#ch: hannibal

[qwib]

POV you're one of Hannibal's partners and he thinks you didn't notice him looking at you

[museofthepyre]

I desperately want to know what would happen if Up & Adam and Hannibal Lecter met.

Two fruity ass cannibalistic psychotherapists who wear fancy suits, speak very poetically, have a certain… proclivity… for viscera and mutilation, and enjoy tormenting tired mentally ill gay men as a hobby— sometimes by giving them food that is not what it seems. Tormenting may ft homoerotic undertones. They hide their deeeeevious ulterior motives behind their charming and fanciful fronts. I want to put them in a room together and see what happens.

[theartofhannibal]

120. Hannibal 1x04 ‘Oeuf’ vs. ‘Head III’, 1961 - Francis Bacon (oil on canvas)

[part-time-zombie]

To anyone who still doubts the validity of hannigram let me just say this: my father watched It Chapter 2 in theaters when it first came out and did not see or understand Richie being gay until I had to explain it scene by scene for him after we got home, and even then remained fairly skeptical.

That same father now jokes about how down bad hannibal is for will, and he brought it up to me first.

[notalking-idontwanna]

When you have a maths final tomorrow and you feel like Will Graham in late s1

[monstroum]

035. the thick crowd of an audience at a show . / roman & hannibal (tabitha is also there :>)

the opera's lobby was filled with familiar faces . doctor lecter mingled easily , making small talk and smiling politely at everyone who recognised him ( dozens of these acquittances had been wined and dined by hannibal , some even asked for seconds ) but he was surprised to find one of his past guests awkwardly wearing a bowtie around his neck . ROMAN ROY did not strike him as a fan of classical music ; men of his status and fame rarely managed to develop an actual emotional relationship with any art form .

but he decided it was still pleasant to see him there .

doctor lecter could only assume someone else he wished to impress was roaming the opera's corridors . he watched the back of his head from a safe distance , holding a drink in his hand , pondering over the inner workings of the roy heir's mind . and then , as smooth as water , his arm wrapped around a woman's waist . they spoke to each other as confidants , they smiled ... they shared the comfort of a REAL COUPLE . the corners of his lips curled . curiouser and curiouser ; for he was aware of roman's many romantic limitations . perhaps he had overcome them . perhaps he hadn't . perhaps his date hoped he some day would . either way ㅤ─ ㅤ HOW FUN .

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ " ㅤ─ ㅤ i did not think you to be a fan of opera but , if i did , i'd imagine stravinsky's oedipus rex to be right up your alley . " it's a friendly greeting . lecter smiles at the young man in acknowledgement before letting his gaze fall on the blond woman beside him . " evening . "

[xradiant]

@theirmadness gave a like for a one liner !

"If I were to say that I was concerned - how would you respond?"

[taliwrites]

for: @xanwritesx who: group event au: endure and survive

“but i’m supposed to go with caleb.” “i know, but not this time, okay? you’re with me making sure our stuff is safe.”

ren stamps his foot on the road, and leon knows all too well they’re heading for a tantrum, a thing no one in their group needed right now when the move from the cabin had been a challenge of its own kind. it’d become startling just how much things changed when one person added to their lot. in the end, caleb shoved ren, aiden, aleks and augie into the back of leon’s jeep and oh so kindly given camryn the front seat for her leg, then scooped up tali, max, finn and fletcher into his own, taking advantage of max and finn talking again to sit her in the back between the boys so he could have tali up front with him, safe and sound. they’d managed a few hours drive with the occasional stop to pick up gas from abandoned cars before stumbling upon a service station with a few stores around it on the highway, more than enough to grab max’s curiosity and caleb’s grumpy agreement that maybe they’d find something useful for the road ahead.

so off they’d gone, leaving their new partners behind, with max telling aiden some things aren’t meant to be a training ground and caleb telling ren to simply stay put and behave. only, ren now stomps in a sulk around the jeep and back to aiden who’d gotten out to stretch his legs.

“jeeze, i don’t know which is scarier, him or a clicker,” leon sighs, resting his forearms on the open window of the passenger seat. he smiles at camryn, glances back at aleks and augie to see if aleks had woken up yet and then turns his attention to the three left alone in caleb’s jeep. “all good, tali?” he calls to the girl who sat on the edge of the window of her own passenger seat, watching the buildings with a worry couldn’t help but wear when any member of their group were gone.

