#did I describe hannibal and will

[distort-opia]

Since youre a big fan of enemies to lovers, how many of your ships can parallel each other (eg. Batjokes, lawlight, hannigram and so on)?

...Well, to put it simply. There's always A Guy Who's Clearly An Asshole/Evil. And then there's also A Guy Who Seems Like The Good/Nice One But Actually He's So Much More Batshit Insane. These two guys are at each other's throats to varying degrees (from rivals to outright enemies), though not always. And in the beginning it seems like Guy A is more obsessed than Guy B, but it's actually Guy B who's foaming at the mouth and will commit atrocities, he's just better at hiding and justifying himself.

[anicehomicidaltree]

I find it incredibly funny that Hannibal is just a snake with bat wings

Like look at this shit

[luciusspriggss]

the games will and hannibal play

each one thinking they are playing the other

but both of them are one step ahead of the other

knowing they are playing a game

and thinking that it doesn't matter what happens to the people around them, so long as they win

imagine having this dynamic with someone, but not in a manipulate. manwhore. murder. kind of way.

but in a...be silly. commit to the bit. sexy kind of way and you are still kind and good to those around you. never involving anyone else in the silliness unless there is clear consent

[necroromantics]

🪓 — Canon Facts About Ticci Toby

all of these are directly stated by kastoway himself in deviantart posts/comments, instagram stories, or tobys canon story

I. Toby has a split eyebrow from the car crash

II. He only attended grade school for a short time when we was 12 before being homeschooled due to bullying

III. Kastoway describes Toby's eye colour as "dark brown/black"

IV. Kastoway created Toby as a fan character when he was 12 just for fun. He never expected him to get the attention that he did

V. Toby was stated to be 19 in 2013, which means Toby was born on April 28th, 1994. Today he'll be turning 30 years old

VI. In Toby's age chart, he is shown to be in a straitjacket at 30 years old, and described to "not have much time left on his plate", "any bit of sanity in him is probably gone", and "lives out the rest of his days in a mental asylum and/or gets put down"

VII. He has little to no memory of his life before becoming a proxy

VIII. When he was a toddler, he'd carry around a cow stuffie and put bandaids all over it

IX. Toby was killed by Clockwork, who was possessed by Zalgo, sometime between ages 19-25 (presumably 20-22). Kastoway had vague plans for Toby to "miraculously survive" and live up until around 30 years old, with no contact to the others

X. Toby chews his hands to the point of eating his own flesh, which is why he wears gloves

XI. He is born and raised in Denver, Colorado, USA. He has German ancestry

XII. His theme song is noted to be "I'm Not Alright" by Shinedown

XIII. His personality is described to be, "volatile, friendly at times, sarcastic at times, natural born trouble-maker, mostly up-beat"

XIV. In an older, outdated reference sheet, his friends are listed as "Jeff The Killer, BEN, BOB, Smile Dog, Slenderman, Splendorman, Mr. Widemouth, Ragface, Eyeless Jack", and his rivals are listed as "The Rake, Masky, Enderman, Zalgo"

XV. His mask is a mouth guard, like the one Hannibal Lecter wears

XVI. He is canonically shipped with Clockwork

XVII. Toby has "big ass eyebrows" (Kastoways words himself)

XVIII. Toby doesn't hate Masky, he just acts like an annoying little brother around him because he's jealous that Slender favours him. He's chill around Hoodie, but they don't talk much

XIX. Kastoway was inspired by Marble Hornets to create Ticci Toby

XX. Toby's tics are described as to "uncontrollably crack his neck, twitch around, bend over backwards"

XXI. In his updated appearance (the sketch made by Kastoway in 2014 with the cheek gash), he's described to be in his early 20s. He also said he was thinking of having the cheek gash be caused by the fire, but said that Toby eating through his own cheek was "a really good idea"

XXII. Toby was originally going to be a cannibal before Kastoway put the idea on the back burner, though he says "he'll eat some of the things he kills kind of like Eyeless Jack"

XXIII. He had CIPA, Tourettes, Schizophrenia and PTSD after the car crash

XXIV. His older sisters name is Lyra, his mothers name is Connie, and his father is canonically unnamed (though he's typically called Frank by the fandom, this is not stated by Kastoway)

XXV. He was originally going to be 5'4....... But ended up being made 5'6 (lucky bastard)

Thats all I can think of right now... Happy Birthday Toby

[honeygrahambitch]

I wish we would know more context about this scene. I believe Will didn't even call to announce that he was coming over. If he did then Hannibal would have had a great deal of time to change into something less casual. So I imagine Will just materialized in front of his door before going to work.

This is episode 5, it's pretty early and it just shows how comfortable they are with each other. Hannibal who is not taking his person suit in front of anyone, is wearing his bathrobe and his hair is messy and he looks very relaxed. It's probably 7 am and he doesn't mind having Will in his kitchen. He doesn't mind that Will sees him like that.

Cause Will sees already deeper than that. Listening to the way Will describes the Ripper was the proof that Will is the only person in the world who sees beyond his walls and suit.

And Will, Will doesn't have any friend and it doesn't seem like he has ever been close to someone. He is not sure what he did is socially acceptable (he excuses himself), this is something new for him and he is learning how this whole friendship thing works. But he was as well, comfortable enough with popping up on Hannibal's porch to talk about what's on bis mind.

And Hannibal listens. Hannibal makes coffee and listens.

[dolicekiss]

Hello there,

If ur still taking Hannibal requests, could you potentially do a yandete Hannibal x reader (one-shot or headcanon it doesn't really matter) where the reader is an author who recently just came put with a new novel that got alot of popularity.

The reason it intrigued Hannibal so much is that the antagonist of the novel is based off the Chesapeake Ripper. Feeling flattered, Hannibal goes to one of her book signings, where he finds her absolutely captivating in person. What extents would this man do to get her attention?

♡: can i just say how descriptive some of y'all are with this.. this is literally book worthy 😭 also let me know if you want another part :[

Blood Ink

PAIRING: Yandere!Hannibal Lecter X Author!reader

CONTENT WARNING: dark hannibal, implied stalking, murder, mention of dead body, yandere behavior, unhinged hannibal, breaking in, leaving creepy little notes, obsessed hannibal

SYNOPSIS: Your book had gained immense popularity and you were quite the talk of the city, showing up in every article and news but capturing Hannibal Lecter’s attention was the worst thing ever, especially when you'd written an antagonist based off the Chesapeake ripper. Hannibal was flattered and in awe of how to I described him and his curiosity grew but so did his infatuation with you when he saw you.

Hannibal was flattered.

Completely amused by how you wrote depiction of him, how well you understood him despite never crossing paths.

Your abundance of understanding when it came to the mind of the killer was not only something he swooned over but how beautifully you wrote down all his murders impressed him, like they were pieces of art. It nearly worked to arouse him in a sense he craved to see you.

They were art, indeed.

Hannibal saw it that way, he saw beauty where most people saw something monstrous, something atrocious. You understood that and Hannibal had to meet you.

You'd written a book about him, a well written — descriptive book, showing off your skills of a true writer. A fan of literature he was and you had caught yourself the worst kind of attention.

The Chesapeake Ripper’s.

He had to meet you, had to see who this woman was who'd written such gruesome details about his murders. The book also included some fictional content, such as the Chesapeake Ripper committing crimes he'd never committed in the real world.

But Hannibal knew you'd included that only to add depth to him, to help the readers understand the beautiful cruelty of Hannibal Lecter.

After spending multiple hours on the internet and reading tabloids about you, watching your interviews, reading articles regarding your personal life and your work life, Hannibal finally made the decision to visit you at one of your book signings.

Your book was controversial, as many people accused you of using a serial killer as an antagonist in your book, giving him a rise in fame but it was never mentioned the book was about the Chesapeake Ripper at all. Only the antagonist had been based off him.

Hannibal was restless, so he grabbed his coat and left for your book signing which took place at a well known book store, in Baltimore too.

You were so close to him.

This had to be fate playing its game.

When Hannibal entered into the crowded book store, there you were. A huge smile decorated your features as you moved your lips to engage in a conversation with one of your fans. Hair up in a neat french bun, only a few strands framing your face — nails freshly done and sharp, resting against your soft beautifully sculpted face.

You were absolutely breathtaking.

Hannibal had seen your picture but the electronic devices did no justice to your beauty.

