (NBC Hannibal, specifically)

One being the "uwu innocent babygirl who was manipulated into doing bad things by the big bad Hannibal". And the other being the polar opposite of it, where even his better qualities are turned into something that signify how "evil" he truly is.

Where is the nuance?

Will Graham is a complex character with many different aspects about himself that don't cancel each other out.

He's not a good person. We know that. We should know that. The show has been very clear about that. But he's also not entirely bad either. People rarely are entirely good or bad. I'd argue that nobody is ever just one or the other.

It's not all black and white. And taking moments of his genuine goodness and turning them into something they're not just to prove the point that he's not a good, innocent little baby like some people believe, is just as wrong.

His empathy and compassion are not a lie. He's empathic to a fault. He has true compassion for others; especially those that are weak and vulnerable and are victimised by others or themselves or failed by the system. He genuinely wants to help them.

Of course he's doing that for his own gain. One could argue that his motivation is selfish, since he could not live with the guilt of lives not saved or letting victims be even more victimised. So, he helps in order to make himself feel better. He also helps others in an attempt to prove to himself that he's not as bad as he fears he is (especially in season 1).

To say that because his reasons for helping are selfish and only for his own gain, whatever that may be at times, make him a bad person and that he's actively preying on the vulnerable for it, is such a huge misunderstanding to me. Helping people is seldom a completely selfless act. Most people do it to get something in return; even if that something is simple acknowledgement and recognition for having done something good. The motivation behind it shouldn't matter as much if people are being helped in a genuine way that is good for them.

And to take Abigail as an example for his "true predatory and manipulative ways" is also not the way to go. He was genuine with Abigail. His killing of her father triggered such unbearable guilt within him that he reacted irrationally and tried to forcefully insert himself into her life and replace her father in order to minimise the guilt and make up for what he's done to Abigail. His intentions weren't bad, but they were selfish. He didn't manipulate her, though, nor was he preying on her vulnerability. He did genuinely care about Abigail (or rather, an image of her that his guilt produced), too much one could argue, and he acted irrationally and selfishly; because (re)actions fuelled by strong emotions are always irrational.

He was also very genuine about helping and caring about Georgia and Peter, for example. Especially Peter is a good example because that was at the beginning of the honeytrap. By some people's logic, he shouldn't have a single reason to care about Peter and be a friend to him, and he should have only been getting close to him to manipulate him. But that's not what happened. Will saw himself in Peter and he wanted to prevent from what eventually happened to happen at all. He genuinely wanted to help Peter out of his situation and come away as unscathed as possible.

Also, let's not forget that he had no reason to put on a facade with Bedelia in the second half of season 3. When he says, during their session, that his first instinct is to help a wounded bird, he wasn't lying or putting up an act. He was being genuine. His empathy and compassion for the weak and vulnerable is real. He wants to help. And he'd much rather hurt whoever has wounded the bird in the scenario. Bedelia even admits that her first instinct is to crush a weakened animal. Neither of them saw a reason to lie to the other.

When Will kills people, he feels righteous. He kills people that "had it coming". They deserve it, in his mind, for having hurt and/or killed others.

He's manipulative, yes, but from what we know and have seen, that is pretty exclusive to people in power, like Hannibal, or Jack. He doesn't manipulate a weakened person. (The only example that is iffy on either side is with Chiyoh, maybe. It shows that he's no better than Hannibal; even if he still wanted to believe that about himself at the time. He forced Chiyoh to kill because he was curious and he manipulated everything around that for it to happen. But again, Chiyoh isn't a weak or vulnerable person; especially not in Will's mind.)

By no means is Will a good person or innocent. And Hannibal didn't make him a killer. That was already inside him and all Hannibal did was to let that beast loose. And Will likes it. He likes how powerful he feels, and he likes the rawness of it all. And yet he doesn't use that against people that are already victims.

The fact that Will isn't a good person does not negate that he's empathic and compassionate and that he has a genuine want to help others. Because those things alone don't make you a good person. Those qualities can be true and exist, just like his enjoyment of killing and having power over others do. At the same time. They don't cancel each other out. That's exactly what makes him such an interesting and complex character.

#also the whole thing with (stray) dogs & animals in general... like. that's such a huge aspect of who he is and his genuine goodness within #oh and! the thought that empathy and compassion are what make you a good person and since Will is a 'bad' person-#-those qualities in him cannot be real or genuine is rooted in ableism lol i'm not even kidding #like idk y'all... maybe we should just agree that Will is complex and that he's neither all good or all bad. just like most people...#will graham #nbc hannibal #hannibal meta

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daisies-on-a-cup · 9 months

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killer!will au where every dog in his pack represents a person he has killed and slowly but surely it expands every year and people just see him as this like crazy dog hoarder but he takes such good care of the animals and he definitely has the space/property to ensure they get proper exercise and he names them and calls after them all so lovingly that no one reports him or thinks anything more of it other than he constantly smells like dog hair until the day he is put into hannibal lecter's vicinity and the scent of blood, fresh organs, and viscera are so clearly stained into will's being that hannibal can't help but take particular notice

when asked about that particular scent about him, will tonelessly says he feeds his dogs a completely raw and fresh diet, sourced locally of course. it adds a certain shine to their coats, don't you think, dr.lecter?

hannibal can only smile and offer his own butcher's selection of meats should will ever need more to feed his ever-growing pack

#will graham #nbc hannibal #hannibal lecter #killer!will #idk this suddenly came to me and i think it would be a really fun way to explore exactly how much of each person will carries with him #hobbs stayed with him for years- so so long and he tried to father his orphaned daughter the impression was so strong #naming the strays he picks up after the people he's killed keeps them in a certain circle with will... he can take care of them and control #them at the same time- their well being depends entirely upon him and him alone and there's a certain pride #in maintaining what's yours isn't there?#would be a great little tidbit to how easily will's dogs ate the offered pieces of mason's face- they are already familiar with the #taste of human flesh

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ssaseaprince · 9 months

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Thinking about how if Will had died before Hannibal and Hannibal had attempted to live without him, he would have eventually rescued a stray dog.

#granted i do think in most situations Hannibal wouldve just killed himself if Will died #But if he didnt right away #i think he wouldve eventually stumbled across a starving stray dog #and he wouldve tried to ignore it - maybe even drove away and gone home without picking it up #but he wouldn't be able to stop thinking about it and obsessing and eventually he would have to go back and rescue it #he would make it homemade food like Will did for his dogs #and he would talk to it and tell it all about Will and how the dog reminded him of the other man #he would give it a name that reminded him of Will #He would be really strict about training and taught it a lot of commands and refused to let it ok the furniture #but sometimes at night he would let it curl up in bed with him and he would pet its fur and dream of Will #He would give it table scraps all the time and feed it parts of his kills and buy it fancy sweaters and collars #hannibal #nbc hannibal #will graham #hannibal lecter #hannibal nbc #hannigram #hannibal and will #hannibal headcanons #hannibal x will

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quietplaceinthestars · 1 year

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No offense but if someone came into my house and fed my dogs without asking and then started messing with and working on a project i had I’d freak out a little

#hannibal #also wills hobbies relate to luring. catching. snaring even #he coax’s strays and keeps them. he fishes and makes his own lures #cmon.

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lesbian-hannibal · 1 year

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god seeing will with all his dogs makes me SO SAD

#he deserved to live happily ever after with his pack of strays #maybe with hannibal too

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allenshead · 25 days

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I feel like Will would kinda pull his gun out at any opportunity.

Imagine Will brings home a stray and Hannibal is like : "Im sorry my dear but we already have 20- " And then Wil just points his Gun at him. I mean hannibal would fold. like instantly

#hannibal #nbc hannibal #hannigram #hannibal lecter #hannibal nbc #mads mikkelsen #hugh dancy #will graham #murder husbands

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ficnation · 7 months

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Chapter 1: Dig In

Series: “Eat Your Heart Out” Pairing: Hannibal Lecter x Female! Reader x Will Graham Word count: 4,6k+ Warnings: canon-typical warnings

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Will Graham hasn’t seen you in years—years that felt like centuries to him. When you greet him, your voice is like a songbird’s serenade—sweet, peaceful, and meant only for his ears. It was a melody he missed dearly yet never dared to summon in his mind, even as the memories of you bled into his dreams.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, voice breaking at the last word. The question is not hostile, but it’s not friendly either. He knows you didn’t expect him to greet you like an old friend would. You know him too well for that—or at least you knew him before Hannibal Lecter barged into his life.

