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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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morningstarbee · 7 months

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i love how we all agree that Will would have become his murder husband a lot faster if Hannibal didn't have his "genius" plan to let will's brain burn and make him think he was going crazy and then frame him for murder

Like season 1 will was already unhinged, with no outside interference:

a literal corpse, like a dead person "Field kabuki"

"I like killing people actually"

"You didn't kill Stammets" "i was thinking about it tbh"

*fully hallucinates, on his own, a dead man telling him about his Becoming* (it's not something Hannibal planted, because he literally realized Will had encephalitis earlier this episode when he sniffed him)

"Are you trying to alienate me from Jack Crawford? Oh you are? Oh yeah go ahead idc"

*stares directly into his eyes as Hannibal has his hands in another man's organs*

"You saw Abigail kill someone and hid the body? Cool. Why are you so bad at hiding bodies??"

"Idk why you looked so suspicious when you said Tobias killed Franklyn but okay."

*breaks his own thumb, takes out all his guards, and escapes an armored prison vehicle*

#hannibal #nbc hannibal #will graham #murder husbands #hannigram #hannibal lecter

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bliss-is-in-blood · 2 months

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Hannibal in Florence was miserable and deep in grief.

And I think one of the best way we are shown that is with the two fight scene with Crawford. like seriously, in Mizumono even if Hannibal has difficulty because Jack is a fucking beast he still hold his ground. In Contorno Jack just beat the shit out of Hannibal and Hannibal is so out of it, just let it happens.

In Mizumono Hannibal is very proactive, he defends himself but most importantly he attacks. In Contorno he mostly just 'tries' to flee.

(Note that the gif are not in order of how the fight goes, it's just to outline what I'm saying.)

Hannibal jump above his counter, it's a big jump that ask a lot of effort and energy and he goes to attack Jack

He has something to defend, something to keep and an ennemie to defeat. But in Contorno he wasn't confrontationnal. Before the fight start he was planning on leaving as fast as possible so to not fight and Jack had just been quick enough to reach him, he has to stop when he smell him, knowing he won't escape the fight. First thing Jack does is to send Hannibal crash on a showcase (left).

In Mizumono (right) he also pushes him until he crashes against glass cupboard.

What does Hannibal does next in Mizumono ? get back up to fight quickly, Jack handle him quite rougly. But in Contorno Hannibal struggle to get up, he is slow, Jack has all the time to give him a strong kick and send him back on the ground.

In Mizumono Hannibal recovers as soon as possible and pursue the fight giving Jack a Hard time while in Contorno he crawl on the floor as if he can't recover from the blunt hit when we know he already went through something similar and managed just fine.

Jack has free reign to beat the shit out of him. In Contorno it keep on the same patern, Hannibal tries to flee and Jack have the pleasure to drag him back to his feet to beat him up. Sure Hannibal does manage to flee but he didn't gave Jack any struggle. He has no fight, no energy, no rage, no bite. He just endure the beating.

In Mizumono he gave Jack his all. All because he was waiting for Will so they could leave together. In Contorno he's been grieving so much and is so miserable he doesn't even fight. He lost Will and fleed to one of his favorite place in the world to heal and get back on feet. The grief make it impossible. He flee out of habit or reflex for survival, instead of actual will. He didn't want to fight Jack this time because he knew he wouldn't be able to give his all, all his heart and mind and energy all because it's been sucked off by grief. We know Hannibal is capable to hold his ground in a fight, he might not be the best fighter especially against a trained FBI agent but let's not forgot he won against Jack and nearly killed him. In Contorno, in all of his time in Florence really, he's just a shadow of himself.

Getting back Will bring him the fight he need in the Mason manor but when Will reject him he knows he can't go on like he did in Florence because without Will liberty is almost tasteless. He can't handle being on his own again, he can't handle Will rejection so he give himself up, it's just too much. And sure he was thriving in Florence but he was also taking big BIG risk, it's a man who managed to keep under the radar for his whole life, yet he was found quite easily. Grief takes many form especially for a man like Hannibal.

In Florence he was just miserable and barely managed when you compare his life pre-Will and post-Will (That's another parallele for those two, Hannibal was as changed by Will than Will was by Hannibal)

#HANNIBAL #NBC HANNIBAL #HANNIGRAM #JACK CRAWFORD #MURDER HUSBANDS #WILL GRAHAM #Gif are mine but can be used freely

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coryosbaby · 1 month

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Time to Pretend .. Will Graham x student! Reader

Content warning . 18+ NSFW

His sweet little moans sound so delicious in her ear that it almost seems right to be touching him like this.

Oh, and how sweet he looks. Her forensics professor leans against his desk, big arms gripping the edge of it as his pants rest at his ankles. His cock is red and achy in her hand as she rubs the tip of him with her palm.

He stays still for the most part, but boy does he make faces. His mouth dropped open, eyes scrunched closed as she whispers foul mouthed things in his ear. He whines when she kisses him firmly on the mouth, feverently pressing his lips against hers like a man starved. She pulls away from him with a small chuckle.

“Concentrate, professor.“

“Please,” he murmurs, breathless. Her thumb rubs over his cockhead and he fucks into her hand with shallow thrusts. “Please, baby— I can’t—“

“You can,” she coos. His glasses fall crooked on his nose, and she kisses him on the cheek before setting them straight. “Come on, professor Graham, don’t you want to be a good boy for me?”

The sound he makes is borderline pornographic. He nods, because yes, he wants to be a good boy for her, he wants it more than his next breath. He bites his lower lip to muffle his sounds— it’s a lunch break, and anyone could walk in.

“Look at you, honey,” she sighs out, hypnotized by the pre cum spilling over her fist. “You’re so wet. Practically dripping down my hand.”

“It’s.. it’s because you’re making me feel so good,” he breathes out. His hand reaches out to wrap around the wrist stroking him, and he doesn’t know if he wants her to stop or keep going because his brain has turned to complete mush. He assumes the latter, because he can feel his orgasm rapidly approaching when she twists her wrist a certain way. “You’re making me feel so good. Fuck— “He tilts his head back, eyes rolling. “ I’m— I’m close. I’m gonna—“

Her hand stops, pulls away from him so suddenly that he lets out a choked sob. Not again.