Hannibal felt his heart give birth to a foreign sensation, spreading through his chest and mixing in with the veins in his body. The copper and the darkness becoming one. He was completely captivated by the mere sight of you and he hadn't even introduced himself yet.

You let out a cheery laugh, nodding your head at the person in front of you before lowering your gaze, fingers holding a marker tightly to sign on the first page of your book. Hannibal analyzed closely, how swiftly your fingers moved and how beautiful they were.

He, for a split moment, imagined them decorated on a plate with vegetables.

Hannibal inhaled a deep breath, a futile attempt to regain his composure that he was beginning to lose control over at the mere sight of you.

You were a sweetheart, from how you interacted with your fans and how full of life you seemed. Deep inside his heart he hoped that you were just the same on the inside too.

Hand clasped around your book, he walked into the line. Awaiting for the people in front of him to get their books signed. He was a patient man but right now, his restlessness almost made him want to crush through the people and get to you.

Finally when his turn arrived, Hannibal slid the book over to you on the beige table. You greeted him with that gleaming smile of yours, bright enough to light up the whole room and the darkness which had bloomed in his chest when he was only a little boy.

Hannibal wasn't aware that catching a whiff of you would consume him like this but here he was, struggling to keep himself from tipping over the edge. Your scent reminded him of flowers, a fluorescent garden with bright sun rays cascading down upon it. Giving it light and life. Growing drunk on it.

His nostrils flared, inhaling more of the sweet perfume you'd adorned yourself with like some obsessed puppy. God, he was fucking dizzy over how sugary you smelled and the man couldn't get enough of it. Like old restored wine, he craved to drown you down and savor you against his tongue.

“Beautiful writing skills you've got.” Hannibal complimented with a gentle smile. Your cheeks heated up, switching to a shade of rosette.

Your eyes sparkled. “Thank you. I guess you could say I put my soul into writing this book.”

Well you just dug yourself a deeper hole than you were in before by saying that. Hannibal’s heart fluttered at your words. You'd invested your soul into writing about him, him only and that fact made him feel like he was on cloud nine.

His smile lines deepened, watching as you reached for the book and flipped it open. Fingers tightly enveloping the marker between them, you scribbled your signature on the white paper along with your initials.

“You must have a really beautiful soul then.” Hannibal said and you swallowed. His politeness and his charm worked in mysterious ways to pull you towards him but Hannibal knew just by approaching you as a fan — which he was, wouldn't really work.

He had to do more to gain your attention, your full focus.

You slid his book back over to him and Hannibal nodded, picking it up. “It was a pleasure seeing you in person. Do you mind if I ask you a question, miss?”

You raised a brow but then slowly nodded.

Hannibal’s lips curved up. “Do you believe that the Chesapeake Ripper might read this book one day?”

Your brows furrowed. Hannibal’s question was peculiarly interesting, different than the questions others had for you. Fans excited to know about the inspiration behind the book, some aching to know where you'd come up with the sinister plot. But none like this.

Hannibal’s question had crossed your mind on multiple occasions.

“Maybe but if he does, I would be interested in knowing his opinion on the book.” You responded truthfully.

That was all Hannibal needed. He stared at you, with a longing foreign to you and then he nodded. You watched him walk out of the book store as your gaze clung to him. Something inside you told you this wouldn't be the first time you'd see this man.

You shook your head and signed the rest of the books, answering all the curious questions about your books and then leaving when the event had ended. It had gotten late and you swung your leather bag over your shoulder, heels clicking against the road when you crossed it to head to your car.

The night was dark and quiet — peace tainting spreading to corner, only the sound of crickets chatting could be heard along with the clicking of your pencil heels echoing in the vast space.

Before you could enter your car, a piece of paper stuck to the front glass of your car caught your attention. With a bemused expression on your face, you reached for it and ripped the sticky note off the glass.

As your gaze ran over the content of it, your hands began to tremble.

An absolute beauty you are. You have captured my mind, heart and soul with your enthralling words. Be careful, my Dearest.

You blinked, head immediately snapping up and gaze flickering all over the area you were in. Hoping you'd find someone who left this note but you were all alone, a deep silence greeting you. Panic filled you but your brain provided you with some reassurance.

A note left by a fan.

Maybe an admirer of your writing.

That had to be it.

Of course that was it. You released a nervous laugh, shaking your head. “Calm down, it's probably nothing.”

You took the note in your hand and got into your car, twisting the key into ignition and driving off to your house. On your way home, your mind kept repeating the words written in beautiful calligraphy over the paper. The twists of each letter — as if love had been poured into it.

You let out a breath, hoping that along with the run rising tomorrow you'd forget about this.

You preferred solitude and peace, not fond of the city so the area you lived in was quitw distant and overall stayed underneath complete silence. Cold breeze caressed your face as you drove by and when you finally reached home, you stepped out of the car with the intention to hit the bed.

Your arm throbbed from the amount of books you'd signed but you loved it. You loved writing down your thoughts, different plot lines. Invention of different characters was your coping mechanism.

You didn't know that when the next day you'd wake up, a horrible news would be awaiting you.

— ♡ —

Morning came by a flash.

You weren't typically cheerful but you weren't also grumpy either. An optimist was what you called yourself. You always looked forward to new days, trying to carry a positive mindset with you in life.

Coffee and pancakes was your go to breakfast.

Once you'd prepared it, you sat down on the couch and turned on the TV. Flipping through the channels while sipping onto your delicious, hot piping coffee which eased the prickling sensation caused by the shivering cold.

But then you stopped.

Eyes widening in horror over the news that flashed before you.

“The Chesapeake Ripper strikes again, taking another victim under his hold. This time it is an unidentified man in his thirties who was found dead last night in a forest. The FBI claims it was the Chesapeake Ripper who put up quite the show of the body.”

You blinked profusely.

The Ripper had stopped killing, quite for some time now. So why was he killing again? You were bemused but you didn't let it get to your head. A disturbing emotion seeped into your chest, anxiety spreading and you lost your appetite.

You decided it'd be best to go under the radar for now, as you'd written about the man.

There was a knock on the door and your panicked gaze switched to it. Placing your mug down, you stood up and walked to unlock the door. It revealed an FBI agent, also known as Will Graham. You'd come across tabloids about the compassionate empath who often helped with catching the murderers.

“Yes?”

Will raised his hand and you noticed he was holding your book. “You wrote this book?”

You nodded your head, an apprehensive feeling being born. “I did. Why?”

Will Graham invited himself in, gaze analyzing your home in scrutiny. You were taken aback by his behavior but still didn't say a word, as he was an FBI agent, a murder had been committed by the Chesapeake Ripper and he was holding your book.

“I'm sure you're aware of the murder that took place last night.” You couldn't understand what that had to do with you but you still heard him out, waiting for him to continue.

“Let's say our killer was heavily inspired by your book. Do you have anything to say about that?”

Your lips parted in confusion, brows furrowed as you were left flummoxed by the man's words. It's true you'd taken inspiration from the Chesapeake Ripper but that was all there was to it. There was no way someone had taken what you'd written to heart.

You took a step back. “I don't get this, agent Graham. What do you exactly mean by inspired?”

“I've read the book, miss. There are a few murder scenes which are fictional, never committed by the Chesapeake Ripper.” He explained, holding out printed parts of your own book. You slowly took them and then you were handed the photographs from the murder scene.

As your gaze swiped over it, your jaw dropped.

No way.

There was no way.

“No.” You whispered.

Exactly what you'd written, what you'd described, how you described it and even imagined it when you wrote it down. It was the same, a carbon copy like you yourself had committed the crime. You yourself had decorated the fucking set up.

You pressed a hand over your chest, feeling nauseous.

“Since they were fictional, the killer took it upon himself to bring them to life. Manifest them into reality, miss.” Your breathing grew uneven. A pang of guilt blossoming in your ribcage when your eyes glided over the dead body wrapped in dreadful vines, decorated with flowers.

Lily of the valley and Belladona.

Poisonous but beautiful flowers they were.

Your chest tightened.

Will noticed the raw fear and uncomfort spread on your face. It was exactly the same as what you'd written. Every detail, every touch, every little item was perfectly presented in the way you'd imagined it to be when you wrote it down. When you took hint of the body, your face became more flustered.

Exactly from the description of your book.

Blonde, male, short height and lean frame.

Just exactly the way you'd written him down and you looked at Will. “O-Organs. Is he missing a liver?”

Will nodded and that made you sick to your damn stomach.

Someone was out there — probably the Chesapeake Ripper and he had read your book.