A smile crawls up your face, but it never reaches your eyes. You came here because you know, you know someone’s version of the story. But you crave to see the truth—to find out exactly what happened—and you know that Will is the only person who can provide you with the answers you’re looking for.

Jack Crawford raises his hand, his palm facing Will in a silent greeting—almost a peace offer. He keeps his distance as he lifts your suitcases out of the trunk of his car. He’s the one that called you, told you everything you needed to know, how Will lost his mind, how he keeps insisting that an innocent man—someone he considered a friend—is the Chesapeake Ripper.

Will can’t help but snicker at the thought of how this conversation went. You don’t seem bothered by the change in his expression—you hardly ever were, and he was always surprised by your unflappable composure.

“I’m going to stay with you, Will.” It’s not a question nor a suggestion fueled by concern over his well-being. It’s a declaration, and he has absolutely no say in this matter. Jack Crawford has already made that decision for him, and Will is in no position to object—he’s well aware of it.

Will nods and gesticulates to the door of his house. It’s a reluctant invitation forced out of him by his boss’ incessant gaze.

You don’t let him think about it for much longer, fearing he’ll withdraw the offer. You walk up the stairs of the porch and cross the doorstep. The inside is no warmer than the bitter winter on the other side of the door. You shiver slightly, wrapping your arms around yourself for heat.

A flock of dogs runs up to you, wagging their tails in excitement. Some of them you’ve already met before, and some of them seem like recent additions to Will’s collection of strays. You pat each dog on the head as you take off your boots by the entrance. You note that you no longer feel like you are just another stray Will has taken into his home.

The warmth of the friendly dogs quickly makes you forget how much you don’t belong here; you enjoy their company for a moment before reluctantly moving on to explore the room.

Not much has changed since the last time you were here. Will’s bed is still in the room, and you remember the time he confessed to you that it makes him feel more aware of his surroundings—gives him a sparse flicker of safety. He has easy access to the windows overlooking the outside, and he hears whenever someone walks up the stairs to his porch. It’s a small shred of comfort to cling to in the midst of his torment—you understand his reasoning.

The fireplace is the same one you used to warm up in front of every morning when you slept over—just surrounded by more dog beds than before. The old, simple in their design but surprisingly comfortable armchairs stand in their designated spots. Dog toys litter the carpeted floor, while books and familiar trinkets overwhelm the shelves, though if you look more closely, you find new additions mixed in with the old.

“Nothing has changed,” you say to yourself and the chill air of the room. You don’t hear Will’s footsteps as he joins you in the heart of his house.

“I did.” His words make your head whip around to face him, your eyes finding his. There’s a certain darkness in his statement—one you recognize.

The brown curls on his head frame his face in an untamed mess. He’s beautiful, and you find yourself still affected by his proximity.

“I don’t think you did.”

“You’ve been here for seven minutes, I can’t imagine you know much,” Will retorted.

“I know you, Will.” You meet his eyes for a few seconds—it doesn’t take much longer for him to look away. He hasn’t changed.

“Not anymore. Believe me,” his voice is certain and steady, but his hands shake as he reaches for your cozy black coat.

You let him slide it off your shoulders—the chill of the room refreshing. Will Graham isn’t a gentleman—he’s never conformed to society’s expectations. The gesture isn’t meant to impress you, make you swoon, or simply check a box. He does it because he still feels something toward you—he still cares.

You don’t talk much after that. Will makes some space for your stuff in his closet and leaves your suitcases in one of the many empty rooms. You thank him with another smile that doesn’t reach your eyes—there’s too much worry in them to convey your gratitude.

He goes on a walk with the dogs while you decide to take stock of his fridge and cupboards in search of any ingredients that you could possibly turn into a late dinner—french crepes filled with whatever jam or other sweet spreading he has in his kitchen.

You make yourself cozy in one of the armchairs in front of the crackling fireplace, your legs tucked comfortably beneath you when the door opens, and a blast of cold winter air rushes in along with seven dogs, melting snow clinging onto their fur stubbornly. They sniff around the room in search of the source of the sweet, delicious smell.

Will follows in their steps, taking off his boots by the door. It won’t take long for his socks to soak up the drops of water scattered over the floor—remnants of the snow shaken off by the happy furry beasts. He says nothing for a few long minutes, merely taking in your form, the sweet smell, and the cozy atmosphere. It feels like you belong here, even if just for a moment until you deem him deranged and leave again for long years.

“Crepes?” he asks finally, sliding off his heavy jacket. Will imprints on his memory the image of you so peaceful and comfortable in his home, in his presence.

You hum in response, sticking the fork back into your mouth. “I only found jam and peanut butter.”

“It’s an accomplishment you found anything at all.” He chuckles but isn’t truly amused by it—it is a pitiful sound.

The brunet disappears into the kitchen, and when he returns, his plate is filled with food. He sits down in the other armchair with a heavy sigh—a sound so murky only an old man could make or someone so exhausted with life they didn’t see a point in it anymore.

“I believe you, you know?”

Will’s head shoots up in your direction; he almost chokes on his crepes. He didn’t foresee that at all—the thought of you believing him without even hearing his side of the story, believing in his conviction that Hannibal is the Chesapeake Ripper without even asking for evidence. When everyone around him considered him delusional and regarded his accusation with ignorance or anger—you believed him. He straightens up in his seat, looking at you expectantly, begging silently for you to continue.

“I suppose Jack didn’t tell you why exactly am I here, huh?” Will shakes his head, making you sigh deeply as you mindlessly stab the remaining crepe on your plate with the fork—he notices the anger simmering behind your irises. “Figured. They found my father’s killer in our old house.”

“Dead?”

You nod in confirmation.

“Suicide.” Your voice isn’t relieved; it doesn’t incandesce with light like it should.

Will knows that sometimes, even when the murderer is caught or killed, it takes a while to really settle into witnesses’ minds, and sometimes, they never taste that sweetness of relief for the rest of their lives. Yet, it doesn’t seem to be the problem in your case.

“He was missing a lot of blood and it didn’t appear to be anything abnormal back then so they considered the case solved. Let us come out of hiding.”

“Except it wasn’t a suicide,” the man finishes your thought. He’s right—like always. “Someone wanted you to come back… The real killer?”

He looks at you for confirmation, but his idea seems to be too facile—child’s play. If that were the case, the FBI wouldn’t let you stay with him without protection—unless they considered him your protector. Something feels off about it.

“Will, my sister was killed by the Chesapeake Ripper.”

Will stares at you with his eyes wide open. He’s looking at your face in a way that he’s never looked before. He can finally see you, your emotions, and despair—the mask you hid them under shatters into crumbs and floats away with his shaky breath. He hears the misery in your voice now—almost sees your winsome heart smashed into a million pieces inside your chest.

“I’m so sorry… I—” Will’s words are automatic as he processes your statement. He stays perfectly still in his armchair. “I didn’t—”

“What’s done is done, Will,” you interrupt him, shaking your head—a silent plea that he doesn’t blame himself for it. It doesn’t help—he still does.

The moment you stop talking, he can hear the faint ticking of the watch on your wrist. He looks at you, waiting for more to come, but you stay silent. Your eyes linger on your plate with a half-eaten crepe—the jam spilling out onto the white ceramic canvas; you seem to be contemplating something.

He remembers back on that stormy night when you came home at the end of a particularly complicated and brutal investigation—soaked and chilled to the bone. You had a small cut on your arm, not big enough to require stitches, but he wanted—no, he needed—to clean it up and kiss it all better, anyway.

Will could tend to a cut on your skin, but he couldn’t scour the one on your soul—he couldn’t kiss it all better. He always felt the need to fix things—fix you. Now? He has no idea how to take that pain away from you.

He knows he should be glad to see you—glad to see you again. But right now, there’s only sadness, confusion, and guilt because, somehow, this isn’t quite you. There has been this beautiful, bright light shining from you, but it’s missing, and the man feels the loss of it inside. He wants to reach out and take this sadness away from you, comfort you, and bring back that light you always had. He almost wants to cry—he doesn’t even know why himself.

