Mads Mikkelsen X Reader - Blog Posts

CARALHO NO MADS QUASE GOZEI. AMEI

[✴] como o cillian e o mads usam dumbfication...

o cillian faz sem querer. em momentos cotidianos, não é pra te diminuir, longe disso, ele só quer te mostrar uma música nova ou te explicar sobre algo que você não sabe, e toda vez que acontece você fica meio afetada. ele não entende de primeira, mas como um bom observador ele junta as peças e pouco a pouco vai metendo um pouco de dumbfication enquanto ele te come, coisas bem sutis mesmo até ele pegar gosto e meter um "ninguém nem imagina que você é uma puta burrinha, né? que ama levar pau até parar de pensar..." numa voz bem mancinha.

agora o mads faz de propósito, e dá pra saber já que além das palavras ele abre um sorriso no canto dos lábios, te olhando como se você fosse estúpida demais pra entender as coisas simples. e ele percebe isso logo, e vai brincando com isso pra ver se ele entendeu mesmo e dependendo da situação (lê-se quando ele tá socando o pau em você até você esquecer o seu nome) ele propositalmente fala uma coisa mais complicada, para quando você obviamente não entende, sorri de canto e pergunta "quer que eu repita? eu tô metendo na sua buceta, mas tá afetando a sua cabecinha..."

𝕯𝖆𝖗𝖐 𝕺𝖇𝖘𝖊𝖘𝖘𝖎𝖔𝖓

𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

✠ ——— ✠ ——— ✠ ——— ✠

Hannibal Lector, the enigmatic forensic psychiatrist and notorious serial killer, harbored a secret obsession that burned with an intensity that chilled to the bone. His unwavering gaze, piercing maroon eyes, and lips curved in a sinister smile, betrayed his fascination with a specific individual: the enigmatic [Y/N].

Their paths had crossed at a psychiatric hospital, where Hannibal cunningly studied [Y/N's] vulnerability and frailties. Intrigued by her resilience and the shadows that lingered in her eyes, he became ensnared, consumed by a desire to possess her.

Hannibal's love was not pure or selfless. It was an obsessive infatuation, a twisted desire to claim [Y/N] for his own, regardless of her feelings. His every thought and action was driven by his fixation on her.

As [Y/N's] life became entwined with Hannibal's, she sensed an unsettling presence lurking in the shadows. Unnoticed glances, mysteriously opened doors, and the eerie silence that enveloped her sent shivers down her spine.

One fateful night, as [Y/N] returned home from work, she found a note on her doorstep scrawled in Hannibal's elegant handwriting. A chilling invitation to dinner, promising an unforgettable evening filled with tantalizing culinary delights and intellectual discussions.

Unable to resist the allure of Hannibal's charismatic nature, [Y/N] accepted. As the clock struck seven, she found herself seated at Hannibal's lavish dining table, unaware of the fate that awaited her.

With each course, Hannibal's obsession became more apparent. His intense gaze never left [Y/N's] face, as if he could devour her with his eyes. The pleasantries he whispered turned into possessive declarations, and the air grew heavy with his desperation.

As the evening reached its climax, Hannibal's mask of civility shattered. He revealed his true intentions, confessing his unyielding love for [Y/N] and his willingness to eliminate any obstacles that stood in his way.

Terror flooded [Y/N's] veins as she realized the true nature of Hannibal's obsession. She fled his mansion, desperate to escape the suffocating grasp of a madman.

Hannibal pursued her relentlessly, his possessiveness fueled by rejection. Anyone who dared to approach [Y/N] faced the wrath of his deadly cunning. Friends, family, and even potential lovers vanished without a trace, leaving [Y/N] utterly isolated and vulnerable.

As Hannibal's obsession grew, so did his methods. He manipulated events to isolate [Y/N] from society, ensuring that she had nowhere to turn. Fear gnawed at her mind, as she became trapped in a twisted game of cat and mouse.

Time seemed to lose all meaning as the hunt intensified. [Y/N] clung to hope, desperately seeking a way to escape Hannibal's clutches. But the more she resisted, the more determined he became to claim her as his own.

In the end, a bloody confrontation ensued, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake. Hannibal's obsession had consumed him, driving him to the brink of madness and beyond. And as [Y/N] emerged from the darkness, forever scarred by Hannibal's twisted love, she learned a chilling truth: the human heart is capable of harboring the most sinister of desires.

ᎷᎥᎶᏬᏋᏝ Ꭷ'ᏂᏗᏒᏗ ጀ ᏒᏋᏗᎴᏋᏒ

ᏝᎧᏉᏋ'Ꮥ ᏰᏝᎥᏕᏕ

ᏰᏝᎧᏕᏕᎧᎷᏕ ᎧᎦ ᏝᎧᏉᏋ

𝕯𝖆𝖗𝖐 𝕺𝖇𝖘𝖊𝖘𝖘𝖎𝖔𝖓

Tourniquet

DUNCAN VIZLA X READER

⚠️ Warnings: Uhhh kinda extreme gore, I mean I definitely go into intense detail about some of the way these people die so probably don't read this if you're squeamish, blood, death, murder, language, mentions of drugs and alcohol, I think that's it but yeah ⚠️

Duncan comes to save you and risks his life in the process.

Duncan had originally wanted nothing more than to retire from this god-forsaken line of work he'd been in for over thirty years. To succumb fully to the relaxation that was unemployed bliss, somewhere far off in the lost woods with a glass of whiskey in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Maybe he'd try for another dog again, although he wasn't too lucky with his PTSD responses around Rusty. Wherever in the world he may be or whomever he'd be with, he just wanted some goddamn peace and quiet, thankyouverymuch.

Today, he was not so lucky. Of course, he had to take the one job offer to end his career with a bang and to coagulate all of the money he'd originally been promised to begin with. One job after another, one shot fired towards a man's head and a stapler gun to his ankles, all led him here. At the front of this house. On a rescue mission. Which would then lead to a hitman mission. Obviously. Unfortunately.

Duncan sighed and took in the landscape with his one good eye, courtesy of the copious amount of torture he'd pushed through over the past month. Although his wounds were still healing and he felt their burn underneath the folds of his fabric coat, he had to act fast as there was no time to waste. He needed to put his life on the line once again; as he had for so many years working as a hitman. But now, there was a light at the end of the tunnel. A reward to his revenge. Nothing that was false promises of money or strippers or nights out at the bar that would only situate him for a week before he grew bored. No, at the end of this mission was the promise of your safety and the potential of the two of you living this retired life he'd dreamt of for so long.

He only had to kill 30+ men and his former "mission mates" before getting to you and fleeing this Damocles shit for good.

Easy, in theory. In actuality, he was probably going to end up dead. Unless he could control himself through his rage and use it as an adrenalin boost rather than a distraction to his plan.