This was a message.

To tell you he'd read your book.

Your fingers trembled and their grasp loosened over the pieces of paper, as well as the photographs. Falling to the floor.

Will kneeled down to gather them and then stood back on his feet.

“I-I don't know. I h-have no idea why he's doing this.” You stumbled over your words, palm pressing into your chest as your forehead became sweaty.

You were a mess.

“Calm down, please.” Will said, to reassure you. You could sense a panic attack knocking at the doors of your brain, struggling to breathe.

But you tried to calm yourself down. You weren't responsible for this as much as you felt like it. The fucking crime scene looked like you'd committed it, no wonder the FBI had come knocking on your damn door. This was going to sabotage you but at least they were aware someone else was doing the kills.

That calmed you down a little.

But you were still on edge. Taken aback from the abrupt change brought in one night.

“Am I a suspect?” You asked and Will shook his head. That relieved you a little.

After Will was done asking you some questions regarding the book and if there was anyone who you had shared the contents of it before the book was released, he left and you were all alone.

The scenes where the antagonist committed the fictional murders were completely out of your imagination. All thought about under the dark night and the glimmering stars.

You went to the kitchen to fetch yourself a glass of water and the cold water worked sufficiently to hydrate your parched mouth and throat.

You went into your room to grab your laptop, in hopes that you might find something on the internet. Leaning down, you tried to pick it up from your bed but stalled. A piece of paper capturing your attention. Folded neatly underneath your pillow.

Your breath hitched.

It was eerily similar to the paper that was stuck to your glass.

Heart beat picking up and hands beginning to shake, you reached for the paper and picked it up. As you unfolded it with bated breaths, your eyes widened.

Same hand writing, different words.

No amount of words were capable enough to describe the fear that you felt in that very moment when your gaze captured and read each and every word.

I hope you like what I prepared for you, my Dearest. There is more to come, please cherish and appreciate my gifts for you.

Tears stung your eyes vision blurry. You thought that was it but no. There was more, in the lower corner of the paper. You squinted your eyes and what you read next made you drop the note.

I must say, you are a gorgeous sight when you sleep.

[undercovercannibal]

I will forever be sad that we didn't get to see Hannibal's trial, the lost potential of it all keeps me awake at night.

Espec Will Graham's testimony and his subsequent cross examination.

Will being confronted with the fact that because he went undercover suspecting Hannibal of being a cannibal, he must have, if not known, at least highly suspected that some of the meals Hannibal's was serving him contained human meat. And yet he still ate them.

Just imagine the defense, in their best effort to undermine Will Graham's testimony (and shine a light on his own suspicious behavior) asking him how difficult it was for him to eat them? Maybe even being extra bold and asking him if they still tasted as good to him as before he started to suspect Hannibal? Hannibal is known as an excellent cook in the community after all.

How did Freddie Lounds describe the look in Hannibal's eyes when Will lied and said he could barely keep the food down?

[inlovewithquestionablecharacters]

Hi,

I just stumbled upon your blog and I am already obsessed with your stories.🥰 Your writing style and the way you describe the characters is simply amazing.

Anyways, I‘ve got an idea for a one-shot, could you please write one, where the reader is Dr.Lecters patient and they bump into a very distraught Will after his session and start talking to him. Hannibal get‘s jealous, because he thinks Will is interested in the reader,after the conversation ended, tension is really high during her sessions and it get‘s steamy in the end.(nsfw?)

Hannibal x Reader: What's mine is mine

Warning: smut, oral ( f receiving), no use of y/n, penetration ( p in v), possessive behavior, jealous Hannibal, anger, not proofread, gn reader, female anatomy.

Word count: 1,2 K

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“I've told you a thousand times that that door is for exiting clients only and you continue to use it.”

“Oh come on Hannibal you know how i hate using the other door. That empty waiting room always puts me on edge.”

“And talking with another patient is prohibited, you know that.”

You spin on your heels, angrily looking at your therapist.

“For the love of god hannibal! Did you see what he looked like? He was shaking so much I thought he was having some sort of seizure!”

You’d stumbled onto a very distressed will on your way into your appointment and simply couldn’t feel like you needed to help him.

“I'm surprised you let him leave at all. That man was a complete wreck.”

“It is my job to know what my clients need.”

“Clearly you're not doing it very well.”

You could tell you’d hit a nerve because instead of debating you Hannibal simply closed the door and stomped over to his chair. You shook your head. You didn’t understand why Hannibal was so worked up about you talking to Will. It’s not like you’d done anything wrong.

And the truth was you hadn't done anything wrong. If anything you’d shown you were an empathetic person. You weren’t the issue. Will was. Or more accurately, Hannibal's jealousy of Will was. Seeing you talk to Will had sent Hannibal into a sort of spiral. In his mind you belong to him but in reality you don't.

“Okay what the hell is up with you?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh so is your face just stuck like that now? You gonna give me the stink eye for the rest of the session? I mean come on! You’re acting like you caught me kissing him.”

Hannibal's body tensed at your words. He forced himself to open his mouth.

“Did you want to?”

“What?”

“Did you want to kiss him?”

“Oh for fucks sake what does that have to-”

“Answer the question.”

Hannibal had risen from his seat. He walked over to you boxing you against him and the wall behind you. You looked up at him staring into his eyes. Hannibal was so close to you that you could smell his perfume. You took a shaky breath in.

“No.”

“What?”

“No, I didn't want to kiss him. I’m not interested in him.”

No in him but in someone. That's what your words sounded like to Hannibal. He desperately needed to find out who you were interested in. Even if it meant having to get them out of his way. 

“Who then?”

“You’re kidding right?”

Hannibal continued to stare at you as he awaited you to answer his question. You shook your head at him.

“You’re such an idiot.”

You pushed forward, hitting Hannibal's shoulder with yours as you moved away from him. Hannibal grabbed your wrist, stopping you from getting too far.

“Who?”

You tugged your arm out of his grip, turning to face him. You looked pissed, it caught Hannibal off guard.

“You! It’s you, you ass!” 

Hannibal stared at you. You’d never yelled at him before. He felt rooted to his spot. He barely noticed you moving forward before you were tugging his tie. You gave him a bruising kiss. He moved to wind his hand around your waist but before he could you pushed off him.

“There. Satisfied?”

No. He would never be satisfied. He could still taste you on his tongue. And the taste was addicting. He surged forward grabbing your head with his hand. He shoved his mouth against yours, kissing you roughly. You let him, your hands moving to grip his suit jacket. The two of you stumbled across the room, hands wildly pulling at each other's clothes. Somewhere in the middle of the process you’d managed to unbutton Hannibal's shirt and he’d managed to remove your pants. Your body fell onto the loveseat, hand moving to tug Hannibal on top of you. He kissed at your skin, his hand moving to shove your shirt up. You gasped as his hands cupped your breast, kneading them in his hand. 

“Oh Hannibal!”

God he loved the way you sounded, gasping his name. He placed a kiss to the valley of your breasts before insching himself lower. He placed small kisses all over your stomach. You watched him with glazed eyes, observing him until he was on his knees before you. He tugs your underwear off your body, moving to place it in his back pocket. You raise your eyebrows to him and all he does is shrug. You squeal as Hannibal tugs you closer to him. He leaned his head down until he’s inches from your pussy. You bite your lip in anticipation. As soon as Hannibal's tongue makes its way to your fold you can’t help but throw your head back. Hannibal grips onto your thighs as you squirm against the loveseat. 

“Oh fuck. There! Hannibal there- shit!”

Hannibal grinned against your pussy, reveling in the way your hand grabs onto his hair in desperation. His fingers moved inside you, helping his tongue in his task to make you cum. You could feel yourself clenching around Hannibal's fingers, silently telling him you were close. If that wasn’t enough the high pitched moans you kept letting out should have been a sign. Hannibal sucked at your clit and you were a goner. Your hand gripped onto the love seat as you came. Hannibal watched you breath for a moment before beginning to climb over you. You tugged him down for a kiss, tugging at his hair. He bit your lip in return. 

Hannibal's dick nudged against your thigh, his pre cum mixing with your own juices. You smiled up at him, wrapping your legs around him. Hannibal took the hint, moving to align his dick with your entrance. He glanced at you for a moment, awaiting your approval. You gave him a small nod. He moved slowly into you. Once he’d bottomed out Hannibal stopped moving, giving you time to adjust. You opened your mouth in a silent moan, brows furrowing as you felt Hannibal twitch inside you. He desperately wanted to move but he would wait for you okay.