Will swallows hard and finally speaks, voice shaking, “Can I ask you something?”

He hesitates as if afraid of the potential answer. The only thing keeping him from sinking into emptiness is your presence, and asking the wrong question might have a devastating effect. Will looks at you—eyes pleading for understanding.

“Yes. Of course…”

“What did he take?” He almost doesn’t recognize his voice. It seems to be a mere whimper—a noise buried deep within a wounded animal’s throat.

“Her heart.”

Your words strike him like a bullet. Will closes his eyes, trying hard to keep the salty water from filling them. The loss of one heart was unbearable, losing another one physically… He tries to find a reason not to be angry at fate—but there is none. The world gave you back to him, but at what cost?

He reaches out, taking your hand in his. His touch seems reassuring and gentle, but his eyes betray his anger. “I never should have let you leave...”

You ignore his words, looking into the void, and continue, “Her lungs.”

Another cruel twist of the dagger in his gut. He feels your hand squeeze his, almost as if it were asking for comfort. Yet, Will cannot be a comfort at this moment—he is too enraged at the thought of such brutality.

His gaze turns cold as stone, his hand tightening around yours as he holds back the emotions boiling up inside him, threatening to explode and tear everything apart. His eyes remain closed—unwilling to see any more of your pain. You can feel the anger radiating from him like heat.

If she stops breathing, my heart will stop with it—those were his words to Hannibal. Another therapy session he now deeply regrets. It is his fault—his fault that your sister died. And amongst all the hatred, anger, and remorse, he feels a bone-chilling relief that it wasn’t you in her place.

He knows it’s twisted to think like that; he shouldn’t even feel like that, but he can’t imagine his life knowing you were buried deep—six feet beneath the earth he was walking on and still breathing. He doesn’t know whether it was Hannibal’s well-thought-through plan or his fucked up mistake, but Will is grateful.

You are breathing, alive, and your pulse is beating fast beneath his tight grasp. He does not want to let go of it—not yet.

Will opens his eyes, still unable to see your face, yet so very relieved. He doesn’t let go of your hand, his fingers running over your knuckles as if, by touch, he can somehow reassure himself that you weren’t his imagination.

The anger inside him still roils, but he no longer shows it. The only hint of his discomfort is the tightness with which he holds your hand.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he mumbles out, almost inaudible.

“No, Will, I won’t let anything happen to you.” You meet his gaze, your eyes almost begging. “I can’t lose you too. You’re the only one I have left.”

Will smiles at you sadly. His eyes filled with a strange light, his fingers running through your hair. Your plates have been long forgotten on the nearby windowsill as he leans forward and carefully touches your cheek, running his forefinger across your lips and down to your chin.

At first, you think the gesture is affectionate—intimate. But then you notice that he’s trying to remember your every feature. It’s painful to think that someone who loved you so dearly might have forgotten your face, the feel of your skin under his touch. Maybe it’s this thought that makes your eyes well up with tears; maybe it is the gesture itself. Or possibly even both.

This moment feels so real, so raw—you are tempted to believe in it, to be hopeful for your future, at least for a moment. But after all you went through, you know that hope is a dangerous thing, and it can turn against you. It’s been so long since all your hopes have been crushed you almost forgot how to have them... And just like that, the moment vanishes, and reality crashes back.

Later that night, when you come out of the shower and crawl into his bed—your clothes sticking to the slightly damp skin, your hair in an unruly mess—he simply opens his arms.

“You claim to be my friend, yet you sleep in my bed like a lover would,” he says—he still remembers the words you whispered to him when the roles were reversed.

Will smiles at the irony, his arms wrapping around you. Your hair is still dripping, the water sliding down your neck and onto his chest. It trickles down in rivulets to his stomach, creating wet spots on his shirt, but he doesn’t seem to care.

You notice his grip is tighter than usual, yet you feel no pain, no discomfort. If he wanted to hurt you, he would. But you’re safe here—in his arms. Safer than you’ve ever been.

“Don’t pretend you don’t love having me in your bed,” you mumble against his neck, your minty breath tickling his skin.

His body shivers, and a soft sound escapes his lips. Your words remind him of the years of loneliness, of his body yearning for your touch. The sound is almost a whimper, and you feel his fingers twining in your wet hair.

The feeling is intoxicating. For years, he couldn’t touch a woman, didn’t even dream about having one so close to his skin, couldn’t feel someone’s body pressed tightly against him in a bed because they weren’t you—they dimmed in comparison. He missed it; he missed this connection, this skin-to-skin contact.

His hand lingers in your hair, the other one tracing your skin, exploring every inch of it, memorizing every imperfection, every bump beneath his palm.

“You haven’t been with anyone else, have you?” It’s not really a question—more of a sure statement—because, after all, you know Will like the back of your hand.

His head shakes, and both of his hands now run down your body. Will takes his sweet time exploring every inch of you—your hips, thighs, your stomach, and neck.

“I haven’t,” he whispers, almost embarrassed. As if his body belongs to someone else, and giving it to you now is a betrayal of that person.

Betrayal of you—the one he once knew—because he’s not entirely sure you’re still the same person. You were always so cheerful and full of life before—anything you touched, growing wings, flying out of the confines of its cage.

He yearns for this contact, craves a woman’s body—craves your body. He touches your skin, lightly running his fingertips over it, trying to bring back the memories from before. Will’s mind spins, trying to place the puzzle of you in the present.

He holds your face, trying to remember the way your eyes shined, the smile on your lips, the way your hair used to look. The feeling of your body, skin to skin, is almost painful. Your lips are so close, your heart beating so fast…

Winston jumps onto the bed, the weight and heat of his furry body on your calves makes you both pull away hesitantly.

“Sorry,” you mumble out the apology into the stillness of the air.

Will looks at you with a soft smile and a faint blush on his cheeks. “It’s fine.” He glances over at the dog. “What’s the matter, little fella? Can’t sleep?” He reaches over to pet the dog, then he turns his attention back to you.

The atmosphere changes completely, filled with the sounds of the night and Winston’s heavy breathing. Yet, although your physical proximity to Will has changed, you still feel connected to him in a way that only two people who are truly close can. The warmth of Winston’s body seems to melt the tension.

The dog snuggles up against you both, the three of you creating your own little world of peace. Will is the first to speak, “I’d rather be in bed with you only,” he sends you a smirk, “but I would still get the same amount of hair on my clothes.”

You feel your lips part in a grin; your breath catches in your throat, and it takes a moment before you’re able to answer his playful jab.

Will catches you in this moment of surprise as if he can smell your anticipation in the air. His hands wrap around your waist, dragging you closer until your bodies are pressed snugly once more.

When he smiles at you, it’s as if the world stops briefly. Your eyes lock, and for a second, there is nothing else but the two of you.

“It’s a sad thing your smile is so rare,” you whisper, your fingers tracing his stubbled jaw.

Will's heart pounds in his chest. He takes your hand in his, running his fingers along your skin. There's always been an undeniable spark between you, but this time, it feels different, more intense. Like if you let yourself go and let the spark ignite, the fire will burst out of your chest.

Will leans closer to you; your noses are almost touching. His brown eyes are so close you can see every detail in them despite the darkness of the room. You can feel the tension in the air, and you know what would break it...

“Will, I... I can’t—” You stumble over your words, gaze parting from his.

Your stutter is cut short by Will’s lips touching yours. A soft sound escapes him as if he’s been waiting for you to stop speaking so he can taste you. His tongue slips over your lips, exploring your mouth.

This is not the clumsy, almost animalistic lust he had for you in the past—it’s something different. Something tender, almost sweet.

Your hands fall limply onto the duvet, your heart beating faster, your breath catching in your throat as you sink deeper into the kiss. You don’t want this to end… So you pull him closer.

Seemingly annoyed by the nonstop movement, Winston jumps off the bed and retreats to his place by the lit-up fireplace. You almost giggle at that, but you’re far too busy with kissing Will’s lips raw.

Your hands find their way onto his neck next, your fingers running through his curls. With lips almost glued to his, you pull him back every time he tries to move.