The mansion was huge and lavish in comparison to the wood houses Duncan had come to love in Montana. It was almost entirely frivolous; the magnitude of Blut's weath, all gained from those who did his dirty work and never out of his own aspirations.

Seeing the coast was fairly clear, he crafted a plan in his head as to how he was going to make it in and out of the place unscathed. Two guards to his left on the rooftop, facing outwards. Meaning that there must be at least another two on the other side, not knowing from which direction he'd come. Another one in the upper right window that could easily be taken out with a sniper. A few fifteen or so on the ground in hidden positions, all of which he knew considering he used to work for the damn place. Assuming Blut's usual stupidity would mean that the plans for an attack on Damocles would be unchanged, minus those who were inside of the place itself.

Time for action. He took off his heavy coat and draped it on the tree nearest to him so as not to be weighed down by the material. His thick wool sweater would be more than enough to keep him warm, alongside his steel-toed boots. Underneath his coat and concealed by his initial wardrobe was a now visible belt with two loaded guns on either side. His hand was clad with brass knuckles and he had a knife in his boot, only for an extreme situation. Worse comes to worse, he still had that piece of shrapnel under the second layer of his skin from one of his older missions he could cut out if he really had to. Eyepatch in place and hair tied in an up-do, he was ready to start shooting people.

Hey, maybe if they were all dead he'd finally get his $8 million he'd been promised.

It happened as quickly as the next snowflake hit the ground; Blut's mansion was under attack. They'd been expecting him, but as he was called The Black Kaiser, he was the best of the best. He knew their ins and outs and was now thankful he kept a friendly but protective distance from everyone while he was in the org so that they wouldn't know the specificities for his own attack. One skillful shot to the top left roof was enough to pierce through the necks of both the men standing atop it, one falling off after the other and landing on the ground with a thick thud. Blasted through arteries and a fuckton of blood pooled out the edges from where they'd fallen, creating intricate patterns on the wintery terrain and leaving giant stains on the sides of the building.

Now understanding their mission was a go, the man from the window received the hint and withdrew himself from the window, racing back inside most likely to tell Blut about the outside commotion. No matter. He'd take his time to paint the entirety of the green estate red with the fallen victims of Damocles.

He'd been right about the guards from the top of the building being on the other side, except there were three instead of two. They rushed around looking for the potential places Duncan could be hiding, so as to scope him out first and be the ones to receive the praise from their fat ass nepo-baby boss. They must all be younger and have no idea the amount of years and experience he'd had in this industry because Duncan was in plain fucking sight with his guns readied in both hands.

"Bye." He said, and shot them at the same time, making two of the guards meet the same tragic fate as their friends. One, two, they hit the ground with more thuds and guts, spreading their entrails further out than most people would think the human body could reach. One of their intestines had wrapped around the edges of the window panes, a man still alive wishing he wasn't. He was screaming from the upper floor awaiting his fall as he was held up by the gaping wound in his stomach where Duncan had shot him once more. The last guard at the top of the roof looked down in horror and jumped himself, taking his own life and going limp once his neck made a loud snap against the pavement under the soft snow.

PTSD flashbacks edged the corners of Duncan's one-eyed vision, trying their best to stop him as he witnessed the horror of human death via his hands. He was used to this feeling, of wanting to curl up and revert into himself, to never see anyone or anything again and be tortured as payment for his crimes. He was just a man, not a deity. Why should he choose- or rather- listen to who chooses who should meet an untimely death? What makes him above the others within his species?

Because of their frequent visits, he shut his visions down and went soulless. That was the only way to truly do his job and to continue to do it well within the moment and not fight with the side that was desperate to live in peace and an understanding of humanity. He was a pacifist at heart, truly. And even though it went against his psychological beliefs of the world, he had to pretend that intentions outweighed his actions in the sense of his killing and this mission; that getting to you was worth the rampant murderous spree of all these people, paid by their boss just as he was to do the same tasks he's doing.

Burrowing into himself, he rolls to the nearest icicle filled tree, grabbing the man who was hidden here with the gun and twisting his neck until he heard the sounds of life escaping his throat. He discarded his now empty gun for the one in the holster of the other man, making sure it was fully loaded before proceeding to also extract the menthols from the upper part of the stranger's jacket.

"Mange Tak." He said, Danish for thank you. He could have a little class while he was at it.

Noticing the tree he was under and the man whom he'd just killed, Blut was either following their Five-Ten plan or the Outskirts plan, both of which were effective in combat. The Five-Ten plan was created by Vivian herself meaning that there would be five on the perimeter of the compound, five on the rooftop, and ten within the building before whomever was entering made it inside. Then, after getting through the frontlines of security (if they made it that far), whomever was infiltrating would meet the guards who allowed their cohorts to be killed as preparation time for the main show.

The Outskirts plan, however, would mean that every man who wasn't directly appointed as an assassin to Blut's side would be out in the fields which were now covered in snow, using the trapdoors hidden in the earth to prepare their weapons for combat and kill the intruder as he (or she) approached the compound.

He was going to take his bets with the Five-Ten.

Heart barely going over an easy 65bpm, he calmly readied his guns for the next part of the infiltration where a few other guards would pop up and flock to his sides, hoping that they might catch him off-guard. Which they wouldn't. Another few shots took care of those and as he wiped the blood off his face from the splatter of one of them, he lit a cigarette and started walking towards the front of the compound, taking his chances that he knew which plan they had chosen considering he'd killed most of the other ones when he'd killed Vivian during their surprise attack not even hours before he got here.

Stepping over the walkway and opening the doors to the inside, he'd been proven correct in his intuition and flanked to the wall, keeping himself out of sight to those in the building. There were three open entryways leading from the main hall to the upstairs where the pig himself resided. Which meant around six of those corners could be another guard and he'd have to take his shots carefully, unless he wanted to engage in hand-to-hand combat which didn't always end well when your opponent had a firearm. He checked his inventory quickly.

Six bullets left. He'd have to be stingy about it.

Holding the trigger and aiming the barrel towards his right, he took a shot through the ornate pillars holding up the entryway's corbel arch, a bullet forcing itself through the small opening in which the wall met the pillar. He heard an "oomph!" which he gathered triumphantly signified his tactic of approach was also correct.

Can't teach an old dog new tricks.

Rolling to the floor into the room from whence the sound came, he staggered over to the next wall and shot through the entryway, shooting the man in the room in the leg. Fuck. Slight misstep on his account (or the other guy's considering he no longer had the bottom half of his leg). He dodged the man's bullets and lifted one of the cylindrical vases decorating the hallway and bashed it into the man's skull, once, twice, and then dropping it as he watched blood ooze from his nose. A sound from behind him meant another and he was met with hands wrapping around his throat and a gun being pressed to his temple.