“Jesus Hannibal, what are you waiting for? Move!”

Well that was one way to put it. 

Hannibal began to thrust into you, his movements growing more rapid as your pleasure increased. He placed one of his feet on the ground, attempting to give himself more strength. You drew a breath in as he rocked into you rapidly. Hannibal leaned down tugging one of your breasts into his mouth. He sucked at your nipple, making sure to leave a mark. From the way you clenched around him he could tell you enjoyed it so he continued his ministrations. 

“Are you almost there?”

“Uhum please don’t stop-fuck-please i’m…”

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, fingers digging into Hannibal's shoulder as you came. Hannibal felt you sag beneath him, taking it as his chance to guide your movements. His hands found your hips gripping them tightly as his thrusts began to flatter. Pretty soon Hannibal seed spilled into your walls. He laid down beside you, pulling your body closer into his.

“Remind me to make you angry more often.”

“Careful dear. That's a dangerous game.”

“Maybe that's how I like it.”

[bluemoonscape]

Hunger is obviously a major theme in Hannibal—it’s literally the cannibal show—but the difference in how that’s portrayed with Hannigram is intriguing.

Hannibal was starving for connection before he had Will, and then everything changed for him. As Bedelia tells Will, “Did he daily feel a stab of hunger, and find nourishment at the very sight of you? Yes.” Hannibal’s hunger is sated by so much as the sight of Will. A mere look at him is enough to satisfy him.

But Will is different. Rather than being sated by his connection with Hannibal, it is the very thing that makes him hungry. There’s a frame in the Italy chapter that makes it look like he’s trapped in a starvation cage. In the script for his sailing scene, he’s literally described to look hungry:

Both Hannibal and Will have a possessive, obsessive, all-consuming love for one another, but it affects them quite differently. Hannibal is nourished by the very sight of Will, but for Will, no amount of the profound attention he experiences from Hannibal can fully sate his hunger—it’s a high he can’t help but chase. It fuels his pathological need to return to Hannibal again and again, no matter how self-destructive it is. I think this is why Will is more outwardly possessive of Hannibal than Hannibal is of Will. Hannibal wants Will to be his; Will wants Hannibal to be no one else’s. Both forms of possession, but Will’s is more jealous because of the way he experiences Hannibal’s attention. It’s a high, it’s a hunger—it’s a need, not a want.

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER TEN: RABBIT

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, implied child abuse, self harm, fatphobia, body dysmorphia

This is chronologically the tenth chapter in the series.

Read beneath the cut...

Napalm is the slow fire of waking from a terrible dream, blind, gasping, burnt. The pain, though delusive, is made actual by the action of nerves.

Only a hand at your shoulder, vigorous in its attentions, hauls you up from the putrescence of slumber into the light-dark of four in the morning. You find Hannibal's shape through lashes gummed with sleep's adhesive.

His face is as impassive as a star, but his hair, ever coiffed, is displaced from the friction of his pillow.

“You were screaming,” he says, as you sit, stunned, in his arms. “What were you dreaming about? Do you remember?”

“No,” you say, although the scenes remain briefly in your vision, doubling like silk screen prints upon the walls.

Hannibal fills up a glass with fresh water and bids you to drink, his eyes pensive, unconvinced.

Only the notion that he may suggest you share his bed or else intrude upon yours impels you to honesty.

“I dreamt that I was trapped in one of the Silicone Lover’s dolls. That he was trying to squeeze me inside, and I wouldn’t fit. He said, ‘You’ve gotten so big since I last saw you. I’d better do something about that.’

“Then he started cutting me up with kitchen scissors, and I couldn’t stop him.”

You pause, choking on a breath, a verbal stagger.

Dr Lecter offers you the water again, which you take in both hands and drain to its end.

“Take your time,” says Hannibal. “When you’re ready, go on.”

Lying will fail you before the all-seeing eye, so it is with a flat honesty that you say, “It wasn’t what the Lover did in my dream that scared me. It was what he said to me. Because he was right.”

You reach down to pull the quilt up across your stomach, which Hannibal, with a subtle gesture, prevents.

“To agree with such a statement there must be some basis of comparison for you,” he says. “You knew the person standing in as the Lover in your dream. Can you name him?”

Hannibal could guess it, from the little you’ve told him of your unclean past, but if memory conjures the name from the gully of silence he does not say so.

Instead, he comments, “I think it’s unwise for you to sleep again until your mind is settled. Perhaps we may take advantage of the hour to continue your therapy, in an informal fashion.”

He sits in a chair by your bed, producing a notepad and pen from a pocket of his dressing gown.

You see that he will not move.

"What if I don’t talk?” you ask, softly. “What if I say I'd rather take the punishment?"

Hannibal's slender lips upturn.

"I wouldn't be inclined to take such a claim seriously.”

In sullen defeat you flounce back against the pillows.

Dr Lecter takes his cue.

“I’m curious about the friendships you’ve formed throughout your life. Have there been any notable examples?”

“Not many,” you answer, looking at the raw edges of your fingernails. “I was kind of the weird kid. It was like looking through a dusty museum window at everybody passing by, not really knowing how to get out there and talk to people. Like I was too old and too young at the same time.

“I got bullied, kind of. Nothing worth talking about. Just dumb kid stuff.”

“Even persecution of a childish nature bears painful resonance in later life,” Hannibal comments. “Moreover, isolation from one's peers may disrupt development in those vital years.”

You think of dolorous hours patrolling a fallow playground alone, three hundred children staring through you with adult hostility.

“I did make one friend,” you say. “First year of high school. Amy Glass. She was a weird kid, too.”

Hannibal scratches deftly on his notepad.

"Describe how you met."

Closing your eyes, you find your way back through the forests of the past to a corridor whose tiled floor squeaks under your shoes. You smell textbook paper and saccharine body spray. The sweat of young bodies, and the stale cafeteria fare you’d never tasted throughout your time there.

“Between classes Amy would sit in a window listening to music, or reading,” you say. “Stephen King, usually. Sometimes Anne Rice. She seemed to be up there all the time. I don’t think she was getting shit from the other kids or anything; she just preferred hanging out on her own.

“I wished I was like that, not caring. I wished I was her, period.”

“In what way?” asks Dr Lecter, and in the hallway of your mind a slender figure appears, brown of skin and eyes, blue hair cut roughly to the chin, its roots seeping in atop it like a stain.

Amy.

“A lot of ways,” you say. “Before I really knew her, it was about how she looked. She had piercings— ears, lip, nose, eyebrow. Teachers would tell her to take them out, then the second she was out of their eye-line she’d put them right back in. And even back then she had these awful stick and poke tattoos of bats and crosses she covered up with band aids for classes.

“She did all of them herself with a safety pin. God knows how she didn’t get an infection or anything.

“Then there was the fact I knew we liked some of the same music because of the patches on her bag, and her t-shirts and stuff. Nothing you’d approve of,” you add, as interest touches the face of your listener. “Jesus, I can’t even imagine playing stuff like that in this house. Anyway, I didn’t want to just be like, ‘hey, you like that band, too’. It would have been too weird. Stalkery, maybe?”

“Music isn’t such a terrible way to form a connection,” says Hannibal, amused. “I was once approached in friendship through a shared taste in cheese.”

Picturing his restrained derision you cannot help but laugh.

“Oh, god,” you say. “What were they thinking?”

“It was a naive assumption of commonalities. Besides, my commitment to professionalism would never have allowed us to be as close as he would have hoped.”

You give a little start of affront.

“You’ve made friends with other clients.”

Dr Lecter’s smile remains.

“Only with those whom I feel my presence benefits.”

“Benefits you, you mean,” you say, pettishly. “Whoever it was, you just didn’t like him that much. That’s why you turned him down. Or maybe he was too like you.”

Without appearing offended, Hannibal turns a page in his notebook.

“I'm unconcerned with debating my personal relationships, little one. Let’s return to Amy. Who initiated the friendship between you?”

“Amy,” you say. “It was after this councillor was trying to get something out of me, and I didn’t want to talk. I walked out that room feeling so... heavy, and grimy, and embarrassed. Then there was Amy, heading to the same office I just walked out of. She looked at me, scrunched her face up, and said, ‘Wish me luck.’ Next time I saw her I made the same face back and asked, ‘how was it?’

“‘The worst, just like always,’ she said. ‘Where’d she get her certificate, anyway? Clown school?’

