Appalachian Love

by deadfawninaditch

Summary:

Hannibal Lecter has started performing some of his darkest fantasies on Will Graham, and eventually coaxes him into performing them with him on other people.

I try to update every Friday but it's kinda iffy sometimes.

Please read the tags carefully. Don't like, don't read.

Notes:

This is my very first time writing fan fiction so I apologize in advance if you're expecting anything really good lol. This chapter is pretty tame but please read the tags as this is going to start getting darker as it progresses. Enjoy! ^_^

ALSO: I'm gonna try and update either every week or every other week. Again, I'm still very new to this so forgive me.

Chapter 1: Text Book

This was certainly crossing some boundary between therapist and patient, Will Graham thought as he sat across from the Lithuanian doctor. They weren’t physically engaged in anything inappropriate at the moment per say, but the aroma of male lust was horribly obvious on both of the men. Will was the younger of the two, being nearly forty, meanwhile, his therapist nearly fifty.

 

Will’s calm blue eyes roamed aimlessly around the room. It wasn’t his office but he knew his way around it like the palm of his hand. Will couldn’t bear this silence and intense eye contact a moment longer, so he stood up and walked a few feet over to a small photo with a frame too intricate for how small the photo itself was. The photo showed a different world.

 

Two pairs of eyes gazed sadly, nearly pleading at the camera. A young girl with exceptionally thin wrists and ankles sat in a teenage boy's lap. Will recognized the man based on his eyes. Though, and Will hated to admit this, he could probably recognize the man anywhere. The photo looked odd. Dream-like. Some weird Edgar Allen Poe short story come to life in a strange way. Neither of the Poe characters smiled back at the camera. This photo made Will unexplainably melancholic. He pursed his lips, though about saying something, but ultimately decided against it. Silence prevailed.

 

“I always disliked having my photo taken. Because of that, Mischa hated it too. Anything I hated, she did too. Anything I liked, she liked. She was sweet like that.” A voice from behind Will explained. The Lithuanian doctor, Hannibal Lecter to his colleagues, just Hannibal to Will, stood a few feet behind the other man. Lust stank from him. Will tried to ignore it, but his penis was getting painfully erect in his jeans. It was even harder to ignore when he looked at Hannibal’s nice dress pants and saw that he was in the same state as he was.

 

Desperate to get his mind off of such things, Will went back to the contents of the surreal photo. He sighed loudly. Will knew why Hannibal referred to Mischa in the past tense. The more he thought about it, the worse he felt. Will looked at the thin blonde girl. It was funny, Will thought, seeing Hannibal as a teenager. Will stayed silent for some time. He wanted to see if Hannibal would tell the story of Mischa again. Not particularly because he wanted to enjoy it, but maybe it would provide Hannibal some relief, even all these decades later after it happened. Will felt a large hand gently clasp his shoulder. “We both know what happened to Mischa, Will.” Hannibal told him in a quiet voice with a hint of sadness he only ever showed around Will.

 

Hannibal gingerly rested his forehead against Will’s shoulder. An intimate display of affection, but these two men were no strangers to being intimate with one another, or being erect around each other. The memory of their first time having sex together will always be ingrained in both of the men’s minds. The dark sheets of Hannibal’s bed, the taste of alcohol every time their tongues danced, the sweat, the sounds they made. It was embarrassing how even weeks after their sexual endeavor, Will couldn’t stop thinking about it.

 

Will was about to slip back into his detailed recollection of the events that took place that night, but Hannibal snapped him back to reality with the sound of his voice and the feeling of his warm breath on his neck. Hannibal gently kissed the younger man’s neck with a closed mouth.

 

“Your house or mine?” Hannibal asked politely.

 

He wanted sex, Will did too, but he could never get used to how taboo this whole situation would always be. I mean, come on, patient and therapist, ten year age gap, it’s like some weird perverted porno fantasy that teenage girls spend their lonely nights masturbating to. Will gave a small sigh before answering.

 

“Mine. My dogs need me.” Hannibal made some sort of small noise of approval.

 

“Yours it is then.”