“No!” He whines, and reaches out to grab her fingers and put them back where they belong. She slaps his hand away.

“Did I say you could do that?” she asks, scolding. “Put your hands on the desk. Don’t fucking touch me, ever.”

He wants to scream. But his obedience doesn’t waiver now, and he digs his fingernails into the wood of the table. She smiles at this, her hands trailing up to his hips and squeezing them.

“You’re so pretty,” she praises, and tilts her head. “It’s too bad you’re such a brat.”

“I’m not.” he replies under his breath, almost annoyed. But not really— he could never be annoyed with her.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s what I thought,” she says, before wrapping her hand around him again. He sighs in relief, his cock so red that it’s almost purple. How long has it been since they begun this? Thirty, maybe forty minutes? He should be concerned about getting caught, but right now he’s too far gone to care.

There she goes again. Bringing Will to the edge, denying him. Over, and over, and over. Until some semblance of mercy is cast upon the poor man when he sees her pull down the front of her skirt. She tugs the waistband of her underwear open so he can see the top of her mound, and she directs the tip of his cock right above it. She jacks him feverently, telling him to squirt all over her aching pussy.

Will is excited, almost relieved of all of his fucking issues when she says this. It’s all going great— until the sound of a doorknob jingling reverberates through the room.

Panic surges through Will. He had locked the door (thank god), but now the person on the other side begins to knock.

He thought she would panic. She doesn’t.

“Better cum now, professor,” she teases, batting her eyelashes, and he bites into his wrist. “Cmon, baby, I’m finally letting you cum. Is a little audience really giving you cold feet?”

“(Y/N), I swear to God—“

“Will?”

He hears a voice from outside, one that seems to be looking for him.

Jack Crawford. He’s getting edged by one of his students, and the person to come knocking on his classroom door is Jack fucking Crawford. His forehead bumps against hers and his mouth falls open.

He can’t help what happens next. Maybe it’s all the pent up sensations, or the way her pussy looks so delectable and she’s begging for him to cum all over it— maybe it’s the fact that he might get caught. But the man’s mouth drops open, drool seeping out of the corner of it, and he finally, finally reaches his peak.

He practically drenches the girl’s panties, glazes the inside with sticky white and fights the urge to yell how thankful he is. She strokes him through his orgasm, a grin on her face at the sight of his spend coating her. The knocking sounds louder, but fuck it feels so good that Will could care less.

She pulls her hand away when he comes down. She smiles, her lips grazing the shell of his ear.

“Good boy,” she whispers, and he shudders.

“Will?” Jack’s voice sounds again, concerned almost. “Are you in there?”

The girl shakes her head— a signal. There’s a smile on her face as she sees Will’s distraught face. He stays silent.

It isn’t long before Jack leaves, going off elsewhere to find him. He hears retreating footsteps, and breathes a sigh of relief. Looking at her, his jaw clenches tight.

“Why did you do that?”

She shrugs. “Why not?”

He wants to be angry, but all he’s thinking about is the load that’s drying in her underwear. She kisses his cheek before she skips to the door, vacant on the other side.

“See you tomorrow, professor.”

:: @mysticpenguincreation @nightmare-niko @iheartinkonpaper @claireyberryy @becauseseaotters @emmalandry @princesstiti14 @aerangi @kaithoughs @jamespotterismydaddy

#bunny writes #will Graham #will Graham x reader #will Graham x fem! reader #will Graham x student! reader #professor! Will Graham x reader #professor! Will Graham #student! reader #student x teacher #Hannibal #Hannibal nbc #Hannibal series #will Graham Drabble #will Graham blurb #will Graham oneshot #will Graham fanfic #Hugh dancy

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atlas-the-bastard · 7 months

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id under the cut

[Image Description: A meme created with picsart featuring the characters Jack Crawford, Hannibal Lecter, and Will Graham from the TV show NBC's Hannibal. The first/top half of the meme is a photo of Jack Crawford and Hannibal Lecter talking to each other. Pasted on top of Jack's body is a screenshot of a post by tumblr user greenlin, with the words "can you come collect your freak of a man please. He's doing things". To the right of it, pasted on top of Hannibal's body, is a screenshot of a reblog to greenlin's post by user keldabe-kriff. The reblog contains a screenshot of a tag, "#no i set him loose on purpose". Underneath this image of Jack and Hannibal is a still from the show of Will Graham standing on his roof in a T-shirt and boxers. End Image Description.]

#i love picsart #hannibal #nbc hannibal #will graham #hannibal lecter #jack crawford

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murderhusbands4life · 7 months

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Hannibal Lecter X Autistic Child Reader

first request!

request: Can u do like austitic child reader with Hannibal

summary: Hannibal latest patient is a child filled with trauma over their elder brothers death and Hannibal cares for them like his own.

Third person pov...

Mrs L/N and her 7 year old arrive outside Dr Hannibal Lecter's office, Y/Ns new physiatrist. A little over a month ago Y/Ns elder brother died, the 7 year old witnessed it since then the child had been filled with terror and hadn't slept well since.

Said child was grumpily standing next to their Mum staring down at their shoes swaying back and forth. "Do I have too" they pout, this makes Y/Ns mum sigh, she kneels and holds her Childs shoulder making the kid flinch not liking touch.

"Sorry honey, but you know what the school says you have to stick with the same therapist for at least a week before going back to school" explains the kids Mum, the child sighs. "Okayy, lets do it" they say making the women smile at them.

The building itself was beautiful with a sense of historical back ground, it was tall and didn't look like a physiatrists office, nervously Y/N follows their mother inside the building, Mrs L/N had heard from her close friend Jack Crawford about an amazing physiatrist and decided to make an appointment for her child.

Soon they came to a door which was Dr Lecter's office, Mrs L/N knocks on the door, looking down at her nervous child of course the child was nervous, Y/N doesn't like change and this is a huge change for them, then the door opens and man stands there.