“I burst out laughing. ‘She’s so bad, right?’

“And that was it. Friends. We went everywhere together. Amy really liked me. I don’t know why. I think maybe she thought I was sort of mysterious and interesting rather than just depressed, probably because I didn’t want to talk about what was going on with me.

“She told me everything about her. How her dad didn’t believe in mental health issues even though he was just like she was, and how her mom just ignored everything, hoping it’d just... go away. But I didn’t tell Amy even one little thing about me, really. Not one.”

Guilt you’ve never truly confronted falls like a petal from a late summer bloom, cloying the dark with its flavour.

“Did Amy ever indicate that she’d recognised your particular illness?” prompts Hannibal, and you shrug glumly.

“A couple of times. I ignored every hint. Changed the subject. Acted like it wasn’t a thing when it obviously was. I knew that she knew. That was the dynamic. She was softer, around me. She got it. She got me.”

Suddenly your breath feels very high in your chest, catching on a rib.

“I can’t help but notice your use of the past tense,” says Dr Lecter. “Might I assume that you are no longer friends?”

“We grew apart after school,” you mutter. “I think she would have liked it if I stayed in touch, but then sometimes I wonder if that’s just wishful thinking, and maybe she didn’t care all that much when we drifted apart and stopping talking.

“I have her on Facebook. That’s all, really. She was never a social media person anyway, but still. I could have tried harder. I don’t know why I didn’t.”

Hannibal allows the silence between you to ferment before he speaks again.

“Looking back, what do you think prevented you from maintaining contact?”

“I felt like after school was over she’d find other friends, and I’d just end up being left behind. So I got out of there before I had to see it happen.”

"You abandoned a friendship on the basis of a prophecy that might never have come to fruition."

"It would have,” you insist. “All my life I've had senses about things. Like, if I get a feeling something will or won't happen, I'm always right. Like I was right about you."

Swanlike, Dr Lecter’s hands move across his notebook, tactfully punctuating a note.

"It's common for sufferers of complex post-traumatic stress disorder to misinterpret their hypervigilance as psychic premonition. A heightened awareness of your surroundings and the behaviours of people in your vicinity develops in order to predict danger before it occurs. Pattern recognition is more mathematical than clairvoyant."

"What about my dreams?" you ask, sharply. “Are they math, too?”

"You've had other nightmares?” asks Hannibal, and leans forward, poised to digest you answer.

Canny, you hoard the matter like a serpent its glittering lair.

Hannibal accepts his defeat with grace.

Gathering up his notebook and the empty glass, he says, "That's enough therapy for now, particularly so early in the morning. I'll make you some tea, and you may return to sleep. Peacefully, this time, I hope."

*

Later, there is a meal that sits, sinking in a bath of bronze on Dr Lecter’s dining table, so much of it that you’re gorged merely from the arithmetic of its makeup.

“Arroz de Cabidela,” says Hannibal, as he pulls out his own chair. “A Portuguese dish made with rice, chicken, or rabbit cooked in its own blood. Today I’ve chosen rabbit. Have you ever eaten it before?”

It occurs to you that he expects you to be disturbed by the notion, but you are not. Meat is meat, all of it equally cruel. That life must end for the furthering of your existence has driven you to veganism many a time.

Little chance of sustaining such a diet now that you sleep in the devil’s slaughterhouse.

“No,” you say. “I’ve never tried rabbit. I heard it’s really... gamey.”

Your palate is scarcely educated enough to comprehend the statement. Still, it is apparently accurate, for Hannibal makes a low hum of agreement.

“It has similarities to poultry, in flavour, though it’s rather lean and dry. The blood stew adds a richness you’ll find complimentary, however.”

The scent is certainly inviting, but you are so committed to rejecting whatever is served to you that you feel lightheaded, succumbing to the altitude of starving heights.

“Couldn’t you have given me a smaller portion?” you ask, piteously. “I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s so... much.”

Hannibal glances from your plate to his own, his visage neutral.

“I’ve served you a great deal less than I’ve given myself,” he says. “That said, I’m sure we can settle our differences. I’m not unyielding, if I can see some effort is being made.”

You look him in the eye, hoping you appear more bold than frightened.

“Dr Lecter, you make me all these courses, and they’re crazy even for a normal person. I feel like you do it on purpose. And afterwards my stomach hurts.”

“That’s normal, after a period of fasting. Your body will adjust. Now, please eat.”

You don’t. The cut on your plate makes you think of the Lover’s dolls, how even at your slightest you wouldn’t have fit into such a shell. How, changed as you must be through Hannibal’s cooking, you would ooze over every edge.

“I could use the feeding tube, if you’re unwilling,” says Dr Lecter, rising from his chair to stand at your back. “It would be relatively easy for me to administer. But I’d hate to sour an otherwise pleasant meal with brute force.”

He cups your throat in his smooth hand, and you envision how lovingly he’d coil about you in restraint, guiding the pipe down through you as you choked and flinched in his grasp.

“I’ll eat a quarter,” you say. “That’s it. Then... then nothing else until tomorrow. I won’t sneak out of bed, and I won’t do anything that breaks the rules. Please, Dr Lecter. Uh... Daddy?”

Your confusion between roles endears you to him, as does your breathless, eager willingness to beg.

“Should I allow you to barter?” Hannibal muses, still caressing the wand of your stiff neck. “It’s a symptom of your illness, after all.”

“Just let me choose how much and I’ll try anything you offer me.”

Dr Lecter releases a small breath of laughter.

“I wouldn’t like you to eat your words, little one.”

Gnashing your teeth, you say, “I won’t. I can do it. Please let me. You’re supposed to dote on me, aren’t you?”

You feel Hannibal’s lips against your hair in a kiss of paternal indulgence.

“Always so spirited,” he says. “Very well. I cannot deny my little beauty her request.”

What beauty does he refer to? You’ve only recognised it in the mine shafts of furthest hunger, mistaking a shadow for some precious stone.

Yet clearly you are not so low quality as you believe if both men have fucked you so freely over other women, whom they could conceivably draw into the net of the house.

Then again, there is no accounting for the tastes of madmen, and mad they both are, even Hannibal in his gelid divinity.

From the topiary of his language and flippant games you are beginning to see that you interest him in your very opposition to his being. Were you to succumb completely you would not be so worthy: all men bow to Hannibal, after all, seduced and deceived until they’d lick his fingers like lambs for the milk of his approval.

You, like Will, resist and evade enough of his passes to set yourself apart from the flock.

You may yet throw a halter over the head of the horned man, if only in as much as he allows himself to be reigned.

Quartering your meal as neatly as you're able, you glance up at Dr Lecter, afraid that, by some caprice, he’ll break his code and force you to eat down to the bare plate. But he merely stands by, retaining his honour, and as you look at him you picture his mild hands breaking the neck of the rabbit to drain as though for a ritual of blood.

*

Frequently through your days with Hannibal he immerses himself in hobbies and work about the house, cultivating a necessary solitude after the long hours of ingesting others’ anxious thoughts.

He reads, or writes music, sketches, telephones his friends and past lovers—of whom there are many—or else sets his pen to journals, having seen you safe to your locked room, where he need not prepare for misdemeanour.

In this way your residence in Hannibal’s home does not impede upon his individual pursuits, but rather compliments them, an accent of his sempiturnal glamour.

You are, after all, but one of his many pastimes. It is indulgence, then, when he insists on attending your evening bath.

As he kneels beside the tub to dampen a washcloth his intentions surface, another infringement upon the flesh.

“I don’t need you to help me,” you mumble, arms taut across your chest. “I’m not your baby.”

“Your inner child wails for the tenderness your illness has long obstructed,” says Hannibal, calmly. “Your independence would have you die like an infant abandoned to the forest. Let me carry you, at least in this small act of service.”

You look at him with eyes as dull as old blades and picture the futility of your struggle, his lithe arms holding you, kicking and airless, beneath the foam.

“Don’t you have your own daughter you can do all this with?” you ask; you’ve not yet needled him on his familial relations, and feel yourself more than entitled to know.

Hannibal begins to work the flannel over your naked form, paying no heed to your twitching affront.

“Abigail would have served the role admirably,” he says. “But it wasn’t to be. As for my own children, I have none.”

The revelation passes you without surprise. It’s only possible to imagine him having elegant, adult offspring, absent of the soiling indignities of rearing an infant.