The sound of your heavy breathing is enough to make his heart pound in his chest as if his very blood is racing. He’s holding you so tightly you fear you might break. Will breathes in the smell of you, almost intoxicated by it. Your scent enriches him—sends his emotions into a whirlwind.

After a moment, he manages to pull away, gasping for breath. He is still holding you, hands pressed against your back, as if not wanting to let go. Will tries to catch his breath—it feels like his entire life is contained in those few moments.

His eyes find yours, looking for some reassurance, as if he expects to wake up from a dream any moment now. He opens his mouth to say words but can’t find any. All he can do is look at you, so beautiful in the darkness. Will closes his eyes as if trying to cling to this moment.

“I’m glad I’m back. Despite the circumstances...” Your fingers play with his curls, your breath just as shaky as his.

“You’re back...” Will murmurs, looking at you relieved, touching your face as if to make sure you’re still here. He wants to speak, to tell you everything that is going through his mind, but when he opens his mouth again, no words come out. He tries to collect himself—tries to bring his heart to your level.

“It’s been a long time... We should probably talk. You know, just to catch up.”

“You like talking now?” Your grin is electrifying, it sends heat down the man’s body. But when he notices it doesn’t reach your eyes, his neediness crumbles.

A veil of insecurity falls over his face. “No… I don’t like talking. But I still do it if I have to, so can we just…” Will gestures to the two of you, the room—just a sign of exasperation and need to do this now. He swallows hard, trying to find his voice. “It’s just... it’s been a long time. And I... you know... there is just a lot that happened.”

“Will,” the way you say his name halts him, “it’s okay if you want to talk.”

He blinks slowly, suddenly confused—why did he even try to lie about it? Hannibal gave him his voice and showed him the power of his words—the good one and the evil one.

Will lets out a deep breath and then closes his eyes. It’s always been hard for him to tell people how he feels. Especially when he wants to say more than any amount of words can describe—and there is a lot to describe. There is so much he has to tell you, and yet when he tries to form the words—to get them out—his mind goes blank.

He opens his eyes and looks at you for help, but you look just as confused as before. “I don’t even know where to begin,” he says softly. “So much has changed.”

“You haven’t. Not as much as you think you did.”

He sees the impossibly black creature in his peripheral vision. It stands behind you, completely still, and its antlers seem much more massive than ever before when he catches their shadow falling onto you. He wants it to be gone so badly, but deep inside, he knows it’ll never vanish if Hannibal is still alive, and maybe even after his death, he’ll never get his peace back.

“Your opinion will change quicker than you realize.”

The creature’s still there, Will looks it straight into its void of color eyes. It’s just in his mind, yet the shiver that runs down your spine tells him you might feel its presence, too. He hates that he can’t tell if it’s his imagination or not or if you can indeed see it, too. A feeling of dread seizes him, a cold sensation that runs up his arms and into his bones.

“Hannibal...” he whispers, but when he looks around the room, he sees no sign of the creature. The sense of dread lingers, nevertheless.

“The Chesapeake Ripper?” you question, and he tells you all about it. All about Hannibal’s mind games—what he did to him and then what he undid.

Will tells you about the therapy sessions, his transformation, and the darkness that took hold of him. He talks about his memories of your sister, about his guilt, and then he moves on to you—your absence and the reason why you left. The void he felt for all those dark years without you—until he was given the chance to have you back, a light guiding him back into reality. And you listen carefully to all of it; you let him speak his heart out until he no longer feels the need to speak.

When he is done telling you everything, Will falls silent. It feels like he laid bare his soul, exposing his most intimate thoughts, yet you still lie in front of him, unchanged. He looks at you, almost expecting you to leave. After all, how much can a person handle? But your gaze is still strong; you still care about him at least a little…

It’s almost as if you’re reading his mind. “I still care about you, Will. My feelings never changed and they never will. I’ll do anything I can to help you get him.”

His eyes soften at your words, and he closes the distance between you two. Slowly he kisses your lips, tasting your breath, feeling his mouth move against yours. The sensation is so intense that it almost sends sparks through Will’s body.

“I’ve missed this,” he whispers into your ear before he turns your head and kisses you again. His hands rest on your back, pulling you in even closer as his tongue dances against yours. “And I’ve missed you. So goddamn much...”

Will pulls away, breathless, as if his entire body is aflame. He looks at you, studying your face so intently it’s almost as if he wants to burn your image into his brain. “So much,” he repeats softly.

He rests his head against yours, breathing in the sound of your heartbeat, listening to the rise and fall of your chest. “You’re here. You’re really here.” He exhales a sigh of relief as if your presence is the sweetest gift he could have ever wished for.

#hannibal #hannigram #hannibal lecter #hannibal lecter x reader #hannibal lecter x will graham #will graham #will graham x reader #will graham x hannibal lecter #Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Will Graham #hannigram x reader #eat your heart out

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honeygrahambitch · 4 months

Text

I am again reflecting on Will's choice of giving his psychiatrist (a person he knew for maybe a few weeks) the keys to his house IN WOLF TRAP (at least one hour from Baltimore) in order for him to feed his dogs.

That only shows that he really didn't have anyone closer to him than Hannibal at that point. Not even Alana. He felt like Hannibal was the person he could trust the most with something so important to him. He trusted him enough to feed his family of strays and he trusted him enough to let him enter his house.

I genuinely wish we could have watched the moment he asked Hannibal to do it. I think he was surprised by the request but obviously accepted. And I really think it took Will a bit of time to build up the "courage" to ask him something so personal.

It's honestly a lot to read into this particular choice. But mostly, Will's loneliness and genuine trust.

#hannibal #hannigram #hannibal lecter #will graham #hannibal nbc

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tethered-heartstrings · 9 months

Text

will graham, the collector of strays with no home, no family. left out in the world to fend for themselves. giving them a place that is warm and welcome, someone to trust. loyalty and love. strays he would risk his life for. and then he meets hannibal. another stray without a pack, and then will becomes the first person hannibal is truly vulnerable and open with. the fact will tells hannibal he would miss his dogs but not him, directly comparing hannibal to his dogs, almost admitting they were comparable to him in some way. chiyoh telling hannibal some beasts should not be caged. hannibal seeing himself as better than people and will seeing dogs as better than people, preferring the company of his dogs and hannibal. hannibal having an extremely heightened sense of smell, able to detect disease and cancer. hannibal also asking will after three years apart if he "came to get the old scent back" like a dog trying to recognize and remember an old friend. "man's best friend" being a dog, and will is constantly trying to figure out where he and hannibal stand, eventually saying "he was my friend. I wanted to run away with him." dolarhyde killing the family dog first to eliminate the alarm system and shooting hannibal first. the fact will was told "I’ve muzzled the dog, now you need to put it down" when he was asked to kill hannibal. how desperately hannibal wanted a family, trying to curate a pack of his own to run away with him. the "prized meat" of wolves and dogs being the organs, eaten first and often leaving the lean muscle of the carcass behind. the fact dogs will hunt in packs and by the end of the show, will and hannibal finally kill together and that was all hannibal wanted for them. and while it isn't the true origin of the word, the word "cannibal" as we know it today was connected to the word "canis" aka dog by 16th century writers in reference to their shared voracity.....

#no wonder will liked him. dogcoded af #the last point is a HUGE stretch i am aware but i had to add it #will graham #hannibal lecter #hannibal #hannibal nbc #nbc hannibal #hannigram #murder husbands #hannibal meta #hannigram meta #the theoretical clown

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hannibals-favourite-meal · 8 months

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Hi, I was wondering if ypu could do a bucky barnes x fem reader fic, where reader is insecure because she has a bigger chest and because past relationships have complained about her chest, so when her and bucky start to see each other she tells him this and that's the reason why she wears bigger shirts/hoodie all the time, and so bucky boosts up her confidence and it allows her to wear tighter shirts and tops she always wanted to wear, and bucky could be joking about beating up her ex, but more than likely it's true

.⋆｡Absolutely Perfect｡⋆.

Bucky Barnes x busty!plus size reader

You find an old shirt in your closet and Bucky discovers why you refuse to wear it

Warnings: self-deprecation, past bad relationships, past verbal abuse, fluff, implied smut, insecurity, reader has large boobs, mention of stretch marks

WC: 1.7k

Minors DNI

Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library

Since the moment Bucky met you, he knew you had a particular style that you never strayed from. You liked big shirts- big shirts with shorts or skirts in the summer, big shirts and sweaters with jeans in winter, you even slept in a rotating collection of his shirts that you continuously stole from him.