He was tall around 6tf, he had ash grey hair, brown eyes, he had sharp cheekbones and an obviously fake smile on his face, to Y/N he looked about 40 maybe mid 40s. he was wearing a dark red pinstripe suit and dark brown shoes.

He looks at the mother and child in front of him wondering who they were. "hello, you must be Dr Lecter, Im Y/M/N L/N and this is Y/N we have an appointment" says the H/C woman, Hannibal eyes widened a fraction before returning to normal. "ah yes my apologies, I had forgotten please come in" he says and stands to the right holding the door open.

He had a slight accent, possibly eastern European, Y/N wracks their brain trying to place it but couldn't think, they shall have to ask the man later.

But Y/Ns mum shakes her head at the invitation. "I'm already late for work, I'll leave Y/N with you" she says before turning her back and kneeling next to her child, Hannibal watches as the child's eyes wonder not looking at their mother.

"Y/N love, I'll be back to pick you up later okay, my shift at the clinic will finish at 5 okay see you then, be good and respectful to Dr Lecter now" she says to the child kissing their forehead and walking away throwing a wave goodbye behind her.

The hallway was filled with silence as the Dr and Child stand. "Please come in Y/N" he says to the silent child. Y/N nervously enters the pristine office, the child gasps at how large the room was, bright E/C eyes marvel at its beauty.

Dr Lecter lips turn up at the emotionless child gasping at his office, he then walks over to the child and begins taking their coat, this makes the child look at him before smiling in thanks. "Thank you, sir," Hannibal hears a mumble.

"of course, now if you would please take a seat we will begin" he says motioning to one of the chairs he uses for his patents, though it had been a while since he had such a young one in his office.

"now then we shall begin, I am Hannibal Lecter and I will be your physiatrist" he says smiling at the small child sitting in the overly large chair, said child was still looking around the room drinking in all the details and books.

"Im Y/N L/N, sir im 7 years old" comes a tiny voice, Hannibal smiles slightly, they were getting somewhere at least he got their name. "hello Y/N do you know why you are here?" he asks the child, Y/N stopped looking around and instead looked at their shoes.

"because I don't sleep and Mummy's worried about me" comes the quiet voice, Hannibal was barely able to hear. He crosses his legs and continues to write in his notebook, brown eyes look over the child sitting opposite him, their movements skittish like a scared bunny.

"And why is that Y/N?" he asks gently coaxing the child to speak more, minutes pass before the child speaks. "Because brother died and I still dream off him though not nice dreams, I miss him" whispers the child tears gathering in the corner of their big E/C eyes.

Already seeing this happening Hannibal hands, the 7 tear old some tissues he keeps on his desk, tiny hand grab the white tissue and wipes their tears and blows their nose. "t-thank y-you s-sir" comes a tearful voice.

Hannibal smiles gently at the child reassuring them. "of course, child" he says as their session moves on.

Over Y/Ns next few appointments with Hannibal they began to get more comfortable with him and always enjoyed coming to his office, once he noticed how their eyes wondered toward his many books on the second level, the expression of surprise will forever make him happy as he told the child they could read his collection.

Said child bounds over to the many books and carefully grabs a couple, he had learnt that Y/N was autistic and had a love for books they loved reading anything, the two become ever closer their sessions became something less formal.

Hannibal had never felt this close to a child before, but he enjoyed their sessions together and was delighted to be able to help such a sweet innocent child go through their trauma.

The end!

Hope you liked this first oneshot for this new book. Sorry for the spelling and grammar mistakes in this.

Requests are open!

Word count: 1065

#hannibal #hannibal lecter #hannibal nbc #hannibal lecter x child reader #x autistic reader #x child reader #death of brother #oneshot #fluff #hannibal x child reader

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gallavichsreddie1128 · 18 days

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The Pact (Will Graham)

Description: Y/N and Will made a pact when they were 6 years old but Y/N doesn’t remember it.

Word Count: 2,582k

By definition: A pact is a formal agreement between individuals or parties.

Will Graham was an odd man to say the least. He lived alone and collected dogs, he had visions, he sleep walked and he was capable of murder. Capable of murder? Who am I kidding? The man has murdered someone but that's besides the point. Will Graham was an interesting human being. He wasn’t stable or okay in the head. He needed actual help but he wouldn’t ever admit that. Even when his best friend was screaming in his ear about it.

“Will that isn’t okay! You need to get help before you hurt yourself.” Or somebody. He rolled his eyes and scoffed. He didn’t need help nor did he have the time. There was a murderer on the loose. That was more important. “I don’t have time Y/N. And besides, it's not that big of a deal.” He said, she scoffed at him and it was her turn to roll her eyes. “Will, I found you on the road. What if you got hit by a car?” “I didn’t. Thanks to you.” He appreciated the hell out of her. She was there for him through everything and he couldn’t thank her enough. But she was overprotective of him or so he felt.

She was just being a good friend. He couldn’t tell her this but each time she saved his life, whether it be a small occurrence he fell more in love with her. She wasn’t aware that he was in love with her nor did she remember the pact they made when they were 6 on the playground. The pact that Will holds onto as the days go on. The pact that he made sure he never forgot. What was the pact? That if they weren’t married by their mid to late thirties they’d marry each other. She didn’t remember the pact, which frustrated him but she still made it and it was on paper. He kept the paper all these years waiting for the right moment to bring it to life. The man was crazy, well crazy for her. But she didn’t see it.

She just thought he needed help with his mind but little did she know there were other problems. “Then why don’t you stay for a few nights and help me if you think I'm that helpless.” He suggested to her. What he was asking her didn’t seem like a lot but to him it was only step one to his plan. She agreed and stayed that night. She offered to stay on the couch but he convinced her to take the bed. He was also in the bed with her but she didn’t mind. Besides one nightmare he had that woke them both up, he slept great.

He got up before her and watched her sleep. She looked so peaceful and pretty. She was always pretty but peaceful? With him in her life that wasn’t always the case. She worried for him and his health but he didn’t take it seriously. She blamed Jack Crawford for what he’s been through. She hated that man but would never tell Will. Will liked his job but it was dangerous. His hand caressed her sleeping face as he had a soft smile. Soon enough, he thought. Soon enough he’d get what he wanted and that was her.