This man was much bigger in stature than Duncan, but it was no matter. He swiftly acted as though he were aiming for his opponent's side as they would have practiced for upon initiation training. Seeing the man respond confidently to where he'd presumed Duncan would strike meant he'd left his nuts unguarded to which Duncan kicked in with precision. The man screamed, letting go of his counterpart and went to hold himself in anguish. Duncan mercilessly grabbed the weapon from his hands and shot through the one holding his injured manhood, shooting off his limb and probably the area underneath.

A few more men appeared from the entryways, and, after killing them all with a few more bullets than needed considering he had two guns now and maybe a hit to the face with his brass knuckles; he made his way to the top of the stairs, ready for whatever else would come. He could take on twenty more of them before expressing any ounce of fatigue as he'd trained his whole life for missions like this.

However, it was just you in the room.

Almost entirely taken aback by the slumped position you were in bound to that chair in the middle of the room, Duncan froze in his advances. He didn't let his guard down, no, but he took careful detail to the contortions of your face and the state of your being from which he could make out from this distance. Your long hair fell from the roots of your head which seemed to still be intact (thank god), but your skin was an ashy grey and blood had littered your hands and chest area. It was deep and dark and so red, redder than he'd felt he'd ever seen before and the PTSD was back, clawing at his chest and vision through his one good eye, all of his labors seemingly returning to dust. If you were dead, it would be the death of all deaths despite having only known you for a short period of time.

It had been the way you'd entered his house for the first time that caught him winded, hands tucked into the pockets of your long coat that kept you warm and smelling like the vanilla candles that littered your house. Your flushed cheeks from being out in the cold. Your smile as he'd offered you a sip of his hot chocolate, only to find out it had an added hint of whiskey. Your face when he'd kissed you for the first time. The hug you'd given him after.

It took fifty years of his life to finally admit it to himself and to anyone else who'd listen to the raspy notches in his throat as he exclaimed that he was, indeed, in love. And it was, indeed, with you.

"Something caught your eye, Kaiser?" Blut's agonizing and cruel voice caught the echos of the marble flooring and flooded the room, signaling his emergence from the darkness. He was wearing his stupid, douchebaggy jacket with a shit eating grin nearly reaching the corners of his eyes. This was the man whom he'd worked for all these years, pledged his loyalty to despite having no ounce of previous companionship with him. The one who owed him $8 million and the one who'd sent out his own personal hitman army to kill Duncan and get away with it so he would no longer be a liability to the company.

"She'd better be alive, or I'll skewer your head on that fucking Damocles sword you have above the mantle." He nearly spat out, taking his time to enunciate the weight of every word that escaped his lips, forcing them out in such an anger that anyone would feel in the depths of their bones. Blut, however, could care less.

"Oh she's alive." Made sure to keep her that way for you." He said, sauntering towards her seemingly lifeless body and tilting her chin upwards to finally reveal her face. "Thought she could use some plastic surgery though, don't you think Duncan?"

It was as if a knife had pierced his chest then and there. Your face, which had been absolutely perfect upon anyone's first glance, now was missing an eye on the opposite side of his own. Flesh had been carved out around it, which meant it would leave a scar possibly even nastier than his. He wanted to throw up at the idea someone could've taken something so important to you and destroy a piece of your life forever. He then thought maybe that was how his victims' families felt, learning that their fathers or brothers had passed due to the brutality of murder.

But you were still beautiful. And he had to save you still.

"Duncan... you're not responding?" Blut taunted with his awful voice, ringing the question in his ears and twisting the metaphorical knife even further into his chest. Duncan knew he'd need to snap out of the hold of his traumas and force himself to swallow anything else other than the situation at hand in order to save you...and himself.

"You're fucking dead. Don't you fucking touch her." Duncan said, grabbing the hefty sword of the supposed Damocles mansion from the mantle near him, letting the blade drag on the floor before discarding his gun entirely and picking up the sword. It had to have been at least four feet long with a shiny hilt and an even shinier blade which would be stained with the blood of the man before him in the time it'd take to say the sword's name. He would avenge this piece of your life that had been wrongfully taken from you.

A little less smug now, Blut reached into his pocket and withdrew a gun. "Y-y-you fucking stay back Kaiser! I won't hesitate to blow your head off!!"

"Where are your other men? Or are you truly so out of options that you're here alone?" Duncan growled, his discarded gun going into the fireplace, and, with a loud boom, caught the floor and curtains surrounding it on fire. The flames twisted and danced against in the reflection of his newfound weapon, a proper visual to the fire that licked his veins with the rage he felt. He continued his progression to your chair, sparing you a softer glance, before focusing everything onto the man before him who was now cowering by the window on the wall.

It was as if he were a child who'd been told hiding under a blanket would save him from the monsters under his bed and in his closet. He shrunk into the glass and tried his best to aim his gun with a shaking hand at Duncan's head. Duncan was now eye-to-eye with the man whom he'd fucking rip to shreds faster than any job he'd done as a hitman in his life.

"Blut...you're not responding?" He sneered, dodging the bullet that flew from his opponent's barrel. He lifted the sword and thrust it from the nape of his neck to the back of his skull, brains flying out against the widow he was in front of. Blood spurt from the open wound like a the lake outside of Duncan's house in Montana, where he'd resided before all this madness. Eyes bulged out of his skull with the optic nerves sliding down the forefront of his face and falling just above his mouth. Duncan dismantled the head from his torso still attached to the blade and spear tossed the sword of Damocles out the window and onto the grounds below, the sharp end getting stuck in the ground and displaying Blut's upside down head like a totem pole.

"'Suck my fucking dick."

Duncan freed you from the chair, taking you outside and down the winding trail, mansion burning to the ground in the distance. Back to Montana where now, at last, he would fucking retire.

All I Need

NIGEL BANYAI X READER ⚠️ Warnings: None ⚠️

You're wandering the streets of Bucharest at night when you come face-to-face with your "ex" husband, Nigel. There's a rekindling- even if only for a moment- where you realize he might be more intertwined in your life than you'd thought.

Disconcertment washes over your face like a flood when you see him walking forwards, in that haunting but familiar walk you'd grown used to. He was polished, as per usual, adorned with a dog printed button down and a cigarette lax between his teeth. The protruding fold of his shirt would be incomprehensible to passerby who didn't know of his hobbies, but to you, it was the imprint of a gun.

His eyes shifting up from the road he was walking down and meeting yours held you in a trance. There was something to be studied about the man's eyes; so full of agonizing self-inflicted sorrow that shone through the very core of his being and simmered into the rest of the world through his gaze. He was deeply saddened. But it was all under a mask of his he wore to wind through the mindless crowds so that there wasn't anything about his character to be discovered unless he'd wanted you to. His cheekbones shone under the streetlights with their summery glow making waves of blues and pinks and greens with the lights from overhead in the city. He was a Monet painting come to life, a landscape of colors washing away everyone else and drawing you inwards to where he stood, finally stopping amidst a puddle from rain fallen this morning. He was beautiful. But he was also dangerous.