“yeah... i don’t see them yet,” she calls back, then dips back into the jeep with a frown. “wish they’d have left us all go...” tali mumbles, looking back at fletcher and finn. “wouldn’t that have made more sense?”

[the-boy-king-rp-multi]

Headcanon:

When Will originally got his four year bachelor attending George Washing University and a year abroad at Oxford he got his degree in forensics, but over the years in his spare time out of boredom he went back and got ones in criminal justice and psychology too, getting a fast track degree. He spent a lot of his time doing this when they were on the run from the FBI and were staying with Sherlock and John in London for some time, and he ended up getting his doctorates in a fast track study program. He of course, has told no one about this, not until its of absolute importance. Will has always been mostly humble about his schooling, not wanting to come off egotistical or too rude; Will was also shy and hesitant for a first couple years shadowing Hotch before he really came out of his shell and Hotch really saw what he could do, because will was afraid it wouldn't be taken great because of how he profiles

[the-boy-king-rpp]

Will Graham Headcanons:

Headcanon #1

Headcanon #2-4

[todd-queen]

The Intimacy of Eating a Person

insp. by my Hannibal and TLT brainrot <3

John 1.20, Nona the Ninth // Poison Ivy (Wilson) #6 // The Unwanted Guest, Scene VI // Hannibal 1.10 Buffet Froid // Ch. 34, Gideon the Ninth // Nightmare on Elm Street 2: Freddy's Revenge // Ch. 48, Harrow the Ninth // The Four Loves, C.S. Lewis // Ch. 17, Nona the Ninth

maybe this makes no sense but I wanted to share it to get it out of my head (I'm slowly going insane)

[theartofhannibal]

119. Hannibal 3x07 ‘Digestivo’  vs.  ‘Angel of Death’, 1923 - Oleksa Novakivskyi (oil on canvas)

[bayetea]

— please stay, hippocrene

( a percabeth + frazel romantic getaway fic )

summary — ;

♡ — Percy, Frank, Annabeth, and Hazel, hoping to take a break from their adult responsibilities (and have some desperately needed alone time with their partners), go on vacation together. Their plans are thwarted harshly when a certain ring of goddesses summons them to a quest. With their holiday sorely interrupted, can they still make time for romance?

content — ;

♡ steamy. vanilla. intimate. romantic. silly. rom-com vibes. tooth-achingly sweet. ♡ features percabeth and frazel equally, + very minor jiper and solangelo ♡ takes place approx. 9 years after HoO, ignores all books afterwards ♡ characters are explicitly described as adults in their 20s ♡ don't like, don't read/interact. see ao3 link for more info and warnings

excerpt below the cut, please like if you read. reblogs are appreciated ♡

Preview

[ ... ] The melodies of New Rome chirped in the distant background; lares scolding unruly legionnaires, Hannibal the elephant stomping about the grounds, eagles squawking in the dusky sky above—but the only sound that Hazel seemed to mind was that which thundered from his chest. “Your heartbeat’s really going, Frank.” she observed, lifting her head an inch from his body. “Sheesh. Is it usually like this?” And he answered without thinking, “It is around you.” Their eyes met right then. Frank blushed up to his ears. Looking directly into Hazel’s eyes often felt like opening up a treasure chest. One could hardly tell the difference between heaps of gold jewelry and the amber in her eyes, shimmering like gilded shards of cherished earth. As she stared up at him with those faultless, glittery irises, Frank thought to himself that he was still out of his league. This brave, stunning woman laying sweetly in his arms, whose dear love felt like a fairytale… His eyes wandered to her lips. Gorgeous, shapely little things—the lips that framed her every picturesque smile. At this moment, he couldn’t stop staring at them. He knew what he wanted to do. He wasn’t brave enough. What a poor excuse for a child of Mars, who could plunder the battlefield valiantly but now failed to summon enough courage to kiss his own girlfriend— “Y—you can kiss me, Frank. It’s okay…” His heart stopped for a moment. Frank looked back up to her eyes and he felt stupid, graceless, embarrassed; he must have been staring at her mouth so obviously. Could he be any less romantic? Hazel looked rather shy herself. Her thumb drew nervous circles on his chest, and she struggled to maintain eye contact. But she had uttered those heart-stopping words, and she seemed to have meant them. Her back had straightened so that her face was a little closer in level to his. Likely on purpose. Frank could barely control his breathing. They had already kissed not long ago, but with the daylight dimmed, with the fact that they would usually be preparing for bed in separate rooms by now, this felt… different… Gods, he was so uncool. — PSH, Ch. 01

♡ Read the full chapter on AO3, here.