“So you took me away for you and Will to raise,” you say. “Guessing he doesn’t have kids, either.”

The washcloth folds beneath the water, and you gaze studiously at the opposite wall so as not to think about the hand behind the fabric, how it has touched you in other ways, pleasantly, horridly.

“Will is also childless,” says Dr Lecter. “He has never known family, as you have. His mother left him when he was only an infant, and his father was a distant figure, though present. Now it seems that they’re estranged from one another. One can only imagine the loneliness Will has known in his life. Perhaps, with your assistance, this will change.”

Cloth, skin, hands, touch. Gentle and beguiling their trap, to distract from the permanence of this suggested triptych as fingers play against you underwater.

Unsteadily, you ask, “Is Will your boyfriend?”

Hannibal turns you an indecipherable look.

“Do you perceive our relationship to be romantic?”

A strange question, considering the violation with which you were inducted to their company. But not once did either man kiss or grasp the other— a technicality, certainly, yet one, it seems, that holds weight.

“Yes,” you say. “For you, anyway. I don’t know about Will. I know he thinks highly of you. He just sees me as something that’s in the way.”

You kick a foot testily, splashing water over the rim of the bath.

“What are you in the way of?” asks Hannibal, as he begins to lather your hair.

“Not sure. Your friendship, I guess.”

“Do you believe him when he implies that you're only an obstacle to him?”

Water pours over your head, and you close your eyes, enduring the sensation.

“He told me I’m unwanted,” you say.

“When you attempted to kill him?”

Fear bowls over you with a black suddenness.

“He told you?”

“I came to my own conclusions. You weren't quiet, either of you, that night."

You look at Hannibal, at the stag man of your dreams, and taste something like dirt, something like blood, at the back of your mouth.

“Had you seriously injured him or succeeded in your bid to end his life I would have been forced to conclude our treatment,” he says. “But you did not. I’m thankful to have been provided with a truth I hadn’t yet drawn from you: I know that you are not a killer, at least not at this present moment.”

In a strengthless whisper, you ask, “What do you mean?”

Hannibal draws a comb through your hair, unmoved by the conversation.

“As time changes the continents, people come apart through circumstance into new being. That shift may one day lead to the birth of murder’s country.”

A thought stings you like the cold: Will and Hannibal want you to be capable of killing, if not of them, then someone of lesser consequence, the hereditary illness emerging in the child.

That is the secret under this house, the whisper in the walls, its present haunting.

“I hope that never happens,” you mumble. “Never. No matter what you do.

“And yet the whetting of your blood thirst didn’t begin with Will and I,” says Dr Lecter, mildly. “Until you admit your liking of its flavour you will remain unsatisfied, little one.”

You do not ask how he knows you’ve thought of killing, once before, which you yourself had forgotten; having been in your home, the chill sanctum of your childhood bedroom, he may have learned, of you, a myriad, his interrogation merely a practice in contextualising his findings.

“I’d rather starve,” you say, at last, and sink your chin beneath the water.

Dr Lecter takes a razor from a nearby cabinet and begins to shave you with slow precision. He does not ask if you wish for it, only glides the razor across your underarms, groin, and each leg until you run silken beneath his hands.

That done, Hannibal rises, brushing unseen dust from his knees.

“I’ll bring you some fresh clothes,” he says, and leaves the room, a ghost departing the stage.

You look at the razor, entrapped in its plastic guard on the rim of the bath.

Had you a pair of scissors you might have cut the metal free to make a weapon, or else an escape into realms unknown to the living. Though its edge is still wickedness manifest, it would take a great deal of pressure to pursue death by this angle, though it would not be impossible.

It is not death you want to meet, however, but another, nameless coward.

You take the blade to your arm, and the pain is like eating, a sin that sates the freak of misery.

The bathwater turns like a devil’s baptism, and though they are but shallow cuts you feel suddenly faint. Lying back, you lay your arm against the porcelain, thinking murky thoughts of your mistake.

Hannibal returns carrying a muted lilac dress and pale stockings, stilling at the sight of you, of the water, red as autumn mud.

He sets down the clothing and kneels beside you again.

“Let me see.”

You let him take your arm and touch the crude little gashes softly.

“Shower, quickly. Then I’ll treat your wounds. Fortunately, they aren’t so deep.”

How gentle he is with you, this beast dressed as a man in his pressed shirt and waistcoat, guiding your numb form about with a soothing authority. You’d once yearned to be handled like this, to be absolved and set free of any and all expectation. That it comes from him is like being spit in the eye by the Fates, one after the other.

Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos: what have you done to so offend them?

It’s only after having bandaged your forearm and settled you, dummy-like, upon his bed, that Hannibal speaks again.

“What motivated you to do this?”

“You know.”

“Elaborate.”

You lie, face down, in the pillows. The cotton smells like him.

“To feel better,” you say. “Amy said it helped her, sometimes. Cleared her head.”

The mattress tilts slightly as Dr Lecter sits down beside you.

“You mirror her pain to feel closer to love lost. Has it helped you?”

“No. I feel stupid. I feel—”

Restless, you turn onto your side and feel a tear, compelled by gravity, mark your jaw.

“I feel like a kid,” you say. “It’s humiliating. I hate that I always feel this way. Don’t make me live like this.”

Dr Lecter presses a tissue into your hand, as much to save his bedclothes as to comfort you.

“Fighting the expression of necessary emotions will only stunt them further, little one. Will and I would dearly like to see you flourish. Amy would surely wish that for you, too.”

Cradling your wounded arm to your chest, you flick the used tissue to the floor with the other.

“Screw you,” you say. “Both of you. That’s what Amy would tell me to say to you, Dad.”

Hannibal stares at the tissue, and you sense the inward twitch of his irritation as he bends to pick it up from the ground.

“Your parents called again, this afternoon,” he says, offhandedly. “I informed them that you were struggling with your treatment. I advised that we continue your residence here a month longer than previously agreed.”

He casts you a pitying look, and you’re reminded of the futility of going to war with Hannibal Lecter.

“It seems that I made the prudent choice,” he says. “Don’t you agree?”

[cedarxwing]

The sequence where Hannibal is taken into custody and processed for evidence in "The Great Red Dragon" (3x08) was originally going to feature the ceiling of the Norman Chapel in Hannibal's memory palace crumbling! This would've been a callback to Hannibal's love of church collapses:

"I collect church collapses. Did you see the recent one in Sicily? The facade fell on sixty-five grandmothers during a special Mass. Was that evil? Was that God? If He's up there, He just loves it." - Shiizakana

Instead of the cheerful choir boy music, the script describes a performance of Vide Cor Meum, which played when Hannibal first visited Will in prison in Savoureux (1x13). It would've been fitting to have it play during Hannibal's imprisonment! It also would've created a sadder, more romantic tone.

In the collapse of the "foyer of his mind," Hannibal happily sits among the grandmothers gathered for the "special Mass." It's ambiguous if he's accepted that he's about to get crushed too, or if he's immune to being pulverized in his memory palace. Either way, it would've been a powerful symbol of his submission to Will's design. He's having fun, giving up control!

The final sequence that we got communicates all this pretty effectively, but the roof collapse + Vide Cor Meum would've been soooo dramatic and fun.

Another roof collapse got cut from "...And the Beast from the Sea" (3x11) script. This one happens in Dolarhyde's imagination, and would've drawn a parallel between his loss of control and Hannibal's:

I assume all of this got cut for time, CGI budgetary reasons, or to keep the 3x08 scene more lighthearted. A shame, because I think it would've added another layer of meaning to this shot, later:

Hannibal is counting down the hours to the murder of Will's family, raising his hand to the moon just like Will did in 3x09. Is he also imagining the collapse of his prison cell ceiling? Maybe he's in the Norman Chapel, enjoying the roof collapse there?

[glassprism]

this might be like a really dumb question but are carlotta and piangi supposed to be together? like they're obviously close (piangi being carlotta's sad little puppydog) but do you think that means the text suggests they're a couple?

As far as the text goes, it seems clear that Carlotta and Piangi are together and supportive of one another, but what they are specifically - husband/wife, lovers, superior and minion, grand diva and adoring fan - is left ambiguous. I'm fairly certain I've seen at least one Carlotta actress describe Piangi as her "lapdog".