You had finally stopped running from him long ago. That sadness he contained within himself had become ever so apparent throughout your relationship and spilled over into everything else. He tormented himself so deeply that it was only a matter of time before he tormented you.

Never with his touch, no. His touch had always been careful, predetermined. He would never have laid a hand on you that wasn't accepting or invited by the warmth in your features and your verbal acknowledgement. Even after long arguments where you'd fallen asleep on your side of the bed, turned away from him, he would caress you only with his mind.

Instead, his torment was his love. There was too much of it, too little of a mutual understanding of what was wrong and what was right. He had been too suffocating in his eternal vows to protect you and love you. And with this time period in your life- this new one you'd created for yourself- you couldn't suppress your desires of freedom. You'd allowed him to love you and whisk you away with his promises (which he'd kept, of course), but you'd never been able to experience the world, let alone the streets of Bucharest in the way you'd always wanted to- on your own.

But you had loved him. There was no denying that.

And despite all your efforts to push him away; to ask him to take his love and give it to someone more deserving, someone who'd understand his suffocating requests of social isolation and relationship devotion, he was always finding his way back to you. His heart seemed to have a mind of its own which never coincided with the work he performed or the crimes he'd commit.

And here you were, by the famous Hostel off the side streets of tourist-populated areas, staring at one another. Both of you with the impression that the other was a work of art, staring into one another's souls as if they had painted the landscapes themselves. You heard the faint chatter of those nearby; the drunks walking back home from a night out, stumbling over their feet and laughing with their partners holding them up. The children who'd been playing hopscotch despite their parent's wishes at this hour in the night. The sound of the rain from earlier dripping off the rooftops and onto the parked cars below. And through all the commotion, it was just Nigel and you.

He offered something to you that most people would never see in their lifetime from a man like him. A smile.

You sent one back through slightly teary eyes, hoping for a minute he would look into you the way you were looking into him and that he would understand your internal dismay. You'd never loved like you loved him. Ever. And that would be true for the rest of your life. Your relationship had been an amalgamation of every emotion and he brought out sides of you that you'd never prepared yourself to confront. It was beautiful. It was bittersweet. And it was over.

He knew. He knew you'd wanted nothing more than your freedom, which was the one thing he didn't know how to give you. Not even now. He knew it was at the expense of your own happiness, but he couldn't help himself to follow you around Bucharest even if you hadn't caught him in the act of doing so, such as tonight. He wanted to be in your life anyway you would let him and even though the former was preferred, he was okay with learning how to live on the outskirts of your heart while you lived on the very insides of his.

He'd follow you around Bucharest and he'd follow you around the world.

You shifted in your jacket, despite the summer air. Your eyes had gone from his to the subway opening a couple yards away, where you'd initially been heading. There was your apartment waiting for you, where you'd have your own melancholic isolation. It was a hop skip and a jump away from the man who'd been your husband for all the years prior.

An image came into your head just then. One of a faraway place, tucked into the crevices of your mind so far back you'd almost forgotten its existence entirely. A cool night in your city where he'd gone on a walk with you, wearing the same jacket you had on now. You had chopped your hair and dyed it bright orange following the news of your father's death. It was just a silly coping mechanism to you, but Nigel had smiled when he'd walked into your shared apartment and saw the brightly colored hair littering the floor tiles. He'd suggested a walk to get some fresh air, under the rainbow colored lights you'd grown so fond of.

That night, you were looking at the snowflakes falling from above, threatening them with your tongue to catch them in your mouth and have them melt against your lips. They refracted against the colors in the sky, a light magenta touching the clouds as far as the eyes could see. Shimmery eyeshadow caught in the corners of your eyes, making them appear to be even more wet and filled with sorrow than they were. Nigel was here for you though, admiring the way you turned around in the snow, over and over again as if you were the little dancing figurine hidden in a jewelry box.

He'd held you close to him as you cried the eyeshadow in streaks of black down your face, the orange seeming less bright and the snow feeling more cold. You hadn't felt the totality of his admiration for you until this night, where his hug wasn't more than just that. Before his presence became a prison. He smiled at you, one of those toothy grins only he was capable of managing.

And then, he let go. This was the only time he'd done so on his own accord, almost leaving you fighting to be back in his embrace. He turned to the subway, then to you and back to the subway before leaning in with a kiss,

"urmează-mă și te voi săruta."

And then he went racing off into the night towards the never stopping trains ahead. Smiling, you ran after him. Eyes still wet with the tears for your father and hair still orange from the impulsive chop. The wind whipped through it, leaving you with a coldness on the back of your neck you weren't used to. It felt freeing, though. Your first taste of freedom. Running after him, you saw the water from the other side of town, touching the sky and creating more of the pinky-blue color that Bucharest was full of. The snow crunched under your feet as you placed one in front of the other before the soles of your shoes hit the concrete steps leading underground. Nigel was only a few meters away, sliding down the poles in his dog button down he favorited.

And then suddenly you came to a halt as you crashed into him, stopping the chase almost as soon as you'd started it, in the middle of the busy underground station. You'd lost your balance ever so slightly but he held you upright, not letting you fall.

And suddenly your eyes were on his. There was such a beautiful agony within them. There was far more to this man than you'd ever know and his love would have no bounds. He was soft in the way he stared at you, mouth pressed into a smile as he really took you in with everything you were. Nothing was lost in translation as you looked at him, his soul instantly filling your own. Everything was slowing down but the two of you, seemingly lost in time to the rest of the world with the passing trains and people.

"I will never stop looking for you." He whispered softly. voice suddenly laced with concern.

You were confused, looking up at the man you'd known you'd be with for infinity. "I'm right here?" You questioned, wondering what the significance of his words could mean, if they were laced with an underlying hidden message as concealed as the man's identity himself.

He smiled once more. "I will never stop looking for your kind of love." He corrected himself and you felt your insides go fuzzy with a warm and loving feeling.

You smiled from across the street, towards the same junction you'd run down the first time he'd proposed a nighttime walk. This could get you into a lot of trouble, to hint at the idea of a potential rekindling with the man known to be a criminal. The man who'd offered you nothing but love, even if there was a side of toxicity it'd been served with.

It was at that moment that you deeply felt the confines of your freedom without him- and it felt suffocating.

You both locked eyes once again, and he had a look on his features as though he'd been reminiscing about the same memory. It was impossible for him to truly still want something with you after all this time, wouldn't it be? You had pushed him away countless times, over and over. Whenever you'd seen him in public since the official ending of everything, you'd never spared him more of a glance.

Fuck it.