[defectivevillain]

this broken design, ch 10

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 the story from the beginning here. [this won’t make sense otherwise.]

ao3 version here

You fire one, two, three, nine shots. There’s a roaring noise in your ears. Amidst all the chaos, however, you can still sense Garret Jacob Hobbs staring at you with a sickening smirk on his face. 

“See?” The man asks, as the light fades from his eyes and his body slumps against the cabinets. You’re too rattled to notice the sound of footsteps getting closer until there’s a hand on your shoulder. Dr. Lecter and you lock eyes and, even in the swirling mess of emotions running through your mind, there is overwhelming clarity.  

…… 

How did Hannibal get your business card? You swallow past the trepidation building in your core and stare down at his rolodex in disbelief.  A choked laugh escapes your lips. You let your guard down. You had foolishly hoped that maybe, just maybe, things would be different. You let your guard down and, now, your name rests amidst the names of current and future Ripper victims.  

“Is everything alright?” Hannibal walks in as you’re looking at his rolodex and you quickly turn around, trying to shield it from his view. You’re not sure what expression is on your face, but it must be suitably harrowed, because his face twists in concern— mock concern, your mind supplies. “You look rather shaken.” 

“Yes, of course,” you answer. 

…… 

“Building a collection?” You can’t help but ask, after the quiet begins to grow painful. The compulsion to voice the thought was itching at your skin. Hannibal finishes setting Chilton’s business card in his rolodex, before turning back to level you with a complex look. You try your best to manifest an expression of innocent curiosity.  

“Something of the sort,” Hannibal agrees, after an uncomfortably long halt in conversation. 

A day has passed, yet you’re still unable to sort out your thoughts. Memories flicker before your eyes. You can’t stop thinking about the events of the past month or two—and how chaotic your life has grown to be. Abel Gideon, Frederick Chilton, Freddie Lounds, Hannibal himself… These figures are all fluttering about in your mind, taking precedence over anything and everything else. 

You feel unsettlingly vulnerable. Your psyche feels… weaker, as if it’s slowly corroding and disintegrating before your very eyes. Your mental defenses aren’t as strong as you remember them to be, and the monsters you thought you had banished are returning. One person in particular is wreaking havoc on every moment of your waking life. In some ways, this person is like your shadow. He is always present, yet he doesn’t choose to make himself known unless your thoughts are clear and unfortified. 

Garret Jacob Hobbs stares at you from across your dining table. You grow accustomed to being in his company for meals. The bullet holes you gave him tear through his skin and spill blackened blood. The man’s eyes are glassy, yet his gaze is piercing in an unsettling manner. Hobbs didn’t entirely die that night—he lives on in your memory, preying on your fragile psyche. You blink and rub your eyes roughly, trying to rid yourself of the image of your victim. The killer simply smiles at you, his teeth dirtied and dangerously sharp. For a moment, you swear his eyes flash in the dim lighting of the room. When you make a movement, he mimics it. Your mirror image. He is the darkest of your shadows, the loudest of the skeletons clattering in your closet. You find yourself losing your appetite more frequently, and those changes are reflecting on your face—in the form of dark circles under your eyes and an unusually gaunt pull to your cheekbones. 

Time is a fickle thing. You’re starting to lose the concept of it entirely. The light and the darkness seem to morph together. You can’t define the passage of time anymore. There is only… after. You’re stuck in an unfeeling void, and it stretches far past your eyes. You throw yourself into work in an attempt to fill that void. You catch criminals, solve cases, but you can’t rid yourself of this cloying, desolate hopelessness. 

You leave for work, witness horrible, gruesome things that stick in your thoughts long after you return home for the day. You rest and these horrors follow you into your nightmares. You dream of rivers of blood, fields of undiscovered graves, mountains of corpses. You wake to rub your hands raw with scalding hot soap and water, but the dirt of the bloody sins you’ve seen never quite comes off.  

You’re broken from your seemingly unending trance when you return home from work one afternoon. You’re locking the front door, shedding your jacket and moving to your kitchen when you see something on your table—the same table that had been spotless when you left the house. You frown and walk closer. There’s a TattleCrime article resting innocently in the center of the table. You find yourself reaching out to interact with the newspaper before you can contemplate the consequences. The headline immediately jumps out at you in boldface text. 