Night after night she stayed with him and watched over him until she fell asleep. She knew that her company was helping and that he needed her there so she offered to move in with him and even split the bills. He held back the smirk that wanted to show. She was giving in to his plan without knowing. She made the next move without realizing it. He told her that he wasn’t sure it was a great idea but she insisted and told him that with her there he sleeps better. He put on the act of being hesitant about it and tried to tell her that his problems weren’t hers. “Will, I care about you so yes your problems are mine.” She was falling into his trap perfectly.

Once she was moved in she told him that she would take the guest bedroom. He wanted to tell her that they could share his room but didn’t wanna make anything obvious so he agreed. Him and Hannibal helped her move into the house. Hannibal didn’t have any idea about the pact, nobody besides Will did. It worked better that way. She even had a dog of her own that Winston and the others would have to get used to. Will loved it though and it felt like he was one step closer, which he was. Each night Y/N would end up in his bed by his side. Holding him in her arms so he would calm down. But by morning she was back in her bed, which he hated.

He felt ungrateful, He had her in his house, moved in and helped him but it wasn’t good enough. He walked into her room before getting ready for work, he walked to the chair by her coffee table and sat down in it. He stared at her as she slept, with a dark look in his eyes. He fought the urge to touch her beautiful skin or put her hair behind her ear. He would wake up early just to go into her room and watch her.

It was storming like crazy outside and the dogs were all in the room with them. Y/N slept in Will’s bed due to the storm. She thought it would trigger his nightmares, at least that’s what she told him. Truth was she was scared of thunder, and has been since she was a little girl. So being in bed with Will made her feel safe. She was wide awake staring at the ceiling as thunder could be heard. She couldn’t sleep. Maybe it was the stress from life or worrying about Will. Or the thunder, she couldn’t tell.

She heard Will whimpering in his sleep. She turned to look at him and he was in a pile of sweat and shaking. “Will.” She said, shaking the man. She repeated this until he sprung awake breathing hard. “Hey, it’s okay.” She said, rubbing his sweating back. He looked around to see that he was in his bed. He reached for her hand that was on his back and she let him take it. He placed his forehead on it and kissed her knuckles, he was glad she was there with him. “I’m here Will. I’m not going anywhere.” She said and sat up with him. “Thank you so much.” He whispered. She smiled and leaned into him. “It’s what i’m here for you.” She said.

He looked over at her and watched as her sleepy eyes shut and opened again like she was trying to stay awake. He shifted his body towards her causing her to look at him. He stared at her lips for a moment before leaning in and kissing her. She kissed back softly as his hand held her face. This was a perfect moment and he was so happy that she didn’t pull away or run off. They pulled away way too quickly for his liking. She gave him a small smile before getting out of the bed. “You need a shower. You stink.” She jokes and he laughs.

She watched him as he left the house for work. She had a small smile on her face thinking of the night. They kissed and it was perfect. She never realized that she had feelings for him until that kiss. It felt so right. They didn’t talk about it yet but it wasn’t awkward. She wasn’t sure where to start but she knew it would get brought up eventually. She decided while he was gone she would clean up the house because Will never does. The house wasn’t a mess but she felt like cleaning it up.

She walked into his bedroom and smiled as she saw the bed that wasn’t made. They kissed in that very bed just hours ago. After she made the bed she saw that his dresser had clothes sticking out of it and decided to fold his clothes for him. She pulled out the clothes of the first drawer and saw a piece of paper that was folded. The paper looked old and wore out. She stared at it and thought about opening it to see what it was but that would be an invasion of privacy. But what could it possible be? She let her thoughts get the best of her and she opened the paper.

I, Y/N Y/L/N, Vow to marry William Graham if we aren’t married by 35.

I, Will Graham, Vow to marry Y/N Y/L/N if we aren’t married by 35.

She smiled as she read it but what made her smile drop was the words below.

This is a pact that we made years ago and a pact is a pact. She will be mine. She can’t escape or run from me.

The writing was new compared to the first two sentences. She read over the words a million times before she looked around the room. They made this when they were 6. She completely forgot about it til now. How did Will remember this? And why did he add to it. She folded the piece of paper and put it in her pocket. She had to bring it up to him.

Will drove home feeling happier than ever. He didn’t have stress or worry. He was happy. He got to kiss the love of his life. What more could he ask for? Well besides her being his wife but maybe he wouldn’t have to force her after all.

He walked through the doors and greeted the dogs. Y/N waited for him in the kitchen. Her foot was tapping on the floor as her nerves were through the roof. He walked into the kitchen with a smile on his face. He saw her sitting at the table with a glass of wine making him smile even more. “Hey you okay?” He asked. She didn’t even look at him as she pulled out the paper. She set it on the table and pushed it towards him. “What is this?” She asked. He knew what it was but grabbed it and read it anyway. He laughed “This is a pact we made when we were 6. Where did you find this?” He asked her. She finally looked up at him. “Will, don’t play dumb with me. It was in your top drawer.” She said. “Ok so I kept it. I thought it was cute.” He said. She shook her head. “Will, it’s what is written at the bottom of the page.” She told him.

He never wanted her to find this. He was hoping she would never find it. “Is this why you have me staying here?” She asked him. “You offered to stay here and even live here.” He exclaimed. “I know Will but this feels planned.” She said. “What feels planned?” He asked. “Why did you write that at the bottom of the note?” She asked, ignoring his question. “I-” But he didn’t know what to say. He was struggling over his words. “We made a pact. We must follow through with it.” He said. “Will, We made that when we were 6.” She exclaimed. He shook his head. “A pact is a pact.” He said. She looked at him in disbelief. “Will I won’t marry you because of a pact we made when we were 6.” She said. “You will.” He said walking over to her.