Within the show, Carlotta and Piangi are almost always sharing scenes together or aiding one another. Piangi leaves the Hannibal production when Carlotta does; he defends and flatters her during 'Notes I'; and she in turn defends him during the Don Juan Triumphant rehearsal and mourns for him when he dies. The blocking also often has Piangi acting a bit jealous when Carlotta flirts with the managers, pairs the two up together in various scenes, or has him rushing to help her, such as when she starts croaking in Il Muto.

It's also worth noting that in some casting calls, Piangi is described as "Carlotta's companion", an equally ambiguous statement that leaves the pairing up to the audience's imagination. And I think that is the point; it gives both the actors and the audiences lots of room to decide how they want to see the two. Hilariously, this is not the case in the cast description used for licensing the show to youth and amateur theater groups, where Piangi is explicitly described as "Carlotta's husband". I can only assume that since the show is being licensed to high schools, they did not want to imply that Carlotta and Piangi are living in sin together or something, which is extremely funny considering some of the stuff that goes on in the rest of the show.

[alexanderwales]

Pitchposting: Bad Detectives

content warning: bdsm, sexual violence, suicide, murder, police

Pitchposting is when you write about a thing that you're not going to write to exorcise the demons.

I was a big fan of the Hannibal TV show, partly because it was a bit silly. I'm worried that the thing I'm going to describe here will feel like a riff on that, but hopefully it's just an influence. The actual core of the idea came while watching Presumed Innocent.

The book follows two detectives who hunt serial killers. I'm not sure I care all that much about actual serial killers or the actual people who hunt them, though I have read a few nonfiction books from former FBI people, mostly to make sure I understand the perspective of government employees and how their process of self-mythologizing goes (for a different book). This book takes place in one of those worlds where there are a ton of serial killers, they're clever and artistic and tortured, and they're caught by looking at their signatures and through careful psychoanalysis rather than security cameras, fingerprints, and other features of the national security panopticon.

Our male lead is scruffy and tightly clenched. He's a loner. He doesn't talk much, but when he does, it's insightful and poignant. He's weird, but not in a way that maps well to any actual diagnosis. He's extremely good at getting inside the head of serial killers, understanding their patterns, knowing the things that will give them away, how they'll inevitably slip up or be caught. To the extent we get his inner thoughts, he is absolutely fucked in the head: the only reason you wouldn't call him a serial killer is that he's never actually killed anyone, and the only reason he hasn't done it is because it's wrong. He instead satisfies his urges through his job with the FBI, which allows him access to tons and tons of photographs and the chance to visit crime scenes, to talk to serial killers, to confront his darkness over and over, flirting with it. Maybe there's actually some question whether he has killed someone, and in what circumstances, if he's an Ethical Serial Killer of some kind. You can smell the frustrated impulses on him.

Our female lead is carefully put together and very cold. She's a loner. She doesn't talk much, but when she does, she's sad and distant. She's weird in a way that doesn't map to any diagnosis. She's fastidious. She has eight of the exact same suit and three pairs of the same shoes. She's extremely good at getting in the heads of serial killers, which again, is the main way that serial killers are caught in this world rather than, I don't know, loads of interviews, tip lines, etc. She is absolutely fucked in the head: she's drawn to killers like a moth to flame. She is, essentially, prey incarnate, a lamb who would willingly lie down to be brutalized by the lion. The only reason she hasn't been killed is that she has a sense of self-preservation and thinks that killing and hurting people is wrong. She satisfies her urges through her work, which gets her access to serial killers, lets her interview them, lets her see the crime scenes and imagine herself in them, etc.

I think for the purposes of pitchposting, we could stop there. Obviously we have two completely insane people in a very high-stress high-stakes job who happen to match each other in a way that no human ever actually does. They have these private inner lives that they cannot, under any circumstances, share with other people, but the central tension is that if they did share with each other, they would find that they're a perfect fit.

The scene that's been kicking around in my head is the two of them trying to recreate a crime scene together, with her in the role of victim and him in the role of perpetrator. They're in their work clothes, conservatively dressed, both playing the part of professional, and each actually thinking while they're playing it cool "wow, this is so hot, god I wish this were real".

It's basically this, as a fucked up psycosexual erotic thriller/romance:

I think as far as this core relationship goes, it's pretty solid. Both have a dark secret, their dark secrets complement each other, there's plenty of reason for both of them to misunderstand the other (because both would naturally assume that the other is repulsed rather than attracted).

But at the end of the line, I'm not sure what an ending would look like for the two of them. He's not just a sadist, he has a hunger for murder, and his whole character orientation has been around trying to satisfy those urges in other ways that don't quite work. And she's not just a masochist, she has erotic suicidality, which I might have just coined (but probably did not). The ending that their internal drives are pointing at is with him as a killer and her dead. That would be a very daring ending, and I'm not sure what it would mean ... but I also don't know what ending would work better, or even what the themes of this book would be, other than just "look at these two freaks". (And of course the audience for the book is people who see themselves in one or the other of these two freaks. I'm using "freaks" affectionately here.)

The main problem is that this is all sort of gross. Hannibal steered away from sexual violence, one major notable exception aside, vaguely implying it sometimes but often using murder as a stand-in for sex. I thought the show worked best when it was the most divorced from reality, when it was being serious about its camp. The serial murders are works of art, things of beauty, dark and horrible but also aesthetic and neatly planned.

Maybe you can do that here. Maybe serial killers in this world have absolutely no interest in sexual violence of any kind. Maybe our protagonists are vaguely sexless themselves, and when they're acting out murders together the sex stuff exists only in the mind of the reader. And then when they do have sex, if they do, then that's a stand-in for murder. This is less gross than, e.g. having sexually violent crimes that sexually excite our protagonist, at least in my opinion, maybe because that would be less divorced from reality.

A woman with an interest in getting raped is ... I mean, there are real women like that out there, ones who have that fantasy and ones who actually would want to make that fantasy a reality in some way. But a woman who thinks it's hot to be ritually stabbed fifty-two times in the stomach is less real, and her dark desire is more clearly a stand-in for other dark desires, whatever repressed urge our audience feels, or sees in others, or how we understand ourselves and our thoughts. Easier to do the mapping when it's clear that we're not mapping to anything substantially real. (Knowing humans, I am sure that there probably is someone out there with vivid fantasies about basically anything, but if I wrote the story it would be with "this is not literally about dismemberment, decapitation, vivisection, bondage, stabbing, etc." in mind.)

I think having the serial killers be over the top also helps to take you out some of what tends to be a icky about true crime. It becomes clear that this is a fantasy, that it's exploring something in our brains, rather than doing the typical procedural thing of "ripped from the headlines". These would be killers with their own weird fucked up demons they let free, artists, rather than the serial killers we get in the real world, who are mostly impulse idiots. I think it's easy to not be exploitative if you're completely divorcing yourself from reality.

I think I'm the wrong person to write this, which makes it perfect for a pitchpost. I enjoyed Hannibal, but it seems like an exhausting thing to write, and trying to strike the right balance for both main characters seems tough and like an ongoing battle I'd be fighting with every word. There'd be a risk of teetering over into grimderp shock value at every turn.

I'm trying, right now, to think about a way to have that same dynamic I like without it being some sex-murder thing, and I'm coming up blank. Two people who are serious professionals with a dark secret whose careers are ostensibly about stopping that thing ... you know, maybe just set the story in a repressive society where the things they think are horrible and would offend the other are things we maybe find a little boring or everyday, though this loses you the aspect of "our desires would literally destroy us". So I don't think it would be quite the same, but I'd be more likely to write it, rather than wallowing in the sexy murdersphere.

[voxmortuus]

Hi! How are you? So (Please don't judge me or kill me) I have this request about Hannibal x Fem! College! Reader (Age Gap) . Só Hannibal wants a baby but Reader wants to focus on her education. One day reader thinks that Hannibal is make a sex game but then ended in a non-con situation and in a forced pregnancy, what do you think? Please do not judge or kill me it's just a fantasy

PAIRING: Hannibal x Fem! College! Reader (Age Gap) (First Person POV)

UNIVERSE: Hannibal

WORDS: 766

SUMMARY/PROMPT: See above

Trigger Warning(s): Non-Con & Forced Breeding Implied and lightly described) | Blindfolding | Handcuffing | PLEASE TELL ME IF I FORGOT ANYTHING!!! I want to make sure readers are fully aware of what they are getting themselves into when they read this…

DISCLAIMER: DO NOT ROMANTICISE OR GLAMORIZE SERIAL KILLERS OR RAPE! I do not condone these actions, nor do I support them! This was written upon request. Do NOT send me hate mail, you will be blocked, do not post on this with any sort of negativity you will be blocked. If you don’t like it don’t read it it’s that simple!!! If you ever encounter this in real life please contact the Sexual Assult Telephone Hotline. Please understand this is a fanfiction, think of it like Hollywood. Also, I’m sorry if this is horrible…..

