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junophernelia · 9 months ago

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The Name of Blasphemy

Vampire Hannibal X Monster Hunter Will Graham

Part 2: The Beast is Given a Mouth to Utter Proud Words.

No warnings, 1.9k words, Will and Hannibal have their first dinner. Will dreams after. Last chapter

The grand dining room was everything Will expected: dark wood panels, high ceilings, and a massive chandelier hanging overhead, casting a warm glow on the richly set table. Candles flickered in silver holders, their light reflected off polished cutlery and fine china. Everything about the room screamed wealth and refinement, but it also felt cold, detached.

Will sat at one end of the long table, his eyes scanning the room for hidden corners or exits. A habit. He didn’t trust any place where he couldn’t see all the ways out. The quiet tick of a clock somewhere deep in the house was the only sound that broke the stillness.

At the other end of the table, Hannibal sat calmly, poised as always, with a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. He was the picture of elegance, his movements deliberate and graceful as he sliced into his food, like someone who’d mastered the art of control. “You seem... uneasy, Mr. Graham,” Hannibal remarked, his voice as smooth as the wine in his glass. He didn’t look up, but Will could feel his attention like a weight. “Perhaps you’re not accustomed to such formal settings?”

Will smirked, cutting into the meat in front of him—some kind of rare roast that looked far too expensive for his taste. “Not exactly my usual dinner scene,” he replied, glancing up at Hannibal. “My diet’s more beans cooked over an open fire. Or whatever stew the inn can scrape together. You know, simple man.” “Of course,” Hannibal said with a nod, unbothered by Will’s tone. “But I believe there’s something to be said for a well-prepared dish, don’t you think? It’s an art, really. One must appreciate the finer things in life, even if they don’t come naturally.” He raised his glass in a casual toast. “To new experiences.”

Will eyed him, lifting his glass half-heartedly in response. “Yeah, well, sometimes new experiences taste like pretension.” Hannibal chuckled softly, setting his glass down with a delicate clink. “It’s only pretension if there’s no substance behind it. I assure you, this meal is quite substantial.”

Will stabbed at a piece of meat, chewing thoughtfully for a moment before speaking. “I’ll take your word for it. You’re the expert here.” “Hardly an expert,” Hannibal replied, his smile widening. “Just someone who enjoys the finer details. I find them... illuminating.” “Right.” Will’s eyes narrowed slightly as he put down his fork. “That why you’ve got me here, then? To savor the finer details?” Hannibal’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “You’re far too interesting a guest to simply ignore, Mr. Graham. Besides, I suspect you don’t allow many people to get close enough to... savor you, as you put it.”

Will snorted, leaning back in his chair. “People don’t usually get the chance to try. The ones that do don’t stick around long.” “Is that by your design, or theirs?” Hannibal asked, tilting his head slightly, his tone curious rather than accusatory.

Will’s eyes flicked up to meet Hannibal’s, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Depends on the person, I guess. Most people don’t get the appeal of a guy who sleeps with one eye open and carries enough silver to ward off a small army.” “Perhaps they lack imagination,” Hannibal mused. “I find there’s great beauty in vigilance. It suggests a mind that never rests, a constant pursuit of... something greater.”

Will’s smirk widened as he picked up his glass again, swirling the wine lazily. “You make paranoia sound like a virtue.” Hannibal’s eyes gleamed. “Perhaps in your case, it is.” There was a brief silence as they both returned to their meals, the soft clink of cutlery filling the room. Will was still on edge, but he couldn’t help noticing the ease with which

Hannibal commanded the space around him. Every movement was purposeful, every glance measured. It wasn’t just charm—it was control. “You’ve got a lot of people convinced you’re some kind of saint,” Will said, his voice casual but sharp. “Generous lord, protector of the village. Hannibal didn’t flinch, instead taking another sip of wine before responding. “It’s only natural to be wary of what you don’t understand.”

Will’s gaze locked with Hannibal’s, his blue eyes hard and unyielding. “People like you don’t do things out of the goodness of their hearts. There’s always something else.” Hannibal’s smile didn’t waver, but his eyes darkened slightly, an undercurrent of something unreadable passing beneath his otherwise calm expression. “You may find, in time, that my intentions are more straightforward than you assume.”

Will’s lips curled into a sarcastic grin. “Yeah? And what are those intentions?” Hannibal leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping just a fraction. “To show you that not everything is as black and white as you believe. That sometimes, the monster isn’t the one standing in front of you.”

Will’s smirk faltered for just a moment, but he quickly recovered. “Is that supposed to reassure me?” Hannibal sat back again, his smile returning to its usual charming curve. “No, Mr. Graham. It’s supposed to make you curious.”

Will didn’t respond, but the look in his eyes said enough. Hannibal watched him for a long moment, the tension between them palpable yet oddly comfortable, as though they were both playing a game neither of them wanted to win just yet. The rest of the meal passed in quiet conversation, but beneath every word was the same underlying tension—one that neither man was willing to break.