 

The very second Hannibal nearly shoved Will through the front door of his house, he was practically mauling him like one of his dogs. Speaking of his dogs, they all came bounding excitedly at the feet and knees of Will and Hannibal. Will didn’t bother with trying to give any of them attention, he knew Hannibal needed it far more. They stood near the front door, groping each other like insomniacs that finally found sleep after battling their illness for such a long time. When Will’s dogs realized their owner’s priorities lie elsewhere, they settled in the living room in front of the fireplace that was turned off.

 

“Can I be on top tonight? I was on the bottom last time.” Hannibal explained breathlessly as he led Will to his bed that wasn’t far away. Will moaned into Hannibal’s mouth and quickly nodded his head. Will was beginning to learn it was always best to let Hannibal have his way when it comes to anything. He was not a force to be reckoned with, it was his way or the highway, and Will wasn’t very fond of the highway.

 

Hannibal grabbed Will by his broad shoulders and slammed him face down into the mattress. Hannibal gently removed him and Will’s clothes and neatly folded them on a nearby chair. He might have been an animal sexually, but he wasn’t going to let that make him disorganized by any means. Hannibal ruthlessly ripped into Will without any warning or lubrication, which he knew would hurt him. He also knew that Will liked the pain. He felt the younger man wince underneath him.

 

“Fuck– Hannibal– At least give me a little warning first.” He groaned into the mattress. Hannibal didn’t care to respond. He simply grabbed Will by his hips and pounded into him like it was his last day alive. The older man was gripping Will so hard he was surely going to bruise. Hannibal leaned down and put all his weight onto his male companion and fucked him as hard as he could for a man of almost fifty.

 

The house was silent except for Will’s moans that were gradually turning into screams, and the faint wet squelching sound that was produced every time Hannibal thrusted his penis into Will’s abused hole. When the two of them began their sexual relationship, Will would cum within minutes, nearly seconds. Over the last few months, Will could now last much longer with the other man, his tolerance having been built up.

 

They continued on like this, absurdly in front of Will’s dogs (they were just dogs, right? The men both hoped they didn’t understand what was going on) until Will started grabbing at Hannibal’s wrists. He knew this was an indicator that Will was about to finish. Hannibal worked at him until he too became a moaning, groaning mess, like a monster. Despite the air conditioning blasting to battle the scorching American summer heat, the men were trenched in the water from their pool of love, sex, and homosexuality.

 

A few more aggressive bucks of his hips into Will, the both of them finished. Hannibal laid with Will, pinning him down to the bed. Hannibal liked always knowing where Will was, making sure he couldn’t go anywhere without him. They laid there wordless for an unknown amount of time, the only sounds now being the air conditioning and their panting that was beginning to subside. Hannibal could have stayed like this forever, until he became one with Will.

 

Eventually, Hannibal got up and off of Will to retrieve a washcloth to clean him and Will. Will felt cold and sticky without Hannibal’s presence, but he didn’t have time to think of that, because in mere seconds he was asleep. Hannibal returned to the side of the bed, washcloth in hand, and fawned over how beautiful and at peace Will looked as he slept lightly. Hannibal delicately cleaned Will. He didn’t put their clothes back on, he liked feeling as close as possible to Will at all times.

 

As Hannibal settled Will underneath the blankets and himself too, Will weakly opened his eyes. They admired each other silently.

 

“Hannibal,” Will quietly whispered. Hannibal raised his light eyebrows in response.

“I don’t think I ever told you how sorry I am about what happened to Mischa.”

Chapter 2: Blue Banisters

Summary:

Will and Hannibal share a romantic morning.

Notes:

Being a new writer is soooo difficult so thank you to anyone who has even bothered with this shit show :p

If you read the first chapter when it first came out please be warned I changed some of the tags for next weeks chapter.

Enjoy! <33

(I tried to make this chapter a little longer)

Morning laid heavy over the solitary, small white house in the Virginia countryside. It was summer and summer always hit the Appalachian region of America particularly hard. Hannibal lay awake, deadly still, next to his naked lover. Hannibal sat up silently with as little movement as possible so as to not rouse Will. He gazed out the window that illuminated the whole ground floor and out into the seemingly endless wilderness that was Will’s backyard. When Hannibal first started spending time in this rural part of Virginia, he didn’t think he would ever come to like it.