NOTE: Sorry if this isn't what you expected, I'm hoping this finds you well love! PLEASE!! If you ever need someone to talk to about this I extend my inbox to you!

IMAGE CREDIT: Divider by @firefly-graphics | Google I DO NOT CLAIM OWNERSHIP OF THESE IMAGES. If these are yours or you know who the creator(s) is please INBOX me and let me know. Thank you.

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All of this was such a heavy price to pay, between tuition fees, and book costs, lab fees, I just wanted to focus on school, I just wanted to focus on my classes and graduate and get a good job! But that didn't seem to be what he wanted, he wanted more. He wanted a family. As much as I would love to give it to him, I just couldn't. I needed to focus and it was becoming increasingly difficult.

Coming home one night he approached me and looked me over, tucking some hair behind my ear. He gave me that charming smile, looked me in the eyes, cupped my face in his hands, and sighed softly.

"So, I've been thinking, maybe we could have dinner then we can try something new in the bedroom."

"New? What did you have in mind?"

"Well, I was thinking that maybe we could try some sensory things."

Looking at him, I let out a slight breath and nodded. Trusting him, I feel that nothing could really go wrong. Little did I know what he was actually planning on doing.

Dinner was fantastic, as usual, and there was no questioning to the amount of wine I had downed, but I didn't have class in the morning, so a little extra wasn't going to hurt.

When he took me to the bedroom it was all done up nicely. A special blindfold, and is that handcuffs? I tilt my head and let out a soft breath. Wined and dined, I feel him grab for my hand and pull me close. Pressing my back against him I rest my head against his shoulder and let out a soft breath.

Feeling his hands wrap around my waist and slowly move up to grip my breasts. I let out a soft moan and my eyes close. Feeling comfortable, feeling like I could take on the world at that moment. I lick my lips and feel his lips move to my beck. My hands draped at my sides as his hands moved under my shirt to remove my shirt, exposing my flesh to the frost-kissed windows.

Letting out another soft whimper I feel his hands moving down my body, looping his fingers in my yoga pants he strips them from me. Looking at me he drinks me in.

Leading me to the bed, I don't question. After all, he told me just what he wanted, and I was willing to oblige. Lying down on the fluffy, warm, welcoming bed. I feel my hands being cuffed to the headboard, and the blindfold being placed over my eyes. Biting my lip I anticipate everything coming my way.

Letting out a shaky breath I bite my lip and listen very carefully. I listen for what he could be doing. I hear the bed move, and fabric moving, his shirt being draped over the chair before he climbed into the bed. Biting my lip I feel his hips against mine. Returning the kiss it isn't long before his lips are moving down my body. As his lips capture a nipple I arch slightly into him and let out a soft whimper. Feeling myself growing wet between the hips I press them upward. Feeling the movement he unzips his pants and before I know it, he's shoving his bare cock into me. At first, I let out a soft whine, but then I grow to panic.

"Hannibal... stop, no. What are you doing?"

He doesn't say anything, he just picks up his thrusts. I start to kick, but I can't grip him, or let alone really fight back because he has me handcuffed.

"I said stop! STOP HANNIBAL! NO!"

But he ignored me. He didn't even bother listening. As he kept thrusting. I kept trying to twist my body but he had a strong grip on me. His thrusts became more painful, more demanding. He was going to get exactly what he wanted to get, and he was only hurting our relationship in the process.

"It's a game love, shhh..."

I knew better, I fuckin knew better!

Sitting there in the doctor's office, I look over at the ultrasound and let out a slow breath, shaking my head. I demanded to know, so the doctor did an ultrasound. Rubbing my face and cleaning the jelly off my lower stomach I close my eyes and shake my head.

After a few moments of talking to the doctor, I am sitting in my car, sniffling and wiping my nose. Picking up the phone I dial his number.

"Hello?"

"Hannibal... we need to talk."

[honeygrahambitch]

Hannibal woke up a lot earlier than Will who was still sleeping soundly unbothered by the howling of the wind. Even though it was not the first time he was spending the night at Will's, the sounds of nature managed to frequently wake him up.

He left the bedroom quietly and headed towards the kitchen to make himself some coffee.

The sun was not yet up. The birds were quiet too.

He thought of making some breakfast later, to surprise Will when he would be up. It amazed him how happy this man would get in front of a plate of pancakes and bacon.

He opened the door and stepped onto the porch, followed by Will's dogs who were excited to go out. Holding his mug of coffee, Hannibal took a walk around the house and stopped in front of the forest.

He was not sure what he was looking for, but for once the whole nature fell quiet around him, as if his presence was noticed and slowly absorbed into the winter tableau.

He brought the mug to his lips and closed his eyes. He hummed to himself, enjoying the silence. Then something changed into the air.

The next second he returned inside and grabbed Will's shotgun. Still holding his hot mug of coffee he went again to his previous spot but this time he advanced into the woods.

It was a cold morning and he was not wearing adequate clothes for a walk in the forest in the middle of February. Winston followed him loyally. Even the dog was considering him a "city boy", like Will would often call him.

It went quick. A twig snapped. Hannibal grabbed the shotgun. Gestured to Winston to be quiet. Breathed in. Eyed the prey. Made a decision. And shot.

The noise woke Will up in an instant. The panic grew when he couldn't find Hannibal next to him. He rushed into the living room, looking for his shotgun.

It was not where it was supposed to be.

He grabbed his gun instead and rushed out into the snow, following the direction of the noise. His dogs greeted him and followed. Just as he was about to venture into the woods, he froze.

Hannibal, still holding a mug in his left hand, and dragging a deer with the other, was slowly making his way through the snow. Will's shotgun was hanging loosly on his back. A red trail in the snow marked his path.

Will was trying to find the proper words to describe his reaction which was anywhere between amusement, surprise and annoyance.

"Are you going to keep watching or are you giving me a hand?"

"I swear to God, you are the only person in the world who would go hunting while drinking your coffee. And in your underwear."

"It's yours in fact."

Will looked down at his boxers which were in fact Hannibal's. He walked towards him and helped with the deer.

"How many times did you shoot?" Will asked noticing two wounds.

"Once." Hannibal replied. "Someone else must have hurt her before. She was struggling. I decided that putting her down would ease her suffering."

The Chesapeake Ripper didn't want the deer to suffer a slow and painful death. On the other hand, Will could tell Hannibal was already planning all the ways they could cook the deer in.

[semisomnosres]

My random thoughts about My Immortal Soul:

The ninja suit is made from the feathers of a huge bird, and Chase turns into a huge lizard because he drank sour soup from a talking bean. Technically, they can be described as: two elderly Asians over +90 years old, fighting and flirting with each other in their fursuits.

And let's imagine a scenario where the First still won against Chase, imprisoned his soul in Nomicon (or in a psychiatric ward), but in theory the body will remain, will it be possible to rip off the skin and make magical equipment using the same method as the Tengu suit? I'm sure somewhere in the book there are instructions on how to sew. I think that sewing something from leather is easier than doing it from feathers. And is it possible to make more suits from other powerful creatures. If so, I would start catching the most evil creatures, so that I wouldn’t feel sorry for them, and use them as weapons against other equally evil creatures. Although (apart from unknown, most likely life-threatening, conditions) there are still theoretical problems. Firstly, Chase is much smaller than Tengu, in which case it would only be enough for bracers or gloves (although it would be cool if it was enough for full-fledged armor. With a duet of Samurai and Ninja, crime would be significantly reduced). And the owner, especially a child, will not be able to curb so much dark magic at once, so it’s better not to combine them And if Chase “dies” like that in the form of a reptile, will he turn into a human or will he remain like that? It’s just that if he becomes a human, then removing his skin will look like a cut scene from Hannibal. The first one probably knows how to get rid of a person's body so that there are no traces left (ninjas are hired killers after all) despite the new circumstance in the form of a sorcerer, he was still trained in this matter, and one of the most effective ways is to hide the body in parts. Although in those days it was enough to take the body to the mountains far away, where there are plenty of animals and they will gnaw the body for a sweet soul, but there are situations where taking the body out is far from an option. or at least watched how his brothers / parents / clanmates did it