Later that night, Will lay rigid in the bed, the soft sheets foreign against his skin. Sleep was elusive, as if the comfort of the opulent room only made it harder to find. The plush mattress, likely the most luxurious he'd encountered in years, felt more like a trap than a sanctuary. He’d grown accustomed to rough nights spent in barns, under open skies, or in dingy inns where every sound kept him on edge. Here, in this lavish bedchamber, the stillness felt suffocating. Despite all his instincts, despite years of training to sniff out the foulness of the monsters he hunted, he found himself intrigued by the Count in a way that both repulsed and captivated him. The image of the count, with his sharp features and unreadable eyes, loomed in Will’s mind. He tried to shake it off, but the harder he resisted, the more vivid the man's presence became. Something about Hannibal's demeanor, the calm power in his gaze, pulled at a part of Will he couldn’t easily explain. It gnawed at him, a feeling that nestled deep, even as his mind screamed against it.

.The memory of their meeting replayed in fragments—Hannibal’s smooth voice, his deliberate movements, the way his gaze seemed to penetrate through every defense Will had built over the years. Despite everything he knew, everything he had trained for, Will couldn’t deny the pull he felt toward the count. It was irrational, dangerous even, but it gnawed at him all the same. Here, in this grand estate with its suffocating grandeur.

Will's body sank deeper into the plush mattress, the weight of exhaustion finally dragging him into the abyss of sleep. But his rest was far from peaceful. The moment his eyes closed, his mind began to twist and bend, plunging him into a strange, feverish dream.

He stood in the middle of a fog-drenched forest, the air thick with the smell of damp earth and decay. The trees towered around him, their gnarled branches curling toward the sky like skeletal hands, their bark slick with an unnatural sheen, as though the forest itself was alive—watching him. A heavy, oppressive darkness hung between the trees, so thick that it pressed down on his chest, making it difficult to breathe. Somewhere in the distance, a raven croaked, its cry echoing through the stillness, eerie and foreboding.

Will’s hand instinctively reached for his knife, but his fingers closed around empty air. He was unarmed, vulnerable. The forest seemed to shift and pulse around him, alive with the whispers of unseen creatures, and somewhere beyond the trees, something—no, someone—was watching him. The fog parted, revealing a path. It wound through the forest, leading to a crumbling stone manor perched precariously on the edge of a cliff, silhouetted against a sickly yellow moon. The manor’s towers stretched up into the sky like claws, and its windows gleamed with an unnatural light. It was the same manor where he had fallen asleep, yet in this dream, it seemed older, more twisted, as though the very stone had been corrupted by centuries of malevolence. Drawn forward by some invisible force, Will moved toward the manor, his footsteps soundless on the damp earth. The trees loomed closer as he passed, their bark now pulsing with dark veins, like blood vessels pushing sluggish, rotten blood through the heart of the forest. His breath came in shallow gasps, and the air was thick with the stench of rot. He stumbled, his foot sinking into the ground, which gave way beneath him like decayed flesh.

The fog parted, revealing a path. It wound through the forest, leading to a crumbling stone manor perched precariously on the edge of a cliff, silhouetted against a sickly yellow moon. The manor’s towers stretched up into the sky like claws, and its windows gleamed with an unnatural light. It was the same manor where he had fallen asleep, yet in this dream, it seemed older, more twisted, as though the very stone had been corrupted by centuries of malevolence.

Drawn forward by some invisible force, Will moved toward the manor, his footsteps soundless on the damp earth. The trees loomed closer as he passed, their bark now pulsing with dark veins, like blood vessels pushing sluggish, rotten blood through the heart of the forest. His breath came in shallow gasps, and the air was thick with the stench of rot. He stumbled, his foot sinking into the ground, which gave way beneath him like decayed flesh.

Drawn forward by a force he couldn’t resist, Will moved toward the manor, his footsteps silent on the spongy ground. The closer he came, the heavier the air became, thick with the scent of damp decay and something metallic, like iron rusting in the rain. His chest tightened with every breath, as though the forest itself was pressing down on him.

The manor’s door stood open, waiting. Without thinking, Will stepped inside. The grand hall stretched out before him, dimly lit by flickering candles that cast long, wavering shadows across the walls. The air was thick and humid, with the faintest scent of flowers just beginning to rot. The wooden panels of the walls seemed to pulse faintly, as though they were alive, and the floor beneath his feet creaked with each step. Something was off—subtle, but present, like the place was teetering on the edge of decay, barely holding itself together.

At the far end of the hall, a figure stood in shadow, watching him. It was Hannibal. He stepped into the light, his face as sharp and flawless as ever, but there was something different about him in the dream—an intensity that set Will’s nerves on edge. His eyes gleamed in the flickering candlelight, and his presence filled the room in a way that made the space feel smaller, as though the walls themselves were closing in around him.

Hannibal smiled, that same calm, measured smile, but in the dream, it felt more like a mask—something hiding the truth beneath. “You don’t seem well-rested,” he said, his voice smooth, almost too soft for the vastness of the hall. Will tried to speak, but his throat was tight. The words wouldn’t come. His heart pounded, the sensation of being watched creeping over him like a second skin. There was something in the room with them, something unseen but present, hovering just out of reach.

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