 

However, as the nights he spent with Will slowly turned into multiple days on end, he noticed he was beginning to grow somewhat fond of the scenery. The way the birds serenaded the forest in the morning, how the sun fell gracefully on the tops of the trees. Most of all, he loved the isolation it provided. When Hannibal stayed with Will at his house, he knew it was just the two of them (and the array of strays) for miles around.

 

Mornings and thoughts like this are what provided Hannibal with a sense of calmness and almost serenity that he hadn’t felt, let alone shared with another person, ever since his childhood. The images of dark Lithuania with dead trees and cold wind howling relentlessly were threatening to ruin his perfect morning. Hannibal closed his eyes tight and quickly, as if that was somehow the cure to childhood trauma and the memories that, no matter how much therapy or medication one took, came with it. Closing his eyes proved to be no help. In fact, it just made the memories and images ever more horrifically prominent. He heard Mischa crying softly, saying Hannibal’s name through her thick tears, slurring the beginning “H” sound in his name.

 

Hannibal then saw himself as a teenager. Unusually tall for his age, so thin you could see the outline of his collar bones underneath his shirt. He was pale. Not pale in a beautiful, angelic way like the moon or virgin snow. No, he was pale like a patient that was in the final stage of some terminal illness. In this strange memory, Mischa, still crying and saying his name incorrectly, is seemingly inconsolable. Hannibal takes her by her small arms and adjusts her into his lap. Whatever room they were in was dark. Mischa had always been scared of the dark. She didn’t live long enough to ever outgrow it. Hannibal gently rocked her back and forth until her sobs were absorbed into the black abyss of whatever room from his childhood they sat in. He kissed her scalp and ran his bony, corpse-like fingers through her hair. Hannibal stayed in this memory for quite some time until he became aware of his growing erection stirring up underneath Will’s comforter. That quickly brought him back to reality.

 

Despite his growing lust, Hannibal still couldn’t help but think of poor, sweet Mischa. How she would suckle her petite thumb in between her lips as she huffed in her sleep at whatever little girls dreamed of. How she would climb into Hannibal’s bed and sleep with him after she had a nightmare. Hannibal would give anything to feel that love again from someone else.

 

Hannibal looked to his side and saw Will. Hannibal loved Will. He was the first person he’s loved since Mischa. Hannibal wished he could not just simply read his mind, but split it open like a barbarian and devour his brain raw with his bare hands in hopes that would give him some amount of knowledge of what went on inside it. Hannibal thought very often about cannibalizing Will, but he knew he could never follow through with it. Though it would be the ultimate act of love, he could not stomach the guilt that would probably kill him because of what he did to Will. Hannibal’s person suit was well enough tailored that he appeared fearless, but deep down, his biggest fear was losing Will. The thought was so agonizing Hannibal couldn’t bear to think about it for a second longer, and focused on his penis that was so erect that he was almost scared to touch it.

 

He briefly licked his lips and looked at his nude lover (Were they lovers? They were something, but Hannibal would rather die than call whatever they had a “situationship”). Will was still sleeping so peacefully. Hannibal made some sort of noise adjacent to a sigh as he (with as much control and slowness he could muster) rolled Will’s sleeping form onto his stomach. This was easier because he was already very erect and the both of them were still naked. Hannibal reached into the nightstand beside Will’s bed and produced a bottle of lubricant. He generously slathered it on his penis that was becoming increasingly more and more painful to touch. He placed his hands on the bed on either side of Will (who, God bless him, was still innocently asleep) and slowly pushed himself into him.

 

Will slightly flinched, but he didn’t wake up at this intrusion. Hannibal made a choked, almost animalistic noise that caused a few of Will’s small furry canines to perk their heads up. Will was blissfully warm around Hannibal. The older man hadn’t even begun to move inside Will and with Will’s warmth embrace around him, the birds singing, the comforting yellow light engulfing the both of them, the thought of Mischa, Hannibal already felt close to climaxing. Hannibal could have stayed like that for all of eternity. Until they were stuck together in some disgusting monstrosity that resembled some sort of conjoined twin creature plucked from a Mary Shelley novel. He wouldn’t mind being a monster, so long as he was with his beloved Will.