Now Bucky didn’t mind this, he loved that you were comfortable and knew what you liked to wear. But he had seen the way you longingly looked at the more form-fitting outfits when you went shopping with him. He had even caught you perusing clothes in a style more similar to Natasha’s. He thought you would look great in those clothes (he thought you would look great in no clothes either but you two hadn’t gotten to the sex part yet) so he was left wondering why you didn’t.

The apartment was a mess- clothes and trinkets strewn everywhere, boxes scattered around on every available flat surface, and tape, so much fucking tape. Sam warned him that helping someone move was a shit ton of work, but Bucky figured they could get it done in 12 hours, tops. Obviously he was very very wrong.

You were two days into it and you had only just reached the point where you could go through your seemingly endless stash of clothes. Bucky had ducked out for just a second to call back the electrician that was currently working on your new house but when he came back, the mood in your small apartment had shifted considerably.

He found you lost in thought, sitting in the middle of several piles of clothes, holding a shirt. “I’ve never seen you wear that one, it’s cute.” You jumped at the sound of his voice and quickly shoved the shirt into your ‘donate’ pile.

“It’s not my style.” You brushed off but he caught the way you hesitated as you pulled your hand away.

“What if I wanted to see you in it?” With two strides, he had crossed the room and was now in front of you. Before you could stop him, Bucky had ducked down and fished the shirt out. It was about 3 times smaller than all your other shirts and looked like it would fit the contours of your body like a second skin. The cut-out that sliced through the members of AC-DC would allow for a huge amount of cleavage to be shown while the cut along the bottom of the shirt gave it that cropped look that was so popular now.

“Cause I think you’d look drop dead gorgeous in this, doll.” He purred, holding the shirt up to the sunlight as if he could already see you wearing it in his mind. Your face burned with embarrassment.

“Well I don’t so can you please put it back?” You dismissed it like your stomach wasn’t in your throat and tears weren’t building behind your eyes. You reached for the offending piece of clothing but he tucked it to his chest like a toddler would do with a toy.

His gaze seared into you, making you squirm from your place on the floor. “Just once, please!” He begged.

“No.”

“I’ll do laundry for a month.” He shot back, inching closer to you with the shirt still held against his chest.

“You’re already doing laundry for the next 3 months because of the Jam Incident.” You raised an eyebrow at him. Bucky actually had the decency to blush at this, recalling the event that occurred a month ago which landed him doing extra chores.

“But you would look so pretty.” He actually whined, giving you his best puppy dog eyes. “Pleeeeeeease.” It was getting pathetic now but your own determination was beginning to waver as his only ramped up in intensity. With a trembling hand, you snatched the shirt away from him as you stood.

“I’ll try it on once but when it doesn’t look good- you aren’t allowed to say anything.” As you stomped off to the bathroom, you missed the way his face fell, obviously regretting teasing you.

You kept your back to the mirror as you changed, even squeezing your eyes shut so you didn’t have to see the curve of your body from your peripheral. You hear his voice in your mind, reminding you exactly why you wanted to burn most of your clothes to ash.

The cotton was soft but it still felt like it was slicing into your skin. You held onto your large shirt like it was a lifeline and with a deep breath, you walked back into the bedroom.

Bucky sat on the bed, elbows on his knees as he waited for you. As soon as you crossed the threshold, his head snapped up and his eyes went wide.

A breath caught in his throat and he slowly stood. “See I told you. Now can you let me throw it away like I wanted in the first place.” Self-consciously, you crossed your arms over your chest, pressing your heavy breasts down. He reached out for you, his chill metal hand grabbing your wide hip as his other gently pulled your arms away from your chest, making you drop the other shirt.

“Buck, let me go change.” He just shook his head. Your heart pounded loudly in your ears.

“Doll you look-“

“Disgusting, I know.” You snapped, trying to pull away from him. He held you tighter.

“No. You look beautiful. Why would you ever think otherwise?” His voice was strained but firm, leaving you no opportunity to backtrack. You looked away from your boyfriend, unable to meet his eyes.

“My boobs.” You murmured. The lump in your throat got bigger by the second as you waited for him to agree with you, to reinforce that voice in your head that told you how ugly you are, how your chest was unnatural and wrong.

But he didn’t. Instead, your wonderful, caring boyfriend let go of your hip and your arm in order to cup your face, guiding you back to him. The look in his eyes was devastating, only making you feel even worse. “Doll, you are perfect.”

And you broke.

Hot tears rolled down your full cheeks as you broke down in his arms. “But they’re too big and they’re covered in stretch marks and my nipples are a weird shape.” The words flowed from your lips just like your tears, a never-ending stream that had built up behind the dam of your mind since the first time your ex had told you exactly what he thought off your body. Bucky listened to each and every syllable, taking in everything you were saying.

You didn’t notice the way his blue eyes darkened with rage until he finally interrupted you. “Who the fuck told you that?” His snarl finally broke you from your spiralling thoughts and then it was your turn to lose your breath.

A darkness had grown over his face, the same one he got when he came home from particularly rough missions. Rage rolled off of him in waves, drowning you in it. “M-my ex.” A growl rumbled through his strong chest.

“Well he’s wrong. You’re fucking beautiful, you’re perfect. And I mean all of you, including these.” You gasped as he suddenly let go of your face to cup the massive heft of your tits. Heat shamefully exploded through your body as he held up their weight. “These are just as sexy, just as fucking stunning as you. And would you look at that, they fit perfectly in my hands, like they were made for your tits.”

“Bucky.” You tried to stop him but he had enough apparently. He squeezed your tits gently as he groaned.

“Fuck doll, you don’t know what you do to me do you? Even when you’re wearing a big shirt and your baggiest jeans you get me so hard it hurts. But now-“ He stepped closer to you, pushing his hips into your soft stomach. A moan slipped from your lips as you felt the hard bulge of his cock against you for the first time. “-Now, when you’re wearing this tiny fucking shirt, letting me see these gorgeous tits and your perfect stomach, I feel like I’m losing my mind, doll.”

He groaned as he ground his hips into you. “Really?” You timidly asked, hooking your fingers into his belt loops to keep your hands from trembling. Bucky raised a dark eyebrow at you.

“Doll, if it were up to me, I would be inside you 24/7 from the moment we met.” Heat crawled up your cheeks and you giggled.

“That’s a long time Bucky.” He finally smiled, quickly pecking your nose. The sadness was draining from your expression, though the flakes of insecurity still remained. He forced down his own fury, tamping it down as far as he could. He wasn’t mad at you, he could never be mad at you for this. You were beaten down by a pathetic excuse for a man and you believed him.

Bucky would help you, he would worship you, and then he would hunt the fucker down for ever making you think that you were anything less than divine. “Exactly 5 months, 2 weeks and 1 day.”

You beamed at him. “Maybe I’ll keep the shirt, if you like it so much.” You looked away bashfully, making your boyfriend groan and his cock twitch within his stiff jeans.

“Oh doll you are spoiling me.” He dipped down to nip at your neck, forcing a whimper from your lips. Your nipples stiffened against his palms as wetness pooled in your already ruined panties. “And now I think I need to spoil you in return.”

You yelped as you were suddenly thrown onto your bed, Bucky quickly joining you as he crawled between your plush thighs. He hovered over you with a smile. “Absolutely perfect.” He murmured before kissing you tenderly, pressing as much of his body against yours as he could. You melted into him, tangling your fingers in his short hair.

Bucky would make sure you knew how beautiful you are and maybe, once all the bad thoughts were gone from your mind, he would leave the apartment under the premise of picking up some dinner. And if he came home with bruised knuckles and a self-satisfied smile on his face, you wouldn’t ask any questions.

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samalong1 · 4 months

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I’m not sure if you take requests but could you do Hannibal or hannigram (your choice!) with a darling who eats a lot? Like they’ll eat four times their weight in food and still have room for dessert?

Of course I'm doing Hannibal cause I'm bad with throuples.