She stood up but he backed her up against the wall. She was scared and nervous as he stared at her with dark eyes. “We belong together Y/N. We love each other and we made a pact that we would be married by now to each other.” He growled at the last part. “Will, please.” Her eyes stared into his dark ones and he cupped her face. “We even kissed last night.” He smiled. He leaned in to where his lips were almost against hers. “You belong to me.” He whispered. “You have since we were 6.” He kissed like he had last night. She didn’t kiss back. She was shocked by the note and everything else. Sure, she had feelings for Will but marrying him? Right now? With him acting like this, that wasn’t happening.

She pulled away from the kiss. “Will baby, I do love you but you need help. And I'll be there with you every step of the way.” She whispered and cupped his face. “I don’t need help, I need you.” He told her. “Will, I can’t marry you in the state of mind you’re in.” She said. “You can and you will.” He told her.

She knew that if she ran, he would find her. If she told anybody, he would kill them. Will Graham was a fucked up human being. She truly had no escape. He took her hand and made her follow him to the bedroom. She was confused as he pulled out a black velvet box. “Will, what is that?” She asked. “I got these the day after you moved in.” He said with a smile.

He opened the box to her, she gasped at the two wedding bands inside. “We can do it right here, right now.” He said. She was quiet as he took out the rings. He set them on top of the dresser and grabbed her hands. “Y/N, I’ve loved you since I was 6 years old. You’ve helped me with my nightmares, my thoughts and life itself. I don’t know what I would do without you. I don’t need help, I just need you.” He said as he slipped the ring on her finger. She had tears in her eyes at what he said and what was happening. He took his ring and gave it to her. She took it with shaky hands. “Will, I do love you a lot and you mean so much to me. But I really think we should wait on this. Let’s enjoy each other and worry about this later.” He shook his head. “What if we don’t get later? What if something happens? This needs to happen now.” He said.

She sighed and realized that no matter what she said he would come up with something. “I want a real wedding.” She said. “And we will have that baby. This is just for now.” She looked down at the ring she had on her finger and the one that he gave her to put on his finger. She really had no way out of this. But it wasn’t that bad either. Maybe as his wife she could get him some real help that wasn’t Hannibal Lecter. Maybe just maybe she can get him to leave his awful job.

She grabbed his hand and slid the ring on it. “Will, I love you so much and nothing will ever stop that or come between this. You’ve been by my side since I was 6 years old and I thank you for that. You’re a beautiful and kind soul that I will cherish from this day on.” She said. He smiled at what she said and they leaned in and kissed. As Husband and Wife.

#hannibal #hannibal lecter #hannibal nbc #hugh dancy #mads mikkelsen #will graham #will graham x reader #will graham x you #will graham imagine

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lauriegraham01 · 8 months

Text

haunting

pairings: will graham x reader, gn!reader,

summary: will's been going down a dark path and feels like he's losing everything, from control, his sense of self, to reality. he fears he'll lose you too.

tw: nightmares, blood, mutilation, angst, hurt/comfort

wc: 1,348

a/n: based off a nightmare i had a while back that to this day i still think about all the time because it felt too real. only difference is that will was the victim of violence displayed in dream sequence.

Will was shutting himself out.

It wasn't the first time that he had done this but something about this time around felt different, felt more dangerous.

You had seen the way Jack Crawford had been pushing him, and you were afraid it was only a matter of time before Will reached the point of no return. You carried a bit of guilt with you, since you had been the one to bring Will under Jacks radar. You knew about his gifts, his profound sense of empathy, and you thought by joining Jacks team he could make a real difference. While proven to be true, Jack saw a machine that he could constantly use without ever thinking about the rust that he would cause from exhaustion.

The light in his eyes had been slowly going out and you felt helpless as you felt the man you loved drift away from you. Countless nights you'd reach for him only to be met with cold sheets. Only then you would find him outside shivering, untethered from reality as the horrors from the murders he saw daily plagued his mind. Other nights you'd wake up to his shivers as he jerked from nightmares drenched in sweat.

"Will." Your voice comes out groggy as you turn to face the movement you felt within your shared bed. What you see strikes fear in your heart as you see Will shaking, trembling, drenched in sweat as ragged breaths escaped his lips.

"Will, honey wake up," you say tapping his face gently. When you see no response you begin to lightly shake him by his arm, not wanting him to wake up even more scared.

"Please," you whisper, pleading desperately as you give him a rather harder shake.

When his eyes shoot open, his breathing becomes even more rapid as he's brought back to reality.

"Hey, hey, shhh it's alright," you say softly as you let out an air of relief. Finding the tiniest comfort that he was able to come back.

As you push away the damped locks clinging to his forehead, he seems to relax underneath your touch. Wrapping a hand around your wrist suddenly, you're scared that the touch was unwelcomed, that the act of affection had been too much for him in such a vulnerable state. Yet when he moved his hand to place it on top of yours you knew that the opposite was true, that he found solace in your gentle touch.

"I'm here. I'm right here," you whisper before planting a kiss on his temple. He shuddered at the act as he felt overwhelmed by a sea of emotions. After a couple of minutes minutes his breathing evened out and you manage to coax him to sit upright in the bed.

As he hid his face in his hands trying to fully come back down to earth, you rubbed circles across his back hoping that it would help the process.

"I don't think I can do this much longer." His voice comes out muffled as he still had his face hid.

"Will, honey we don't have to talk about it." You tilt your head sideways at him sympathetically, not wanting to push him further into his pain.

"It was real. It was so real y/n." As he turns his head to meet your gaze you can see the pain hidden behind those eyes that carried so many beasts of burden.

"I can't save you, y/n."

Will extended a hand as he wiped the steam from his shower away from the mirror. He had a difficult time staring back at what was in the mirror. Somehow his reflection felt something so familiar yet so foreign. Familiar in the sense that he recognized these features as his own- his mothers eyes, his father hair, only his curls had now grown longer. Yet foreign in the way that he couldn't connect these features to himself, they didn't match the mental reflection of himself in his mind.

Closing his eyes for a second, he shakes his head as he pushes those thoughts aside, not wanting to spiral down a rabbit hole. Reaching for the towel he used earlier, he wrapped it around himself, tucking it lowly on his hips. As he opened the door and into your shared bedroom he was caught off guard by the darkness that consumed the room. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, scanning the room he saw your figure standing at the foot of the bed with your back facing him.