 

He leaned down to smell Will’s hair. He began kissing and moving his tongue across his hair in loving motions. He started gently moving inside Will for his own pleasure, as Will lay there, a motionless sleeping figure. He continued on like this. Hannibal was in no rush to cum, he was savoring every second of this. Will began to stir underneath Hannibal, making small sounds that he always made in the first few seconds of waking up. Hannibal plunged a hand into Will’s dark curls, gripping them while simultaneously trying to keep Will pinned down to the bed.

 

Will’s eyes shot open and he attempted to turn his head and look up at Hannibal, but it was no use. When Hannibal wanted something, or in this case someone, no one could overpower him. Hannibal was meticulous when it came to sex. He took pride in knowing he almost always had control over his partner. Will began to sit up, and Hannibal let him, only to violently slam him back down into the bed. Will seemed more annoyed than anything.

 

“Hannibal, what are you doing?” Will groaned in a monotone voice.

 

The words themselves were a question, but it came out more as a statement. Hannibal moaned at the sound of Will’s voice and panicked for a split second when he thought he might cum just from the sound of it, etched with sleep. Hannibal threw his hard back in a grandiose gesture and began moaning like a madman. “Hannibal, stop. It’s too early for this,” Will muttered. When he realized the older man wasn’t listening to him, he started grabbing at Hannibal in a pathetic attempt to get him off him. Will’s resistance fueled Hannibal’s lust as he started pounding into Will at a ruthless speed and force.

 

“Hannibal, it hurts–please-”

 

This begging wasn’t getting Hannibal any less turned on. Will’s previous annoyance was souring into begging for mercy. He began to get more violent with his physical resistance and was reduced to a victim underneath Hannibal. He thought he had nothing to lose, so he started resisting and yelling with all he could. Will knew he might’ve been able to get in Hannibal’s head, maybe even manipulate him sometimes, but at the end of the day, none of that mattered because Hannibal was bigger physically, and had control over him. Hannibal exploited this to the greatest of his abilities.

 

Eventually the physical resistance got to be too much for Hannibal and he took to pinning Will down by his beautifully sculpted arms. While all of this was taking place, Hannibal whispered loving praises in Will’s ear. How beautiful, Hannibal thought. The duality of man. Getting raped while being praised at the same time. Hannibal always found humor in the stereotypically ugly. His lover, a sobbing puddle of victimhood beneath him, Hannibal finally finished with a strained, hoarse moan.

 

For the first half of his orgasm, he deposited his semen into Will. Then, for the second half, he smeared it all over Will’s inner thighs. Hannibal pulled out (as much as it pained him) and admired his masterpiece. Will laid there, hyperventilating, shaking, crying, and muttering incoherently with Hannibal’s semen on and seeping out of him. Without an inkling of thought, Hannibal licked the inside of Will’s hole gluttonously lapping up his own cum. He stood up from the bed, wiping his lips, and calmly put his clothes back on. He sat on the edge of the bed and stroked Will like a parent soothing their teenage daughter after her first break up.

 

“Oh, sweetheart. Don’t cry, I’ve got you,” Hannibal cooed. He leaned up against the wall behind the bed and held Will up against his chest. “You hurt me. I’m in pain,” Will cried pathetically after some time. Hannibal kissed the top of his head and began rocking back and forth with Will. Hannibal looked down at Will, and for a second, only a second, he saw the image of not Will, but Mischa. Completely mortified and somewhat disgusted with this, Hannibal got off the bed and left the house wordlessly, dogs at his feet.

 

Will didn’t know how somehow, in all the centuries of the English language existing, there wasn’t a word specifically invented to describe one’s feelings after being raped. Considering how often it happened to people, he thought there should be such a word. He laid there in a fatal silence. His dogs panted, the air conditioning blew, but yet it was still silent. For a long time, he may as well have been considered dead, for he did not move a muscle, or think a thought.