"urmează-mă și te voi săruta." You whispered under your breath, figuring the future would be in whether or not he could read your lips, if he would have remembered that time from so long ago, if he still wanted to be with you. A tear fell from your eye and cascaded down your cheek almost as silently as you'd spoken his phrase, "Find me, and I will kiss you."

Not even a second later, you both sprinted towards the subway.

Hey,

First of all, I absolutely adore your writing style and in general your stories (especially the Hannibal ones). Could you please write one, where Hannibal is overly possessive, because he thought his wife got too close to Chilton at one of his dinner parties? And to end it all of there is smut. (If you are comfortable with that).Thank you for considering

Close Call

Hannibal Lecter X Reader

⚠️ Warnings: Over possessiveness on Hannibal's part, slight angst, swearing, mentions of blood and wounds, sociopathic and manipulative tendencies, uhh first time writing smut so hopefully it's okay (it's fairly light) ⚠️

I also didn't read through this again and edit it, so I apologize for any grammatical or spelling errors!

Hannibal finds himself somewhat outraged at an overly confident Chilton getting too close to his wife. No matter, he'll just have to remind the two of you of what's his.

Dinner parties were nothing short of extravagant when it came to Hannibal Lecter's craft.

The wines were paired with the delicacies adorning the plates on the mahogany table; everything had its own respective place, down to the last spoon and fork on each intricately folded napkin. There was, of course, the smell wafting through the corridors of the Lecters' home, signifying the delicious meal being prepared in the kitchen and acting as bait to those mingling in the living room as they awaited the call to be seated. From your perspective, the table had to be crafted to perfection so that the party full of rich good-for-nothings had no complaints of the events of the night. Of course, you adored your husband's cooking, but less so you enjoyed the company he chose. Intelligence wasn't something that came from the accumulation of degrees and the bragging of doing so- in your opinion- but rather came from the passion associated with the understanding of others and their natural environments. In other words, conversations of nonsensical retellings of the rise to power and gathering of wealth that these particular guests had were of no interest to you. These people spoke of books on law and work projects as though they've forgotten entirely what it means to express humanity: experience.

But you were ever so careful to express your opinion on the subject of what it means to be human. Although you acknowledged your differing perspective, you didn't want to diminish the perspectives of those who might only know of the desires associated with "book smarts," and not what you referred to as "experience points." These two things could coexist, but it was often that a person leaned heavier towards either side. You still had more to learn about the balance of these, but alas, that is the human condition.

Hannibal loved you for this.

Being someone so intensely driven towards the path of psychology and law, it was refreshing being married to someone who expressed opposition to having that be the basis of every conversation. He loved a good conversation on written words and philosophers and mathematical expressions, but he loved even more to have someone in his life that kept him his understanding of biology and the preservation of his humanity. With his- er- hobby, as some would refer to it as- it became difficult to maintain this humanistic approach. These dinner parties served more as an obligatory social preservation to his image, so as not to be caught with his peculiar hobby.

And the culinary arts were his escape, anyways. A win-win except for the fact you'd be bored out of your mind talking to some of these people, he knew. Nevertheless, you had a polite smile etched onto your face wearing very presentable attire. You were a master at code-switching, it seemed, replacing your usually laid-back and outgoing personality with a more hoity-toity, reserved aura.

You had on a slightly more revealing outfit; a dress so navy it almost seemed black under any lighting that wasn't direct candlelight. This dress had been cut just above the knees with an off-shoulder neckline, exposing the very top of your chest and the beginning of your upper thighs. It was classily paired with silver earrings gifted to you by your husband, and a half up-do with your precariously crafted curls threatening to spill out of the fastened hairclip from behind. Hannibal had expressed just how lovely you'd looked as he helped you with your zipper earlier, placing a hemline of kisses to your collarbone.

He wasn't the only one who'd had this realization dawn on them during the night, however. A bright-eyed Dr. Chilton who'd received nothing short of a pity-invite, found himself drawing away from the conveniently placed appetizers to the lavish chairs facing the fireplace where you sat. He silently waited for your conversation to conclude before he decided to sweep in and take the woman's place on your right, finishing the glass of brandy in his hand before doing so.

"(Y/N)," He almost seemed exasperated, as if he were already slightly drunk, "A pleasure."

He reached out his hand to you in an attempt to get you to shake it as an overly friendly gesture, acknowledgement to his presence. You proceeded to smile at him instead, as you'd become familiar to his intentions.

"Hello, Dr. Chilton, how are you?"

His face flushed as he withdrew his hand from your space, opting to rest it against his leg as he sunk further into his chair, getting more comfortable. He was definitely drunk and if not drunk, then the far side of tipsy. You already didn't care for the guy much, so this chance encounter was a hinderance in your eyes before conversational topics even arose.

"You know, I never understood the drab curtains you chose for the interior of your living room, Mrs. Lecter. They block out all of the sunlight." He began, eyeing the bottle of scotch being poured out by another guest to the left of your chair. His eyes seemed to be glazed over as he spoke, however, the dimly lit fireplace seemed to cast some light back into them. His suit of choice was a corduroy one. The heavy material of the fabric already making him break out in a slight sweat.

Grimacing, you feign another smile as you fully acclimate yourself to the conversation at hand. You tell yourself to remember your polite flattery, but honestly with the way Dr. Chilton was, you knew he would take any sort of attention to his character the wrong way.

"Yes, that was the way we intended them to be, doctor. Have you ever been to our home during the daytime? It's not as drab as you may have perceived it to be."

Dr. Chilton had been coming onto you for quite some time now. Despite knowing you were wed and the many implications of your marriage you'd spoken about, he still managed to hold onto the hope that maybe one day something would spark between the two of you. It wouldn't. It hadn't. His blatantly disrespectful comments about yours and Hannibal's relationship were starting to burrow under your skin and take root in an uncomfortable fashion. Part of you felt bad for the man, another part wanted to sock him in the face.

Respectably, of course.

"Perhaps not. Maybe I spoke out of turn." He claimed, uneasily moving about in his chair despite his initial comfortability at the beginning of your dialogue. Maybe if you kept with the slight I-don't-like-you innuendos, then maybe he would be drunk enough to give it a rest and would return to his normal self come morrow.

"Maybe." You agree, taking a sip from your glass of Chardonnay. It was almost dinnertime. You could hold out until then, couldn't you?

"You know," Chilton began, staring deep into the fire and allowing a hushed sigh to escape your lips in anticipation of another redundant comment, "I used to set fires in Uni all the time. Its a miracle I graduated with any degree at all with the amount of trouble I used to get into as a boy."

Pause. Was there finally something worthwhile to discuss with this man?

"Really? And the occasion was...?" You asked, trying to direct the topic back to this small bombshell the Doctor had just dropped in your presence. Experience points were far more interesting to talk about than a poor understanding of the "48 Laws of Power," which was the last conversation you'd had.