TattleCrime

Criminally Insane

By Freddie Lounds

[Picture 1: A fuzzy picture of you exiting the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. It is blurred and the branch of a tree can be seen in the top right corner of the photograph. Dr. Lecter is hidden behind you—obstructed by the rather large entrance door of the building.  

Picture 2: A picture of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. The photograph is angled upward to make the building appear taller. The gaunt and grim building sticks out like a sore thumb against the backdrop of the bright blue sky and fluffy clouds. The entire exterior of the hospital is pictured.] 

Resident killer Abel Gideon found himself being taken to the interrogation room in BSHC1 just yesterday morning. The very same agent whose office housed the corpse of Franklyn Froideveaux, alongside accomplished medical professional Dr. Hannibal Lecter, met with Gideon to discuss the resurgence of the Chesapeake Ripper. Gideon did not provide a statement elaborating on the presence of the federal agent and the psychiatrist he met with. Currently, public opinion is split between fervent beliefs of Abel Gideon as the Chesapeake Ripper and rampant denial of Gideon’s ability to commit the recent murders, since he has been incarcerated for several months. The stability of the federal agent—the same one to track down Garret Jacob Hobbs—is still in question. Despite the questionable mental sanity of the aforementioned agent and the division of public opinion, one thing is clear: the Federal Bureau of Investigation is desperate for information on the Chesapeake Ripper.

Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane's Head Administrator, Frederick Chilton, did not respond to TattleCrime’s request for comment. 

For inquiries, reach out to generalinquiry@tattlecrime.org. 

If you have more information surrounding the killer widely known as the Chesapeake Ripper or the criminal profiler mentioned above, reach out to freddie@tattlecrime.org.

You place the article back down on your table, feeling vaguely unsettled. Freddie Lounds has written far worse about you—the defamation is nothing new. However, something feels off. Your hands shake with anticipation and your heart’s beat creates a haunting rhythm in your ears. You look down at the article once more. You know you should be concerned with who left it here, but your attention has been ensnared by the pictures. There’s something off about them, but you can’t discern what it is. You stare. What are you missing? What do these pictures tell you? 

You brush your teeth and get ready for sleep. An hour later, you’re reclined in bed and staring up at the ceiling restlessly. Sleep is eluding you once again. Hobbs is lingering by your bedside, tauntingly ripping you from slumber whenever you try to approach it. 

That Tattle Crime article refuses to depart from your thoughts. There isn’t any justification for why it’s dominating your headspace with such vigor. You’ve read many of Freddie’s articles before. Why is this one different? What sets it apart?

You’re not getting any closer to sleep. You push the covers off and get to your feet, walking in the dark to your dining room. You turn the lights on and sit down at the table, considering the article again. You feel as if you’re on the crux of a realization—perhaps even a piece of evidence. But what on earth could it be? There’s nothing significant about the article itself, and the pictures are rather unassuming. The photograph of you isn’t very flattering, but thankfully it’s pretty blurry. You have to wonder how Lounds took that picture. She must’ve been hidden behind the bushes across the street. The thought is rather disquieting. You force yourself to move your attention to the second picture. 

This picture is stranger than the first one. It’s disquieting and you can’t quite figure out why. The doom and gloom of the BSHCI building looks even more dramatic pictured here than it does in-person. You squint to look at the smaller details of it. The sky is clear with a few clouds. There’s a time stamp on the bottom corner, dating this picture to be taken mere hours after your visit to Gideon that same day. That’s a little strange, but you suppose it makes sense. There are only windows on the first floor of the building, and they all have their curtains drawn aside to let natural light in. At least, all of them except one. You frown and count across the row; the window with drawn curtains is the third room on the right. You think back to the layout of the building. The third room on the right from the entryway…. It takes you several moments to remember the inside of the building. You close your eyes and try to visualize it. 

The pieces of this particular puzzle finally begin to fit together. You’re suddenly assaulted with an overwhelming combination of dread, hopelessness, and guilt. You run back to your bedroom and grab your phone from the nightstand, dialing the desired number with practiced precision. 

Ring. No answer yet. You wait, your anxiety only solidifying as time drags on. Ring. Maybe you won’t be getting a response after all. Ring. Just as you’re about to groan in frustration, the ringtone ends and there’s someone on the other end. 