Calling out your name he reached closer to you, as an eeriness settled within his stomach. Extending a hand out as he reached for you and grabbed your shoulder, the sight he saw as you turned around made his blood run cold and his stomach drop.

"Will," you croaked out. Blood soaked through your clothes as a grappling hook had been pushed through your abdomen, flesh tearing and bone exposed and broken as it had clawed it ways through you.

"I'm sorry," was all that you could choke out as blood began to seep its way through the corners of your mouth.

Will took you into his arms as you both sank to the floor, clinging onto you tightly as he felt the world crumble beneath him.

"No, no, no, no. Y/n, stay with me," he pleaded as he took in the sight of your corrupted body. His mind couldn't even form a thought as he saw the way the hook had mutilated you completely from the inside out, hollowing you from the inside.

"Do you hear me? Y/n? You have to stay with me?"

His immediate thought was to call Jack. As he looked around the room frantically racking his brain as to where he left his cell phone, he freezes when he sees as familiar face lurking in the shadows. A face that's followed him everywhere and is there even when he closes his eyes. Garret Jacob Hobbs stands in the corner, face pale and just as lifeless as the last time Will saw him.

His breath hitches in his throat and he feels the room close in on him as he locks eyes with GJH cold lifeless gaze.

"See?" The ghost smiles sinisterly as he breaks eye contact to look down at his work. At the mutilated and dying corpse of the one thing Will loved most in this world.

"Will," you call out softly, "look at me."

If he heard you, he made no effort to obey you as he continued staring straight ahead.

"Will, please. Come back, look at me love."

Will slowly turned his head until he locked eyes with you and he felt the lump in his throat grow bigger and fear climbed it's way up threatening to suffocate him.

You moved cautiously so as not to spook him, you reached over to take one of his hands that gripped the sheets and placed it flat on your chest.

"Do you feel that?"

Will only looked sadly at your sandwiched hands, not knowing whether to trust what was in front of him.

"Will, i'm here and i'm alive." It was only then that Will could feel the faint beat of your heart beneath his hand. Steady and alive.

"I promise you, he can't hurt me."

When Will met your eyes again, his had glossed over and it was only then that he could finally feel relief. Feel secure in your touch and that you being alive was the truth. He buried his head into your chest as he began to sob, feeling his tears fall on your clothes.

Will was fragile. This you knew. His mind was a maze that even he couldn't fully understand. You'd never know if you would truly understand the terrors Will faced but you knew that you would be there to grant him ease of mind. To bring light to the darkness that is his mind because to Will that's what you were. A lighthouse shinning at sea, guiding him back ashore.

"I'm here Will, i'm always here."

#nbc hannibal #hannibal #will graham x reader #will graham #hugh dancy #madds mikkelsen #angst #hurt/comfort #hurtful #garret jacob hobbs

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defectivevillain · 8 months

Text

this broken design, ch12

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader

summary: “Dr. Lecter?” You blink a few times, convinced that you’re dreaming. The man’s gleaming eyes and concerned expression seem a bit too realistic to be conjured by your sleeping mind, though. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen him look worried. You quickly decide that you don’t like it.

“Hannibal, please,” the doctor responds nonchalantly. You stare at him in utter confusion. Just what is happening right now? You thought you were dreaming, but this feels a bit too vivid. “What are you doing out here?”

read from the beginning here.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

warnings: canon-typical cannibalism, violence, blood & gore

Hannibal eyes the clock on the wall. It’s nearly 8:00 p.m.—approximately the time that you should be showing up for your appointment. In the time Hannibal has known you, you’ve never been late to an appointment.

It’s not like this is the first time a client has missed an appointment. It happens a lot, especially within the practice of psychiatry and psychology. Events occur, people contact sudden ailments or forget commitments… It happens. Yet, this has never happened with you before. If the client were anyone else, Hannibal would resign to sitting at his desk and sketching until the patient showed up or twenty minutes passed—whichever came first. An absence has never bothered him before, yet when he glances over at the chair across from him, he can find no better word for the sentiment. Absence.

The clock’s hand shows no mercy. It spins mockingly from its brass confines, creating a subtle ticking sound that embeds itself into Hannibal’s very skin. He doesn’t understand this strange prickling feeling, this restlessness that eats at him from the inside.

For a fraction of a moment, he hears the telltale movement of someone’s hand turning the doorknob to his office. Hannibal walks over to the door and opens it, only to find nothing on the other side. There is no one sitting in the lobby—nothing waiting for him save for the foreign feeling of dread he seems to be accruing.

Hannibal spends the rest of the night resolutely refusing to read into your absence. It is a human’s nature to forget—you likely forgot to attend. He will follow up with a phone call tomorrow. You could have gotten called onto an assignment, too. Indeed, there are a multitude of rational explanations for your absence. Hannibal spends the rest of the night rifling through them in his mind, before firmly compartmentalizing any thoughts about you.

The next day, he calls you again. You do not respond. Foreboding threatens to trickle into his psyche, but Hannibal pushes it away insistently. You are fine. You are likely busy with work, busy sleeping, merely… busy. Hannibal immerses himself into the sessions with his clients that day, pretending that he isn’t avoiding the unshakeable facts staring him straight in the face. You’ve never missed a session. You always answer your phone.

He begins to grow accustomed to your voicemail message, to hearing the tranquility in your voice as you kindly tell him to leave his name and phone number after the tone. Days slip through Hannibal’s fingers and there is absolutely no sign of you.

Something must be wrong, because Hannibal is soon summoned to the Bureau. Once he arrives, he realizes that he very well could have been the last person to see you. Hannibal cooperates with Jack Crawford’s insistent questioning and pretends not to notice the man’s evident annoyance at the utter lack of information about your whereabouts. Hannibal isn’t your keeper, and he tells Jack as much. Jack doesn’t take too kindly to the remark, however, and he elects to murmur under his breath in the corner of the room. Hannibal folds his hands in his lap and pretends not to be amused by all the fanfare. Amusement is far preferable to any other foreign, forbidden feeling clawing at the unmarred carcass under his skin.