Hannibal x hungry reader

While his cooking is plentiful between meals he doesn't really have snacks

He never really was a snack person so he just has food for cooking

This'll probally just make you eat more at meals

At meals he loves to watch you eat how "feral" you get by his cooking

He loved to cook for you. With you he can cook more dishes and not have to worry about leftovers going bad (or even having any)

At parties and such he requests you keep it on the tamer side

He asks that you subtly get seconds when the event has died down so you won't get in caterers way and draw attention

Also not to eat like a animal

You don't need to know the difference between 20 forks but please atleast use one

While he's stricter at parties any guest who comments on your absurd eating habits. He'd happily feed them to you

I don't think he really does dessert or baking

If you behave he may get some stuff strictly for dessert

He'll occasionally feed you in sensual moments

Him gently holding your chin as he slowely shifts the fork into your mouth letting you taste the liver of the man that winked at you and dared whistle at you

He won't leave the table till your done eating as he won't want to be rude

Often he'll be sipping wine as he watches you eat your 3rd plate

He'll try and make more filling dishes

But after realizing that you just like to eat and aren't always hungry he'll change his tactic

He diesnt believe in diet culture but does know that too much of any food can have side effects and that you need variety

He'll cook "snacks"(that are just mini meals you have throughout the day) with thst in mind

Of course his mire vulgar cuts of meat are hidden well. Tucked deep into the freezer so you won't find it when searching for stray icecream

Few will/Hannigan hcs

Will reuses butter cookie tins for his fish hook and lines often leading to your betrayel

Hannibal won't buy snack foods but Will would. But he'll eat some himself if there is any after you open the container

Will probslly shops at Costco for your eating habits

Hannigram once pulled a joke where they added more and more salt to your food over time

#hannibal lecter #hannibal lecter x reader #hannibal x reader #yandere hannibal #hannigram #hannigram x reader #will grahm

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ihavemanyhusbands · 2 months

Note

⚔️ with Hannigram ? Pretty please ?

Omg yessss of course this is perfect! ❤️❤️❤️

———

It was strange at first, seeing him on the other side of the glass. Then it hit you that you could only look, but not touch him, and it was utterly heartbreaking.

Will took your hand, sharing your anguish. Hannibal seemed to be holding onto the last thread of his composure, but you knew how to read his face too well not to see your turmoil mirrored.

Alana and Frederick had mercifully left the three of you alone, but you were sure they'd be listening to everything in the latter's office. At that moment, though, it was the least of your worries.

"Oh, Hannibal..." was all you could say, your voice low. You feared it would waver if you spoke any higher than a whisper.

"It's good to see you two," Hannibal said after clearing his throat. "I'm so glad they let you visit."

You approached the glass slowly, watching him do the same. Will hovered nearby, not wanting to stray from your side at all.

"Why did you let them?" You whispered, an edge of fury in your tone.

"I had to," he said simply, not looking away from your eyes, willing you to understand.

"But this!" You gestured around at his cell. "I would've rather you were free, even if we couldn't speak at all."

Will placed a hand on your shoulder. "All he wanted was to be able to see us. You know we can't blame him for that."

"We could've tracked him down after some time had passed," you argued defiantly, your wounded pride making you stubborn. "We could've-"

"It's no use speculating, my love," Hannibal cut you off. "Everything has its price, and this was a sacrifice I was more than willing to make."

After trying to swallow the bitterness in your throat, you placed your hands on the glass. "I feel as though a whole world is between us. It kills me to know I can't do anything to help."

"I don’t think you understand," he said, shaking his head. "Nothing can hold us apart. Not this cell, not time, nor anyone else's verdict. As long as we continue to choose each other, then it shall be so. I simply preferred not to torture myself with your absence."

Will pulled you into his embrace as your shoulders started shaking. He placed his hand on the glass too, his other arm wrapped around you.

Hannibal returned the gesture, his sad little smile making your heart soften towards him once more. It wasn't him you were mad at, not really. But perhaps there were better ways to channel that anger, into something more productive.

"We'll find a way, I know we will. But in the meantime... It's good to know you're here," you said with a watery smile.

"It's why I did it," he said. "So you would always know."

-----

#Will graham x reader #hannibal lecter x reader #will graham x hannibal lecter x reader #hannigram x reader #hannibal fanfiction #emoji blurbs

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tina-mairin-goldstein · 23 days

Text

Hannibal Dashboard simulator!

🐕dogsandflyfishing

This my new dog. Everybody, meet Winston.

No, I did NOT steal him. He was a stray.

And here are the others:

(Except for Zoe, she does not like to have her picture taken)

#dogs

🐈‍⬛ teamsassyscience <- -> reblogged

Aw, your puppies are adorable.

137 notes

🍷are-we-not-made-in-his-image

I would like to share this interesting article I came across.

The Standard Monograph on Time of Death by Insect Activity by Professor Will Graham

_______________________Keep Reading

659 notes

😷autopsyguy

Can you guys help me end a debate between me and my colleague, @iwishididn'thaveatwin.

🐈‍⬛ teamsassyscience <- -> reblogged

Guys, I thought we settled this weeks ago...

🔍iwishididn'thaveatwin <- -> reblogged

The definition of the word 'prey' is: An animal that is hunted and killed by another for food. Deer and elk do NOT eat them, therefore they are not prey.

😷autopsyguy <- -> reblogged

Get your own post, Jimmy.

1,708 notes

🐕dogsandflyingfishing

😶‍🌫️Anonymous asked:

Hi! Sorry to bother you, but I noticed some of your posts and your url, and I was wondering if you have any advice for fly fishers? I think I've made my lures all right, but I can't catch anything.

My advice is name it after someone you cherish. If they cherish you back, then you'll catch something. It's worked for me.

17 notes

🔥Sponsored

Chordophone String Shop

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📸tattlecrime-official

It Takes One to Know One

The FBI isn't just hunting psychopaths, they're headhunting them, too, offering competitive pay and benefits in hopes of using one demented mind to catch another. Sure, we're familiar with the stereotype of the FBI profiler, swaggering onto a crime scene, fitting the pieces together like a master puzzler with his 1000-piece jigsaw. In reality, profilers should be likened to harridans reading a cup of spent tealeaves- passing off their active imagination as incisive fact.

To read the rest of the article, click the link Here.

🍷are-we-not-made-in-his-image <--> reblogged

@tattlecrime-official I believe we had a very serious discussion on this matter. I am very disappointed that you decided to ignore it. You have been naughty.

📸tattlecrime-official <--> reblogged

@are-we-not-made-in-his-image Freedom of the press and speech. If I truly couldn't write about it, I'd be sitting in jail right about now. Mind your own business.

328 notes

🐕dogsandflyingfishing

🐈‍⬛teamsassyscience asked:

Can we please see a picture of Zoe?

Fine.

47 notes

🍷are-we-not-made-in-his-image

🧀tyromancy-is-fun asked:

I noticed you recently posted a picture of Jose's in reference to a recipe and I was wondering how you liked the place. Isn't it the best?

I am aware this is an alternate account for @the-real-franklyn-froideveaux and I would like to ask you once again to please refrain from following me or interacting with me on social media. It is not appropriate. Thank you. I will be blocking your account after this.

9 notes

💀fawn-in-the-forest deactivated 9-13-2014

Me and Dad on a hunting trip.

3,769 notes

#i spent way too much time on this #dashboard simulator #feel free to add on #nbc hannibal #hannibal #will graham #hannibal lecter #abigail hobbs #beverly katz #brian zeller #jimmy price #franklyn froideveaux

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theredofoctober · 9 months

Text

MANNA CHAPTER 2: SUPPER

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham fic, TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, mild Daddy kink (it'll all make sense).

This chapter is chronologically 2nd in the series.

Keep reading after the cut

Blood in your mouth; you've bitten your inner cheek in your sedative state, auto-cannibalism under the eye of vague attendants. Both are male, featureless, moth-men with closed wings.

You glance from one to the other, grasping foolishly at memory, not yet finding its edges.

"Dad?"

The figure on the left ejects an awkward laugh.

"Which one of us is that again?"

"A moment, Will," says the other man, and through the ether of sleep you see his face, the etching of an aesthete, that which you have seen before.