“Crawford.” Jack announces, not sounding the least bit surprised to be evidently roused awake by a phone call. You suppose that he’s grown accustomed to late-night calls about murder cases. 

“It’s me, Jack.” You respond. You can’t get another word out before he’s interrupting. 

“What did you find?” Of course that’s his question. You wonder (not for the first time) what you did to deserve Jack’s faith in you. The moment you said your name, he pivoted to asking you about evidence. Thankfully, you do have some evidence for him—but he isn’t going to like it. 

“Did you see Lounds’ TattleCrime article?” You ask. 

“You know I don’t read that garbage,” Jack says with a slight scoff to his voice. You resist the urge to roll your eyes. You have to cut him some slack, ultimately. You’re reaching out to him past midnight and he responded to your summons within three rings of his ringtone.

“Did you see it?” You ask again. 

“Yes,” he begrudgingly admits. TattleCrime is far from a trustworthy news source, but Freddie Lounds is almost always the first one to release any information about events. In this case, of course, an event never occurred—it’s merely speculation from the journalist. “What about it?”

“Did you notice anything unusual about the second picture in the article—the one of the BSHCI building?”

“Just tell me what you found, Agent.” Jack responds bluntly. 

“Right,” you sigh resignedly. Jack doesn’t like to be led on in such a manner—it’s better to just rip the bandage off here. “Pull up the article on your phone.” You pause for a few moments to give your boss the time to find the article. Jack lets out an affirmative grunt and you continue. “Look at the second photo. The hospital is in the foreground. I want you to look at the third window from the right on the first floor.” You pinch the bridge of your nose. Jack is going to be furious. You’re rather furious at yourself for not noticing the discrepancy in the picture until now. “That’s Chilton’s office.”

“I’m not following.” Jack says. 

“When we went into the office, the windows were open,” you continue. “From the two meetings I’ve had with Chilton, I’ve deduced that he keeps his curtains drawn open to let the light in when he’s in office.”

“I’m failing to see how this is relevant,” Jack says with a slightly aggravated edge in his voice. 

“Patience, Jack,” you snap, before taking a breath to regain your composure. “See the timestamp on the bottom corner of this picture? It reads 1:42 p.m., on the same day that Hannibal and I visited. We saw Chilton, which meant he was working that day. Assuming that the man follows some sort of normal working schedule…”

“The curtains should’ve been drawn open,” Jack finishes for you. The line goes silent as he evidently takes a closer look at the picture. You take the opportunity to do the same and run your finger along the place where the third window—Chilton’s office window—sits. In the photograph, the curtains are closed. “I’ll have some agents head over to the hospital now. Someone will try calling Chilton, too.” But he won’t be there to answer lingers uncomfortably in the air. 

“Thanks, Jack,” you respond. Jack gives no inclination that he’s heard you. He says your name a few moments later and you nearly bristle at the sudden cold tone to Jack’s voice. 

“What is it?” You ask apprehensively. 

“Have you seen this?” Jack asks. “‘Murderer Abel Gideon Escapes Confinement, Kills Three.’”

“What?” You choke out. Those words promptly rip up any fragile sense of stability and safety you developed today. “No, that can’t be.” You take your phone away from your ear and put Jack on speaker, before going to your browser and searching TattleCrime. The website pops up and when you click on it, the page buffers for several seconds. Your heart is thundering in your chest. There’s a tense silence between Jack and you. Finally, the page loads and you immediately see what he’s talking about. There’s a small box reading: Abel Gideon Escapes Confinement. When you tap the box, it sends you further down the page until you’re looking at an entire article. 

TattleCrime

Murderer Abel Gideon Escapes Confinement, Kills Three

By Uriah Larksen

At approximately 6:56 pm, convicted killer Abel Gideon escaped his prison transport vehicle. Gideon had previously been institutionalized in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, following his conviction of first-degree murder regarding the deaths of his wife and her family. 

The three officers assigned as escorts were killed in the ensuing conflict. Gideon fled in the transport vehicle, which hasn’t been seen since. 

For inquiries, reach out to generalinquiry@tattlecrime.org.

If you have more information surrounding recent sightings of Abel Gideon, reach out to uriah@tattlecrime.org.

You’re not quite sure how long you sit there in silence, reading over the same words over and over again. Abel Gideon escaped. Abel Gideon escaped. Abel Gideon- You take a deep breath, your chest feeling tight. 