He seemed to perk up in his chair realizing that you'd finally taken something that left his mouth with interest. "None, we were just playing with matches and grew bored. Only got caught because the wind carried the flames back to our dorm which almost set alight." He smiled and for a moment, you could see the memory replaying through those glossy eyes of his. You felt included, as if you'd been there yourself, watching the growing light of the flames dance around the edges of the matches you were playing with.

As if on cue, your husband's hand was gently but firmly placed on your shoulder from behind. You knew instantly it was him because of the wafting smell of his woodsy cologne and the wine he was drinking infiltrating your nose. His grip on you was polite but there was an edge to it, an unfamiliar one at that. Was something wrong?

Turning around, you see his darkened glare towards Chilton in the chair next to you. His matching dark navy suit making him look all the more professional and intimidating in this light; if you were Chilton you'd have run far far away from the glare Hannibal had. He seemed to pay no mind, however, eyes still focused on you until your husband broke the silence:

"Dinnertime."

It was at that moment that you noticed all the other guests had made their way to the kitchen and the three of you were the only ones in the living room. How long had you been talking to the doctor for? Hannibal's repressed anger suddenly made sense.

Walking to the kitchen, you were in awe at the sight before you. Hannibal had really put his all into tonight, and it showed. The plates were nothing short of art with the first course on display with accompanying sauces and garnish that turned them into something out of a museum painting. The entire get-up was something out of the Renaissance itself; everything in its perfect place. Hannibal stood at the head of the table, glass in hand as he prepared to make a toast to progress the night's dinner.

"I would like to thank you all for coming out tonight."

A collection of smiles and exchanged glances ensued, everyone pleased with their invite.

"Amongst this crowd are the most intellectual and inspiring people I've had the pleasure of getting to become familiar with. You're all of high accomplishments and achievements and I would like to thank each of you, individually, with a meal that encapsulates such dedication shown by you all."

Your husband then smiled at you and raised his glass.

"I would also like to thank my lovely wife, with whom I share this simple but joyous life with."

There was a hint of something there, something alongside the adoration he expressed for you on the daily. There was a twinge of that anger once more, but could it really be directed towards your conversation with Chilton? It seemed so clear to you that your husband surpassed the former in every way possible: intelligence and compassion, hell, down to the formal attire he adorned himself with daily. There was no way he would feel threatened by another man so unruly.

"Likewise." You said, tilting your glass up to the ceiling in acknowledgement of his kind and respectable words.

"Once more to reiterate, MY wife and I spent a long time on this meal so I hope you all enjoy it." He smiled a forced grin and directed his gaze towards Chilton. "And nothing on the menu for tonight is vegetarian."

...

The night was filled with more of the usual countless bantering between everyone in the room, trying to appeal more and more to everyone else. You were swept into what seemed like every conversation in the house and all of this sociability was starting to grow exhausting. The meal was phenomenal, to say the least, but did little to calm your worries with your husband's current expression of intolerance and dismay. You wanted nothing more than to head upstairs to your shared bedroom and to sort things out with him; to maybe end the night with a passionate kiss and to then retire to bed, finally. That desire, however, seemed like miles away because of the ongoing event that you were starting to despise more with every passing minute.

Not to mention, your dress was starting to get extremely uncomfortable, as if your skin were melting into the seams of the fabric.

As if on cue to make the night worse, Dr. Chilton was making his way towards you, undoubtedly much more drunk this time. He was stumbling over his own loafers and the floorboards were not his friend at the moment. He was making a fool of himself and you wanted so badly to just disappear.

Just then, the floorboard by the fireplace where you were sitting popped up in front of him. Everything from then went in slow-motion, the wood, the stumbling of Chilton's feet and the slow advancement towards the fire. Seeing how this would play out, you wanted to yell "Stop!" but you were frozen. Just as you had predicted, he had a horrid fall towards the open flame, his cufflinks connecting with the place stones and his right arm breaking the fall. His hand wasn't lucky enough to miss the fire, his scream instantly echoing throughout the room.

"Dr. Chilton!" Hannibal yelled, already to his feet with the pitcher of water from the charcuterie table. It was insane that his reflexes allowed him to respond instantaneously. Almost as if he had prepared for the doctor's fall. Springing the water onto Chilton, the fire was put out almost as quickly as it had started.

"Are you okay?" You asked the doctor, leaning down to his level on the floor, holding his now hurt hand.

"B-b-bandages." He was able to muster out.

The closer look you got to his hand, the closer you could see the wound. The flames didn't consume his flesh for very long, although there was now a coating of red on his skin alongside a few open gashes. Looking to your husband for help, you instead saw him standing above you, a scowl on his lips. He looked angrier than he'd ever before and the sight of it scared you. Had he been angry that the party was ruined? That one of his guests were hurt?

Chilton was then led to the kitchen where his wounds were properly addressed and tended to. The aid kit that had collected dust on the top shelf of the medicine cabinet had finally been put to use, and, upon further inspection, it had been decided for the doctor to call for an ambulance for a more professional treatment.

He left. Everyone followed suit. It was now only you and your husband.

"I'm sorry that had to happen the way it did." You said, reaching out to touch his shoulder and soothe him in my way you could. "Would you like me to help you clean up?"

He mumbled something under his breath before he made his way up the elongated glass stairs. It was unbelievably peculiar for him to retire to bed this early, especially before cleaning up from a party.

"Is something wrong?" You asked, voice coming out as nothing more than a feeble whisper. He stopped in his tracks, his blazer now resting atop his free arm opposite to the one holding the railing. His tie was loosened and from where you were standing, you couldn't see his face all that clearly.

He finally spoke up.

"What are your intentions with Chilton?" He asked.

You stopped in your initial tracks to follow your husband up the stairs. Was he accusing you of courtship? And with the doctor of all people?

"Whatever do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean, (Y/N)."

Your heart broke for a moment, there was no way he really thought that after years of marriage, after what you had come to learn about him and his... capabilities...that you would choose another man, albeit in front of his own eyes?

"I have no intentions with Chilton, Hanni. Not as an acquaintance, not as a friend, not as a lover." You continued to follow him up the stairs and to your shared bedroom where he placed the blazer and tie on the bedside table rather than hang it up as he usually did. He undid his cufflinks and unbuttoned the top his neckline.

"I only want you, Hannibal. You know that."

He pursed his lips and finally, from where he leant against the bed, looked up at you standing in the doorframe. Your expression was a worried one, not of someone who had underlying intentions. Hannibal knew what you wanted, knew who you wanted, but Chilton had gotten the better of him tonight. And besides, tormenting the two of you to remind both of you who you belong to was a much more satisfying game to play.

"Alright." Hannibal said, accepting your validation with his thick, Danish accent. "Show me."