Hannibal. Dr. Lecter. An enemy in the seat of a saviour.

"Give her time to wake," he says, "and to acclimatise to her environment."

"What's going on?" you ask, rubbing your hands across your face in an effort to rouse yourself. "Where am I right now?"

"You don't remember what happened?" asks Hannibal, his absence of brows arched. "You are in my home, where you will be staying for the foreseeable future, under my care. My colleague, Will Graham, will be assisting me in looking after you. I hope that while you are unhappy with your situation, you will be cordial to him."

A tableau— Hannibal trapping you against the door, your knee bruising his male sensitivity, intimate as newlyweds in the clinch of your rash violence—slows your thoughts with its artistry.

You remain too sluggish, yet, to fear Dr. Lecter as you did in his office. Every feeling seems performed by some spirit in your place, a girl who died here before you, leaving a breath of her sorrows in the walls.

"Are you a doctor?" you ask the man named Will Graham.

He blinks at you as though perturbed by the question.

"No," he says, shortly. "I lecture in criminal profiling for the FBI. Occasionally, I step in as a special agent on crime scenes. I'm here to offer my insights on your case, I guess. Haven't decided quite what they are, yet."

You sit up, frowning.

"But I'm not a murderer."

Will smiles, the curl of his mouth quite unpleasant.

"I know. Doesn't mean I can't get inside your head, though."

He is unfriendly, and oddly furtive, his expression dancing between moral objection and a grudging interest in you. Segments of his conversation with Hannibal pluck at you delicately: he is present only under duress, any curiosity a provocation on Dr. Lecter's part.

You glimpse an avenue for escape through the younger man's sensitivity.

"So... you're a cop?" you ask, carefully.

Will coughs out a laugh.

"Not exactly. Why, worried I'll arrest you?"

"No, but you should arrest Dr. Lecter."

Hannibal delivers you an amused look.

"I have no concerns with the legalities of your treatment. Will would not incriminate himself in any act that would be to your detriment."

You worry your lower lip with your teeth, wondering how much of the truth Will Graham knows.

"So... am I in trouble?"

"Why would you be?" Will enquires, but the question is directed at Hannibal, who coolly answers.

"She assaulted me in her efforts to leave my office."

You stiffen as Will's expression clouds with a new darkness.

"Are you hurt?"

"Fortunately not. I could have been, but I was prepared for resistance. A poor start to our relationship, nonetheless. I think an apology is in order."

Threat is inevitable in that statement; you look for windows, doors, any potential exit, knowing well that you cannot move fast enough to pass your jailers without intervention.

Will says your name, the suddenness throwing you like the recoil of a gun.

"Apologise to Dr. Lecter."

"She was frightened, Will," says Hannibal, generously. "Like a stray animal unused to human contact, she cannot help but bite in the terror that we mean her harm."

Yet he does mean you harm, means to play with you as an orca does a seal it kills, an inversion of his own metaphor.

Will shakes himself, turning from you in reluctance to meet your gaze.

"You said she has to learn," he says, through gritted teeth. "We need to reinforce boundaries with her. So either she apologises, or we have to punish her. That's the way this works, right?"

Fear opens your lethargy with a surgeon's precision.

"Punish?" you cry. "What are you talking about?"

Ignoring your interjection, Dr. Lecter says, "You are correct, Will. For certain plants, a framework is needed for them to grow. What trellis must we build to guide our clematis to its most majestic heights?"

Will regards his friend thoughtfully.

"What's your suggestion?"

"There are two options that occur to me," says Hannibal, watching as you claw yourself against the headboard with both hands. "The first is that we begin the initial step of her recovery with a hearty meal. I was informed by her family that she has not eaten since yesterday. It is not too late for me to prepare dinner. If she will not eat, then I have the means to encourage her to do so."

Dr. Lecter turns aside, allowing you to glimpse a feeding tube posed gracefully on a tabletop. You have long feared this tool, which even previous therapists have raised as a possibility for you, should you not end this starving strike. Never had you pictured a day this horror would find its becoming.

Terror licks at you as readily as a flame.

Starting forward, you grip Will by the wrist, unhinged in your desperation.

"Don't let him do that to me."

Will looks down at your hand with displeasure, yet he doesn't attempt to remove it, enduring your touch with grimacing obligation.

"And the other option, Dr Lecter?" he asks, thinly. "It's been a long day, and I don't know if I have the energy to step in as orderly to a violent patient without preparation."

"I am sure that you would handle her proficiently," says Dr. Lecter. "But perhaps there is another method we can consider, first."

He takes Will aside and murmurs to him; the fragments you discern sound as ambiguous as the language used aloud.

The younger man takes on a cornered look.

"I... can't do that," he protests, his posture sharp with discomfort. "That could open up a whole host of new problems for her."

"Or it could impress upon her the necessity to listen to her guardians," says Hannibal. "I will join you, if it will persuade you."

"Doesn't that go against the confines of your role?"

Dr. Lecter smirks, his fine-jawed features made truly handsome.

"I will enact discipline, also. But it will not be the first tool that I apply."

The two men approach the bed together, one on either side of you, apparently united in their purpose.

"What are you doing?" you cry, although by now you've a sense of it. "Stay away from me!"

"These are the conquences of resistance, little one," says Hannibal, closing the space between you. "From now on, I suggest that you comply."

You scramble backwards only to come up against Will Graham, his arms a cuff around you.

"Don't struggle," he snaps. "I don't want to hurt you any more than I have to."

"No! No!"

Child-like, you find yourself reduced to simple denial, fear snatching the very language from you. You are all trembling fragility beneath Will as he shoves you, face down, on the bed; you turn your head back to look at him, glimpsing a flash of clenched teeth, eyes with a bear's indifferent hunger, something sickly, and soulful underneath.

You think, this man is not well, then bark out a startled scream as he forces your head frontwise, a fisherman's rough hand on your scalp, oppressing you in its unthinking violence.

"Face him," Will barks, pushing you for emphasis. "He's the one you injured."

You comply, feeling on the very cusp of death.

The man on your back manoeuvres you on all fours to his liking, the stave of his hard want crushed against his jeans. His comrade holds your arms down, though you could not move them at the devil's request; stillness is your ally, submission where a fight would cut your throat.

Hannibal looks at you with the cruel serenity of an angel, in all his justice. He touches your tear-scaled cheek with solace stolen from husbands and fathers; when he tips your face to his, you know what he will take from you, have felt the omen of that kiss.

It is intimate, gentle, kinder than any touch you've known in years. You blink, dismayed by the lust that roots itself from gut to cunt in its tangling wisteria.

"What— why?" you stutter, the feel of his lips on yours a reverberation that long remains.

"A treatment from bygone times," says Hannibal, patiently. "Although widely frowned upon, sex was once implemented to allieve many ailments. I find value in it, still."

"No," you say, aware of Will's arousal at your entrance. "I mean, why did you kiss me? Why would you do that?"

"You ache to be cherished, and so you will be. Alas, it may be many months before you see me as the friend you crave."

"You'll never be my friend," you sneer, and regret the barb as Will thrusts against you, having unbuckled his jeans to free himself to your imprisonment.

There is an arc of sore horror as his cock bolts within, making butchery of you in his taking. Will's arms are either side of you, the bars that cage such a sow; he smells of sweat, and Old Spice, and dog hair, and now of sex. You sob drily as he ruts your vulnerability against the mattress, as he sucks the skin of your neck in his teeth and bites until a ring tattoos your throat.

That mark is a staple of sexual assault, you'd read that somewhere, a sigil of the taker's power.

Limp, you let him use you, fucking you in so harsh and primal rhythm that you can think of nothing but its pattern.

What ill of yours earned this brash causality? Why, of all patients, has Hannibal taken you up as his toy?

"Stay there," Will grumbles, as you arch your back in a spasm of gilded agony. "Don't move."

"I have her," says Hannibal, and he guides you up onto your knees, his chest flat to yours as Will ruins the atrium of his desire. "Teach her what she will endure, if she will not accept our aid."

You cannot stand to be torn apart like this, a beast between your legs, and another touching your breasts and waist as though your partner in a waltz, all courtly chivalry.

"Please, Will," you moan, but he has thrown aside his reason, swept up in this gourmand's pleasure.