“Jack…” You finally manage to say. Your voice sounds slightly raspy and broken. Jack seems to be feeling the same; his side of the call has been silent for several minutes. You both know what Gideon’s escape means. Abel Gideon is dangerous. It’s not out of the question to think that he’ll be focusing on vengeance once he escapes. Gideon’s escape and Chilton’s disappearance must be connected. 

“Did Gideon hold contempt for Chilton?” Jack asks. You both already know the answer. 

“Probably,” you acquiesce. It takes a few moments for you to organize your thoughts into a somewhat comprehensible list. You rub at your temple, trying to soothe your impending headache. “Chilton manipulated him, made him think he was the Ripper. I’m sure he holds contempt for all the mental health professionals he’s interacted with.”

“All of them,” Jack repeats, a note of something indiscernible in his voice. “Agent.” You stiffen. The weight of that statement comes crashing down on you.  Jack doesn’t need to elaborate—he does anyway. “Dr. Bloom is in danger. The same goes for anyone else that interacted with Gideon in a similar manner.” 

“Jack…” You break off, suddenly overwhelmed. 

“I’ll send a team down to Alana’s house and transport her to a safehouse,” Jack says, answering the questions you haven’t uttered yet. He sounds perfectly calm and collected. You can’t exactly find that same steely composure. Despite the events of the last few weeks, you can’t help but feel concerned for Alana. You’ve been stuck with a rather polarizing opinion of her recently. Yet, the more you think about Alana, the more you begin to remember all the good times you’ve shared with her and everything she’s done for you. Alana was a great psychiatrist, friend... Things may not be exactly the same between you anymore, but you still care about her enough to fear for her safety. “She’ll be alright.” Jack asserts, dragging you out of your thoughts. 

Typically, Jack’s reassurance is enough for you. Right now, it isn’t. “Jack, you’re in Quantico,” you frown, rubbing at your eyes and fighting off your exhaustion. You feel extremely restless, so you get up from your seat and begin to pace around the room. “There’s no way the team you send will make it in time.” 

“It’s the best we can do,” Jack responds diplomatically. You recognize that sending a task force is indeed the best protection Jack can provide. However, that’s not the best you can do—you can do better. Your silence must be telling, because Jack immediately switches tunes. “Don’t go to Alana’s house.” You remain quiet, knowing that you’ll incriminate yourself otherwise and feed Jack’s suspicions. 

“Agent,” Jack breaks off, his tone assertive and demanding. Despite the authoritative nature of his voice, you can sense an underlying concern coating his words. Surely he isn’t worried for you—that feels out of the question. “Promise me you won’t go to her house.”

“I promise,” you respond without hesitation. There's no response for one, two, three seconds. 

“Alright,” Jack then says warily. The TattleCrime article on the table burns a hole in the corner of your vision. Abel Gideon has escaped. Alana is in danger. Hell, you could even be in danger. You take a deep breath. “Keep in touch.”

Your goodbye goes unheard as Jack hangs up the call. You lean back in your chair and inhale slowly. That promise slipped from your lips without hesitation. One fatal recognition is lingering on your skin: 

You’re a liar. 

Jack places too much trust in you, you think to yourself. Right now, you’re betraying his trust—and you may never get it back. For a second, you contemplate your next course of action. You don’t have to go to Alana. You could stay here. The thought sickens you—remaining complicit in Alana’s potential murder. Sure, you’re not on the best of terms with Alana right now, but she was a good friend, psychiatrist—hell, girlfriend —in the past. If something were to happen to her, you’d never forgive yourself. 

You get to your feet, grabbing your jacket and car keys. 

The drive is monotonous and uneventful. You’ve been simmering in your own dread since your phone call with Jack; the unsavory emotions only make the ride pass faster. Before you can back out, you’re parked down the street from Alana’s residence. It’s dark outside now, with no source of light except for the pale moonlight. 

Alana’s house sits in the darkness. Her outside lights aren’t on just yet. You can see light peeking through one of the shutters on the side of the house, indicating that she’s home. You bite your lip and take another few steps forward, trying your best to avoid anything on the ground that could make a sound when you step on it. The night air is brisk and cold; your exhales leave your lips in small puffs of vapor.

You don’t know how much time you spend lurking on the outskirts of Alana’s residence, watching in the shadows. You eventually come to the conclusion that Alana is fine. You know you should go to the doorstep and tell her that you stopped by, but you can’t bring yourself to do it. Instead, for an immeasurable time, you remain a silent shadow outside her window. You split your time between checking on Alana and looking for Gideon over your shoulder. The night air is still biting, but you find warmth in the knowledge that Alana is safe. 