"I- what?" You asked, being taken aback completely by surprise. His eyes were dark with thoughts you had grown to be all too familiar with from him. Despite clearly understanding his interpretation of the words, you still stood frozen at the door, waiting. There was something about this that wasn't going to be as sweet as the usual slow and sensual intimacy you'd had with your husband and you knew this fact.

Just then, as if taking your hesitance as permission, he stands and walks over to you, the height difference ever so apparent now that you were face to face. His gelled hair was now starting to come undone, as was yours, as he held your gaze. His hand came up to tuck your hair behind your ear and then trailed to your neck, your collarbone, your breast. He then allowed his hand to go further, down to your waist and then pulled you into him, holding you there as gently but firm as one could be. He was watching your face as he did so, never breaking eye contact even once.

Your breath hitched in your throat. A growing warmth developed in your midsection as your husband had you entranced with his every move. He was enjoying this, enjoying you, enjoying the situation he put you in. He had turned on his more sadistic side and it was becoming evident with the way he progressed down your body, replacing his hands with kisses and moving towards your thighs then back up, as if with haste, towards your mouth. You felt as though you were going to faint right then and there.

He suddenly stops his kisses and then goes to finish unbuttoning his shirt. His wide frame was revealed with every unfastened button popping off, slowly but surely. Every inch of his skin had been crafted to the likes of the gods, it was as if he were one of them himself. No imperfections in his skin as far as the eye could see. He was beautiful. He was the divine definition of beauty itself.

He swiftly moved his hands to your throat, fingers following suit as he held you there, against the bedroom wall, a juxtaposition to his masterfully divine beauty of feigned innocence. His breath was hot but not unpleasant as he whispered into the nape of your neck:

"You belong to me."

And that was all it took for you to fold entirely, becoming a puppet to his every command, desires of the flesh being the only thing on both your minds. You needed him and he needed you to need him. He wanted a full surrender, a full understanding that he was the only man you'd ever be able to fulfill these lustrous fantasies with.

"Do you understand?" He asked, not giving you a second to think any further before he moved you from the wall and to the bed, where he towered over you.

"Y-yes." You said, waiting to see what he would do next.

"Good. Now take it."

Confused, you looked up at him but he had already had other plans, flipping you into your stomach and forcing himself inside you, under your dress. The instant burn that you felt was replaced by immediate satisfaction as you saw stars. Through this position you could feel him inside you, hot and intense, pushing deeper and deeper until he bottomed out. He dug into you until he was all you could feel, hear, taste, see. He was owning every inch of your skin and forcing you to feel it.

And you loved it.

"Who do you belong to?" He asked, anger laced in his voice.

"You." You tried your best to get out with the intense feeling between your thighs but it was next to impossible.

"What was that?" He asked once more, forcing you to say it louder.

Just as you were about to respond, he picks you up and turns you around to face him, taking in his expression. You were on your knees looking up at him, tears in your eyes at the intensity of what had just happened. Your dress was definitely ruined by this point but you couldn't care less.

"You." You said, waiting for him to say something, anything at all. He placed his finger on your lips and smiled down at you while he toyed with them. He then put himself inside of your mouth, your jaws stretching to be able to take him.

"Good." He said, quickening his original pace as he sighed with content. You allowed him to finish before the two of you fell onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and bedsheets.

He was holding you in his arms now, making sure you were alright as he kissed the top of your head and face, looking at the marks he'd left on your skin. He'd make sure those were more visible the next time someone tried to intrude on your guys' company. Especially on a pity invite.

He'd also make sure not to let Chilton off with a warning next time, making sure to purposely set his entire body on fire, not just his hand.

But you were asleep soundly in his arms, full of him and he had won.

...

A/N : Hello! This is my first time writing smut kinda so I hope this is up to par with some other fanfic writers. I really hope this fulfills your request! Lmk if anyone has any other requests, my ask box is open! 🫶

𝕸𝖆𝖈𝖆𝖇𝖗𝖊

PART TWO

Pairing : Hannibal X Reader

⚠️ Warnings: implications of sexuality, things get steamy for a minute, reader brings up sexual traumas, Hannibal wants to murder the guy, yeah⚠️

After your initial meeting with the doctor, another appointment leaves you wondering just how much of your character you're willing to share, and how peculiar your situation with Hannibal Lecter may be.

Your jacket whipped hard against your body as the wind really picked up; weather forecasters had mentioned that tonight would not only be a significantly cold one, but everyone on foot would be subject to rain and thunder. Thankfully, the foreseen lightning wasn’t supposed to hit until after your meeting with Dr. Lecter, which you were thankful for. Still, the night seemed eerie and even creepier was the looming building before you, its high walls and seemingly taller windows looking down upon the freshly tilled earth below. The architecture of the building with its corinthian patterns and lavish details had raindrops cascading into the most beautiful ripples with the water splashing onto the sidewalk leading up to the man you had awaited to speak to in anticipation all afternoon. 

You hurried yourself inside, finally letting your hold on your coat loose as you no longer had to battle the forces of the weather. Your heels had picked up some of the mud from the outside and to your dismay, had stained the ends of them. Why had you chosen to wear the red ones? The rest of you, however, was fairly dry as you had done a good job protecting your hair and business attire clothing from the rain. You had hoped Dr. Lecter would have something to dry your shoes off with as you didn’t want to come across as rude for walking in with muddied heels. You tried your best not to slip on the hardwood with your shoes in the state that they were in. 

Walking to the waiting room, you sat down on one of the comfortable chairs, waiting for the man himself to come and retrieve you for your one weekly session. Things had been going fairly well with him and the more time you spent with the doctor, the more you felt yourself opening up and becoming more and more comfortable in his presence. The feeling seemed to be mutual between the two of you, and he seemed to be sincerely interested in your conversations, and not just in the “I’m a therapist so I have to pretend to care about your problems kind of way.” And oh, was he so observant and understanding. It was hard not to be enthralled with someone so interesting, charismatic, and charming. Even with the comfortability you felt with the man, you couldn’t help but notice the darkness in his eyes that you had before; something so entrancing about the way he spoke to you as he gazed into yours. You found yourself melting into his comforting words and allowing him into the crevices of your brain that you hadn’t allowed anyone to do before. 

A few minutes after you had been seated, you heard the large, heavy door opened on your right, signaling that the moment you had been waiting for all day was about to happen.You had silently scolded yourself for not wearing better protection for the weather and gave your clothes a pat-down before standing up coming face-to-face with Will Graham. He must've been just leaving his appointment like the first time you'd met except he somehow seemed to be in an even worse state than before. His eyes were droopy and his glasses were foggy as every gravitational force tried to turn against him and make the frames fall off his nose. His clothes were slightly damp and his hair was flying in multiple strands. 

His appearance (although you'd hate to admit it out loud) made you feel slightly better about yours. If Hannibal was okay with Will walking in like that, then maybe he wouldn't care all that much about your muddied shoes. 