"Hurt me the way you hurt Dr. Lecter and you'll really wish you hadn't," he says, and you shake your head in a frantic falsehood.

"I won't. I swear I won't."

Will is fire, and you are ash: he is pain and delight, a conundrum. He puts a hand to your neck, holding your head upright as he fucks you, and growls against your ear sharp threats that sell you to silence.

Hannibal stares at you in fascination. You feel it pour over you like tar, glazing you with the shame of your illness having made you his object.

Dr. Lecter is of an evil Will is not, setting you both before him to observe your every response.

Later, he will write notes about this; the hands that glide your body now will itch for the pen, to lay out all you are on paper, and memorialise your suffering.

Does he truly think that this will help you? You don't believe it.

This night is his experiment, that which he might take apart like a pig's heart to show its working to students of science. Will is Dr. Lecter's pupil, and he is moulding the man to be as he is, and though it is Graham that fucks you, it is Hannibal you hate the most, the God that set this all into motion.

Will's breath flutters at your ear, and he stills, only the part of him within you left flinching to a vicious end. Hannibal steps back from the bedframe, smoothing down his suit of creases with elegant hands. As Will struggles up to join him, you crumple forward, sodden and stammering, a headache starting to beat at your temple, the hangover of Dr. Lecter's drug.

Yet when the younger man places a hand to your jerking back, you accept the touch, wanting even so poor a substitute for love.

"Daddy," you whisper. "I want to go home."

Will jerks away from you, staring at his own hand with abject revulsion.

"What have I done?" he asks, and there is an undercurrent of awe to the words that you do not quite understand.

"You did what you had to," says Dr. Lecter, smoothly. "What was needed."

His colleague shakes his head, his gaze dropping floorwise.

"No. She's seriously ill. She should be in a hospital ward, and I— we—"

"Will."

You cannot stand the fondness with which Hannibal addresses the other man, grooming him to such extremities of evil. He lays a hand on Will's shoulder, and he relaxes into the touch, an unconscious softening of his inate angles.

They stand together as if alone in the room, Dr. Lecter's face almost in the crook of Will Graham's neck.

"She is quelled," he says, quietly. "Tomorrow, she will eat the breakfast I make for her with the memory of this correction, and in time, she will learn to thank you for it. Even to love."

Still, Will lingers in the doorway, watching you wind yourself into the coverlet to nurse the wound of his making.

"Is she going to be alright?" he asks, nervously.

Through sodden lashes, you see Dr. Lecter guide his colleague into the hallway, as a strict father might the mother that coddles an infant that screams to be held.

"Let her sleep," he murmurs. "Her dreams will be woven with our teaching. Soon we shall see what tapestry will be made."

They leave you there, descending into opiate darkness. You slumber, but you do not dream, only lie with your hand over the heat these heathens have struck in what was before a lampless under-earth.

Your hunger follows you down into the castles of sleep, loyal to its creator.

#ao3 writer #dark fic #manna fic #hannibal lecter x reader #dark hannibal lecter #yandere hannibal lecter #yandere will graham #will graham #will graham x reader #tw noncon #cw noncon #dark!fic #hannibal fic #tw eating issues #dead dove do not eat

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stoneagedevil · 11 months

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If you are still taking requests, I have one for you 🥺 how would Hannibal and Anton react to the reader having cardiomyopathy (aka a weak heart). Because of her condition reader faints a lot and is danger of going into cardiac arrest if she gets scared or frightened. If you don’t feel comfortable taking this request, please feel free to ignore it. Thanks, love your work! :)

IMAGINES/HEADCANONS: Anton Chigurh x Reader | Hannibal Lecter x Reader

Reader with a weak heart/fainting condition.

TW/CW: Fainting, death, guns, cannibalism, reader being described as pretty, medication, break in.

——————

HANNIBAL:

Because you’re so heavily affected when frightened, both would tread extremely lightly around you. Of course, there’s only so much one can do when you lead the lives Hannibal and Anton do.

Hannibal would do everything in his power to keep you from finding out who he truly is. His worst nightmare had turned from his inner circle becoming wary of him, to you finding out, leaving him, fainting, or even going into cardiac arrest. He’d kill anyone for you as to not actually kill you because of your condition.

If the chance comes where you do faint around him, he’s incredibly quick in noticing the signs. If he can smell cancer, he can definitely sense days when your condition is a little worse than usual. He immediately wraps a cautious arm around your waist when you mention you’re feeling lightheaded.

There was an incident where you fainted, nearly clipping your head on the sharp edge of his dining room table. If not your Hannibal practically diving to cup your head, there surely would’ve been a trip to the ER.

As a doctor, he reminds you of your medication, keeping an extra bottle on his person at all times as well. He picks up your prescriptions, always ensuring they’re the right ones, if there is a change in medication, he monitors you in order to make sure you have no adverse reactions to the medicine.

Hannibal takes great care in ensuring that there is no cross contamination when cooking his special cuts, and your dinner. Hannibal already has to be on his toes when seeing a doctor, as tests could reveal his prion disease, induced by his taste for human flesh. But Hannibal also has to be careful with how he feeds you. Hannibal already understands the risks of cannibalism, not particularly concerned about brain damage and the like, but with your condition, a prion disease could make your weak heart that much weaker.

Despite the fact that he enjoys feeding his victims to his inner circle of investigators, he’d sooner cut off his right hand than feed you people. After all, despite being animals in his eyes, no person could ever be good enough for you to eat….

lest it was him being served.

ANTON:

Anton shows his concern for you in a different manner. Under no circumstances are you allowed on his trips. Besides the chance of stray bullets catching in your flesh sending you into a panic that’s sure to affect your heart, you must be kept at a perfect temperature keep your heart healthy. Anton doesn’t let you leave in the cold. He doesn’t let you leave in the sweltering heat. If you need something, he’ll get it himself and probably get it done quicker too.

Anton keeps your medication stocked, checking over the expiration dates, questioning on whether or not you’ve taken your dose for the day.

Before tracking down a target, he makes sure you’ll be well taken care of while he’s away.

There was an incident where a target had managed to track down where you live. In a phone call, Anton felt the tables had been turned on him when his target said that he’d kill his partner. Llewelyn Moss might have failed in saving himself and his wife, but Anton would certainly not.

Your heart leaped at the sound of gunfire shooting out your lock, and you scrambled for the bedroom, quickly locking the door, opening the window, and diving under the bed. You sure as hell weren’t jumping out your window, as you were on the second floor. Your hyperventilating and rising blood pressure led you to feel light headed, your vision fading to black.

At the sight of the lock being shot into pieces, Anton’s chest tightened uncomfortably, and his brow scrunched almost imperceptibly. He kicked open the door quickly checking the corners of the house with his pistol. Of course, he’d navigated your home a billion times over, could even do so with his eyes closed. The man who’d promised to kill you didn’t stand a chance against him, but he wasn’t concerned about that. The concern was whether you stood a chance against the intruder. Checking the pulse of the man he’d shot, he quickly set off to find you.

He came to your bedroom door first, swallowing thickly when he saw the lock shot out as well. He drew his pistol, entering the room swiftly. He took notice of the window, rushing to it and looking down. Nothing. He closed his eyes, trying to listen for a sign of you - and wouldn’t you know it, he heard soft breathing from under the bed. He kneeled, peeking under the bedskirt, his eyes being met with your pretty face.

Of course. You’re smart, while you may not be able to fight very well due to your condition, you were incredibly sly and an excellent trickster. His lips quirked up slightly at the thought of the target looking out the window and deciding to turn back to the living room to find you outside, only to be met with the barrel of Anton’s pistol and a swift shot to the face.

He would drag your unconscious body out from under the bed, lay you softly down onto it, and time your pulse. After making sure you were truly safe, he’d shut the window, and turn the temperature dial to the right level for you and your heart.

He’d then take a seat next to your bed, watching your chest rise and fall until you woke.

——————-

Thank you so much for saying you love my work! I very much appreciate it. I hope I met/exceeded your expectations with this.

#headcanon #headcannons #imagines #anton chigurh #nbc hannibal #hannibal lecter #no country for old men #anton chigurh x reader #hannibal x you #hannibal x reader #hannibal lecter x reader #request #x reader #fanfic

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