At some point, Jack steps away to take a phone call. Hannibal waits, with nothing but the insistent rhythm of the clock on the wall to accompany him. Before long, Crawford returns with a grim expression on his face.

“I have some news you may want to hear,” Jack tells him. His lips are pinched and there’s an unreadable emotion lingering in his eyes.

“Yes?” Hannibal asks. He already knows what he will hear. Indeed, he hears your name fall from Jack’s lips, with that tortured expression on his face—and he knows. Hannibal gets bits and pieces of the rest—Abel Gideon, abandoned residence outside Baltimore, a kidnapping.

Somehow, there is little discussion about what will be done next. Jack regards him for a moment, before evidently deciding that his presence will be useful. Jack simply nods and turns on his heel, ever the leader. Hannibal follows, mildly surprised by the show of trust. He isn’t very close with Jack—has only invited him to his residence a few times for dinner. He sees value in having Jack as an acquaintance—another chess piece—and therefore quells his pride and follows after him.

“Right under our noses, this whole damn time,” Jack sighs once they’re comfortably situated in the helicopter. The man’s jaw is clenched tightly. Hannibal recognizes that he doesn’t want to talk about it. He asks for details anyway. Crawford then recounts the phone conversation he had with you all those days ago. A maelstrom of irritation, amusement, and something far darker rages inside Hannibal’s mind palace. The ivory walls are crumbling and peeling. Dust falls from the ceiling every few seconds, coating neglected surfaces with more memories. He clenches his fist at his side, annoyed with the onslaught of feelings he had thought long buried. Hannibal can’t remember the last time he’s felt so…bored. Unfulfilled.

They arrive soon enough and far too late all the same. The helicopter lands in a grassy field, across from a nondescript house that almost appears to be molding and decaying at the seams. Jack is quick to run to the front door, which has already been thrown ajar by the agents that must have arrived before them. Hannibal follows the man, turning the corner to find a dilapidated dining room. Wallpaper crumbles and falls from the walls, coating the floor in a truly unsightly amount of dust and debris. The room reeks of decay and death. Truly, the only indication that the room is meant for meals is the delicate, purposeful organization of plates and silverware near each seat. All the chairs are empty. As Hannibal blinks, he realizes he can see what the killer saw: a full table, listening with rapt attention and hanging off his every word. The head of the table is the puppetmaster, content to watch as everyone trips over themselves to earn his favor. Hannibal understands the vision, but the execution is rather lacking. His eyes travel from the table to the chair at the other head of the table with frayed ropes attached to the arms.

Jack suddenly bursts into movement at his side, moving towards a figure collapsed against the far wall. It seems Jack Crawford only has eyes for his agent. Hannibal, on the other hand, finds his gaze searching for the one presence that is currently unaccounted for. Gideon was here; he’s dead now—at least, according to Jack. Hannibal warily walks through the hall before he stops in his tracks. Abel Gideon lies dead in the hallway, a bullet wound carving a neat path through the center of his temple. Blood colors the wooden flooring near him. The weapon is nowhere in sight. It doesn’t take long for Hannibal to comprehend what happened here.

You escaped from your bindings. Chilton and Lounds were present, too. In an effort to keep them out of the crossfire, you stumbled back into the hallway. It’s a rather long passageway with several doors on each side—apt for concealment. Perhaps you stumbled into the closet on the right wall, or the tiny bathroom on the left wall, and hid as Gideon trailed you. Perhaps you stood there silently—a hand over your mouth as you tried to stifle your breathing. You only had a dagger; you knew that stealth and speed were your only advantages. As Gideon passed, you jumped out and stabbed the back of his neck. There’s a smattering of blood on the floor a few feet from Gideon’s corpse. You two brawled. Gideon, overcome with fury at your insolence, clasped his burly hands around your neck and squeezed. You managed to break free of his grip by stabbing him in the eye. You picked up the gun as he dropped it and fired it at his temple. A clean shot.

Your dagger lies in the crimson puddle of Gideon’s blood. Hannibal feels himself reaching out to grab it before he can rationalize the urge to do so. He’s taken by way droplets of blood slowly slip down the weapon, catching the light briefly before falling down to stain the floor. He manages to suppress the unexplained urge.

Jack’s voice draws him out of his thoughts. Hannibal remembers himself and turns his back on Gideon’s corpse, before walking to the dining room. He finds himself thrown into sheer chaos. Freddie Lounds is being questioned by a few agents. More agents are huddled around a dining chair on the ground. Hannibal takes another step forward and realizes that they’re surrounding Chilton, who is unconscious and mutilated. He is in a rather dire state, yet the sight of his mangled face only incites indifference within Hannibal. It’s laughably easy to conceive what happened there: Gideon’s grudge against Chilton prompted him to kidnap the man and mutilate him. The man had no intention of killing Chilton. Why would Gideon kill him, if he could instead ensure that Chilton lived as a mangled mess of limbs and skin in constant pain?

Hannibal then looks over to the wall, where he finds Jack kneeling and speaking to someone. It’s you, he realizes. You’re on the ground, holding a hand to your side. You’re shaking and shivering, a glassy glaze over your eyes as you stare at Jack. Your hands are drenched in blood and your clothes are bloodstained. There are several markings developing near your neck—evidently from your scuffle with Gideon. You look frail—vulnerable in a manner Hannibal has never quite associated with you. Hannibal feels himself walking toward you before he can take another breath. He mimics Jack’s posture and glances at him. The department head looks uncharacteristically troubled. Hannibal wonders if the rumors of his favoritism for you are somewhat founded.

There’s a scar ripping down the left side of your face, spilling bloodied tears down your cheek. It’s a gruesome sight—clearly performed to anger him—yet all Hannibal can fear is a strange sense of reverence. You look like a painting, a textured canvas brought to life in vivid colors. There are lacerations on your wrists from the ropes that kept you bound to your seat at the dining table. Horribly rude, Hannibal thinks. It is much more gratifying to entertain willing dinner guests. Evidently, Gideon didn’t fully grasp that notion.