"Hello Will." You said, trying to be friendly with the man even after he'd shown such blatant rudeness to you the first time you'd met. 

"Ah, hello- uhm-" he said, looking for the words. 

"(Y/N)." You said, offering up a smile knowing now that if you were to reach out for a handshake he might not be so inclined. 

“Right,” He said, with more courtesy this time than before, “He’s all yours.” You didn’t realize there could be a joking bone in Will’s body but this statement brought out a chuckle from you. “Thanks.” Was all you replied. 

• • • 💉💉💉 • • •

The marble flooring led to the lavish room you had remembered almost to perfection by now. It had become something of a safe haven for you, as you were often here, but it was also a place where you had truly allowed yourself the ability to truly feel. You stood in the doorway still, taking note of Hannibal sitting at his desk with a warm smile and inviting eyes, staring at you from where he sat, this time wearing a grey button-up and a black tie. 

“Do you happen to have a towel I could dry my shoes off with?” You asked, trying your best to keep up appearances but also to be respectful of his space, “I don’t want to stain your carpet.”

Hannibal found his heart doing cartwheels in his chest. It was as if you always knew the right thing to say that would make him fond of you and your visits. You were always so careful, so polite, it shook him to his core sometimes. He pushed back his chair and pushed up his sleeves, pulling out the handkerchief he had in the pocket of his trousers as he made his way over to your frame. 

“May I?” He asked, moving downwards towards your heels, not taking his eyes off yours once. He so divinely looked up at you with soft eyes, softer than you’d ever seen them, an image of feigned innocence. It was as if it were nothing more than an impression of innocence, however, as his movements suggested his interests in something more profound- something more lustrous. 

This movement took you off guard as he waited for your permission to clean the soles. It was a polite gesture, sure, one that you wouldn’t think twice of if anyone else had asked. Coming from him, however, brought a blush to your face. “I-I don’t mind cleaning them up myself, I-”

“I insist.” 

You nodded softly, allowing him to gently wipe off the remainder of the mud within a few short seconds. Almost as fast as the offer had been extended to you, he was back upright with his eyes slightly above level to yours, a smile on his face as he threw the cloth into the can by the door. He walked towards the chair he usually sat at that would begin the long sessions between the two of you and held up the clipboard that was placed on the side table. 

“Shall we begin?” He asked, paying no mind to the flushed mess you were in the corner. It was almost as if he knew how you felt deep down and had decided to torture you with extra long glances and sweet, meaningful gestures. Here he was, smiling to you once more as if he hadn’t just thrown you into a frenzy of being forced to hurriedly collect yourself. 

“Yes.” You said, heading over to the sofa that had become your usual position across from the doctor. You pat your skirt down as you sat, turning so that your back was up against the chaise lounge in the most comfortable position you could possibly muster after a stunt like that. You pursed your lips as you awaited his first question or observation that would throw the both of you into the conversations you were familiar with. 

Things had become different with you and Hannibal as of late. He was always trying his best to do something sweet for you that most people wouldn't think of doing. He was so kind in his words and his actions that you were beginning to feel some sort of longing in you, much to your dismay. Crushing on your therapist wasn't something you'd ever want to do, especially after not dating for so long. There was no way the feeling was mutual, right? This all had to be a coincidence.

“So, (Y/N),” he began, resting one leg atop the other with his ankle against his knee and his notes on top. The pen was twirling in between his fingertips as he took a deep breath. He was in no rush to start the session, it seemed. “Tell me some more about what we’d discussed last Wednesday.”

You felt yourself starting to relive some of those painful memories you tried so hard to shut down. You had mentioned to Dr. Lecter  the unfortunate circumstances of your last relationship, which had left you with more trauma than exhilaration. He had twisted all of your words against you and left you crying to yourself many nights, leaving you wondering if he even cared. He was always on the phone with other women or trying his best to court them that it had become the norm for you to find other laundry mixed in with yours or extra makeup items lying around the house. It was such a stressful time for you and was even more stressful for you to find a way to leave the relationship as the months dragged on.Two years ago, you had spent only seven months with this man and your life had gone up in flames. 

“I find myself looking into the mirror sometimes and seeing the image of me through his eyes.” You started, starting this conversation off with a whisper as it was hard to just instantly delve into the traumas you’d had in your life. You noticed for a moment that your therapist’s gaze darkened and his expression changed from concern to what appeared to be anger before he went back to his usually calm demeanor. 

“His image of you being…?” 

Your breath hitched in your throat ever so slightly. It was still a difficult discussion to have and a conversation you tended to avoid whenever you could. You knew you could trust Hannibal with this information, but your body held onto the weight of the events you’d experienced and made it difficult for them to fly out into the open, instead, they laid deep within your soul as they fed on the negative thoughts they placed into your brain. 

“He would always comment on my appearance. Compare me to other women.” You started to play with the hem of your skirt, looking up to the tall roof above you and trying to keep yourself calm. You had gotten over the stage in your life where you’d have panic attacks over these times of remembrance, but there was still fear in sharing them. “I always felt so belittled, so unimportant. I gave him everything I could to maintain the peace and to convince him to fall in love with me again but it just never worked out in my favor.”

Hannibal felt his chest tighten. It was clear that this man had done so much damage to you, but why? Why would he have chosen the most polite and caring person he could to ruin? He felt anger and  sadness on your behalf- something he didn’t find himself doing with others very often. He couldn’t usually relate to anyone all that well as he had notoriously looked down upon them. You, however, were a different story. You brought out something animalistic in him, something that he had never ventured into before. Of course, he had found other women attractive before (there was that one time with Bedelia), but this was unlike him to have an infatuation with someone of this standing. He wanted you, wanted to know you, and strangely he wanted you to know him. He saw you as an equal and dare he say, he might’ve even thought of you as better than himself.

He would never, ever, dream of putting you through the kind of mental torment others had. Ever.

“What would you give him to keep this peace?” He regretted asking the question as soon as it left his mouth but he just had to know. He had to learn more about you, how to approach situations with you and how to handle your insecurities. He would become the walking image of the perfect man and he would stop at absolutely nothing to obtain that. He wanted you to be his. Purely a product of his own creation. He knew he would mold you into the shape you were always meant to have and give you back the power those in your life had tried to take from you. 

You took a deep breath as you prepared yourself to finally let the truth seep out, to let the reason why you had decided to take up therapy in the first place to arise. You had hoped Hannibal would be able to take the knowledge. 

“My body was the only thing I could offer him as that was the only thing he wanted.” 

Hannibal’s anger was on overdrive now, trying to take over. He kept himself composed on the outside while his insides seemed to light on fire. He was beyond upset. But he felt the anger subside ever so slightly when he calmly looked to you and asked for the man’s name. 

He was going to have to consult his ethically sourced butcher.