“You’re rather predictable, aren’t you?” A familiar voice whispers in your ear. Your momentum careens forward and you feel a gun pointed at the back of your head. You turn around, only to find your shadow staring back at you. 

“Hobbs,” you choke out. The man’s expression is blurry and it morphs into a cruel smirk. His gun is pressed against your temple. You raise your hands in the air, which only deepens the maniacal grin on his face. His lips are falling away to reveal pointed teeth and, when a beam of moonlight glimmers against his face, black blood trickles down his incisors. 

Garret Jacob Hobbs can’t be alive—he’s dead. You know that; yet, when you stare at the figure in front of you, all you can see is the murderer— your victim —’s face. His eerie blue-green eyes are piercing through the darkness, latching onto you with fervent madness. The hand that holds the gun to your forehead is steady. His breaths are calm and measured, an antithesis to the shaking, shivering mess of limbs you left him to be.  

You stay locked in an unspoken stalemate for an immeasurable amount of time. You’re forced to inhabit the uncomfortable quiet with harsh breaths. Your assailant got the jump on you; you curse yourself for being so focused on Alana that you neglected your own surroundings. Vaguely, you wonder if this was a trap set for you. You can’t ponder the thought long, because, with lightning speed, the man pulls back and connects the butt of the gun to your skull. Suddenly, your sight swims and you fall to the ground. You try to push yourself up—your arm reaching for the dagger you have concealed on your form—but the swift kick to your ribs robs you of breath. Your assailant kicks your prone form one more time, twisting you so that your back now meets the ground. He stares down at you with an incomprehensible mix of glee, satisfaction, and something…darker. 

Your vision spirals and fades around the edges as the man mercilessly drags you behind him. You desperately try to fight the overwhelming  vertigo tugging at your core, but it doesn’t quite work. Your assailant lets out a cackling laugh and continues to drag you along as if you weigh nothing at all. You stare up at the moon, glittering in the pitch-black night sky. The pain is nearly unbearable. Your assailant doesn’t have any qualms about dragging you haphazardly, letting your form be jostled by the rocky ground. Something hot trickles down your face. You’re not sure if it’s blood or tears. Your eyes are burning and, before long, the curtain closes and you’re falling into unconsciousness.

next chapter

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[monstroum]

[ fix ] for your muse to treat mine’s injury / for hannibal and alana

red and blue lights illuminated alana's face . it was a frightening sight , having her sitting there , on the back of an ambulance , with her whole existence divided by only two shades . doctor lecter dabs at the wound on her head with a fresh new piece of cotton ㅤ─ ㅤ he's not satisfied to find it comes back stained with blood . his dark eyes avoid looking at alana's brighter , wider ones : hannibal lecter is feigning shame quite brilliantly .

" i offered to follow so that i could better protect you . if i had been the first to step into abigail's home , then i'd be the one carrying that scar instead of you . " ㅤ somewhere behind doctor bloom , medical staff prepared a stretcher for her . they'd be on their way to the hospital soon enough ; it felt overly cautious BUT HANNIBAL HAD INSISTED that she ought to be checked by a professional , especially since she had lost consciousness ( if not for you , then for me , alana , for i care about your wellbeing more than you do yourself ) .

he cleans the cut on her forehead gently , careful not to cause his colleague any further pain . there'd be a manhunt for nicholas boyle . no doubt the local police force would have their hands full for the next few months trying to track that boy ㅤ─ ㅤRABBIT , hannibal thought , HE'D COOK RABBIT FOR DINNER . maybe he'd even save some for alana ; it would be a gift with a symbolic weight his good friend could not even begin to imagine .

when the good doctor finally meets her gaze , there's a glint of pain there . and it would be a mistake to call that treachery for hannibal did care for her ㅤ─ ㅤ it did not bring him any joy to see alana bleed ; but it did not bring him any suffering either . IT MERELY MADE HIM CURIOUS about the shape that the healed skin on her forehead would take . would it be a lumpy and pink scar ? would it be dark and ugly and shameful ? lecter brushed his thumb soothingly just under alana's wound .

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ" i feel as if i put it there myself . "

[xradiant]

@inprometheanfire​

“you did not tenderize this meat.”