Within moments, the paramedics enter the scene. Hannibal follows the medic who is currently carrying you. Jack nods at him—a symbol of approval and reassurance. Hannibal nods in response, knowing what the man is trying to convey with the slightest gesture. Crawford is the head of the BAU—he’s needed elsewhere. Hannibal meets the paramedics in the driveway and they move you onto a stretcher. You’re wheeled into the ambulance. Hannibal finds himself faced with the paramedics’ questions: who you are, if you have allergies, what wounds you’ve acquired. He answers to the best of his ability and, with a subtle mention of his past as a surgeon, he’s allowed to accompany you in the back of the ambulance.

As the ambulance speeds down the road, Hannibal reflects. Something about you eludes him, and he can’t quite figure out what it is. He wants to wind you up and see what makes you tick. Through your sessions, he’s built a rudimentary understanding of you. But… he wants more.Hannibal wants to know everything about you. You’re special. He’s met with dozens of clients throughout his years as a psychiatrist, but none of them have stimulated his mind as much as you have.

You’re sharp. You’re never lost in his extended metaphors or hyper-specific references to the arts or academia; rather, you easily understand them and see directly past them to the root of his psyche. The thought provokes an equal amount of exhilaration and wariness within him. You look at him and you see him. You don’t see Hannibal Lecter, the well-read surgeon or Hannibal Lecter, the Chesapeake Ripper—although he feels you’re clever enough to have had a fleeting suspicion of him before. Your organic, effortless insight into his perspective is something Hannibal has been entirely unable to find anywhere else.

Perhaps that is why Hannibal finds himself lingering in your hospital room, waiting for you to wake. The chair at your bedside has become his seat; even when you have other visitors, that chair is always left alone. He stays long enough to learn which nurses care for you during different shifts. He stays long enough to fall asleep with his hand resting on the mattress next to you.

You’re still unconscious after a few days. Hannibal knows you must be in significant distress; he wonders if you unintentionally exacerbated your injuries during the fight. Your adrenaline must have been pumping—otherwise, he can’t quite conceptualize how you escaped with your life. Hannibal knows you’re a force to be reckoned with, but to his knowledge, Abel Gideon was, too. He supposes he is pleased with how things turned out—Gideon would have grown rather annoying. Judging from the scar on your face, Gideon wanted to confront Hannibal himself. It would have been a waste of time. Abel Gideon is far from the ideal prey; in fact, the ideal prey is now unconscious in a hospital bed next to him: you.

Hannibal finds himself unable to dismiss such an opportunity. You aren’t getting too many visitors these days, since you still haven’t woken up. Hannibal reckons he has a few days before you’ll wake. That’s more than enough time to kill a nurse, take their scrubs, and enter your room unencumbered. Frighteningly easy, really.

Perhaps that opportunity is why Hannibal finds himself looming over you in someone else’s skin, reaching for the scalpel to cut you open. Security around the hospital is laughably lackluster—Hannibal reckons he didn’t have to go to such lengths to conceal himself. Even so, he doesn’t intend to go to prison any time soon. Captivity would be a horrible bore.

Your wound’s location is far too convenient, Hannibal thinks to himself as he removes your sutures. Surely, it would be foolish not to capitalize on it. With that recognition lingering in his mind, he pushes the scalpel to your skin and allows his vision to be flooded with the sight of skin, tissue, blood. His gloved hands move with practiced precision. He’s first greeted with the mesentery, which briefly impedes his access to the meat. The small intestine also serves as a momentary obstacle. Finally, after some manipulation, Hannibal finds the tube he’s looking for—the ureter—and removes a portion of it to free the kidney. His right hand almost moves on its own, reaching down and yanking at the organ. Hannibal puts your kidney in cold storage and then moves to stitch your skin back together. By the time he’s finished, your wound looks exactly the same as before.

He stares down at you, before taking a slow breath in. That process was laughably easy. When you wake, you will feel pain—but that pain will be easily attributed to the gunshot wound. The nurses already performed blood tests in the days prior. With your normal functioning, it is very unlikely that the medics will order more tests. You likely won’t even wake within the next day or two. By then, Hannibal will have returned to his residence and feasted on the meal you provided him. Meanwhile, you will be reclined in your hospital bed, feeling none the wiser. The thought sends a thrill down his spine and shivers down his skin. Hannibal can already envision the dish he’ll make: deviled kidney on toast. The dish is traditionally associated with breakfast, but Hannibal will likely eat it for supper. He has a loaf of fresh-baked panettone bread, which will pair beautifully with the flavors of the meat. He feels the insides of his cheeks stinging with salivation as he walks out of the hospital and leaves the receptionist with an amiable departing remark.

Hours later, he sits at the head of his dining table with a beautifully constructed meal in front of him. Hannibal almost doesn’t want to consume it. It is truly a vision to behold. Hannibal gives himself a few moments to breathe it all in, before finally picking up his fork and letting it pierce the meat. The sauce coating the kidney dribbles from the piece on his utensil. Hannibal brings you to his tongue, his lips twisting in a morbid, macabre mockery of a smile.

next chapter

Thank you to my bestest friend and #1 Pinocchio simp, @pinocchiospissrock, for helping me with the medical stuff. I’m not the least bit knowledgeable about medical stuff, so if there are any remaining inconsistencies, they are absolutely my fault and I urge you to blink at them for a moment before moving on. Lol.

Some small lil details: Apparently, panettone bread is rather difficult to make, since the dough is very sensitive and the entire baking process is time-consuming. It made perfect sense to me, therefore, that Hannibal would both have a loaf on-hand and also display absolutely no struggles with the baking process, in true mysterious Hannibal fashion.

I used a lot of alliteration in this chapter, yes. You can rip it from my cold, dead hands.

“Looming over you in someone else’s skin” is more of a reference to Hannibal wearing someone else’s clothes. However, in Silence of the Lambs, Hannibal does actually wear someone’s skin, so… take that as you will.

“Hannibal brings you to his tongue” okay, buddy, take me on a date first. sheesh.

and we finally we got to some more cannibalism. *maniacal laughter escalates*

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