 

Morning bled into afternoon, afternoon into night, and he still laid there dead in his bed. He thinks he remembers his dogs whining to be let outside or fed. Though Hannibal left long ago, he was still there. When Hannibal left after spending a long sexual night with Will, Will would love inhaling him, and would hate to see his tall frame standing six foot and four inches in his door frame. Now, he wasn’t sure what he wanted. It should be obvious, but it’s not to him. He should want Hannibal dead, loathe him. He should scream and cry (he’s well within his right to) about how unfair and grossly fucked up this whole situation is.

 

He was violated in the worst way possible in his own bed, his own house, by his own…whatever Hannibal was to him. They weren’t just fuck buddies, but maybe they were too profound to call each other boyfriends, even though that was the most apt description of what they were. Will hated being alone, and that’s what he was. He was now in the same state of desolation in which he took form before he met Hannibal. Except now he was a victim. Great, he wordlessly thought. Will knew what Hannibal was. Will hated thinking about it, and, hell, hated doing it too, being with Hannibal whilst knowing what he was. Having a relationship, having sex with him, it should’ve made Will feel disgusted, and he seethed at his past self for being ridiculously weak to the older man.

 

How could Will resist? Between his philosophical demeanor that somehow wasn’t pretentious, his mahogany eyes against his pale skin. When Will stood in that long dark corridor filled with freezers, like some horrible Lovecraftian nightmare created specifically for Will and Hannibal to share. Yes, to share, like a bonding experience of sorts. That’s truly what it was for the two men. Like a first date, but a lot more depraved to the average person.

 

When Will first discovered what Hannibal was, it wasn’t like in the movies when the hero suffers some horrible betrayal from the hands of the villain, no, much different. Will knew in that very moment, standing in this labyrinth of corpses. He couldn’t help but think of his mother. He was suddenly taken back to his trailer in Louisiana. He was small. Small enough to fit on the less than spacious kitchen counter of his mobile home. There was glass in his hair, looking like some fashion choice celebrities wore to the Met Gala.

 

But it wasn’t that, a choice. He didn’t choose to be born into a household in which his father threw empty beer bottles at him and his mother. Just in the same way he didn’t choose to fall in love with a serial killer. His mother hummed some non-existent song in attempts to soothe him. He remembers his mother crying. A lot more than he ever did it seems. Her pretty white canvased face that his father took to painting black and blue always either looked like she had just finished crying or was on the verge of doing so.

 

For most of his life, Will never knew why she was always so hysterical. I mean, yeah, his father was a horrible abusive man, but on the times where he would leave (to cheat on her, drink, do drugs, Will doesn’t entirely know), his mother would still be utterly sad. He wanted to help her so badly, but no amount of hugs or kisses on the forehead could get rid of an abusive husband. And when Will was old enough to help, it was too late.

 

After a night of tireless arguing from his parents, he found her laying on their teal-tiled bathroom floor, drowned in her own blood by the hands of her own husband, her child’s father.

 

Will came back to the present day, lying in his bed. It was only a few seconds later when he became aware of an odd wet sensation leaking from himself. His joints, his entire body screamed in violent protest as he attempted to move his arm to his assaulted, sensitive area. He managed to drape his arm across his curved back and felt around. When he felt his hand make contact with a foreign substance, he drew his arm back and looked at his fingertips, thinly coated in blood. The young man lay there in his own blood, light breaching the horizon, mourning how he had become just like his mother.

Chapter 3: Arcadia

Summary:

An introduction to our reader.

“He comes highly recommended, sweetheart. I’ve talked to him a few times before, he seems like a real good man. Nice head on his shoulders, ya know?” Your mother was talking at you over your chemistry homework as you doodled in between chemical equations, hoping that if you moved your pencil enough it would magically move itself into the correct answer for each of the problems. Or at least, you guessed that was what she was saying, as it was hard to understand her while she stuffed her mouth full of raw cookie dough. You inhaled and made some sort of sound while doing so, and broke your faux concentrated gaze away from your homework to look at her.

 

Lips painted an obnoxious red that only women her age could pull off, hips wide because she gave birth to you and never quite had the time to lose the excess weight, and an aged but pretty face that doted on you at any chance it got. Her dark, thinning hair was lazily pulled back in those hair ties that were made specifically for fine hair and she swayed slightly right and left on her feet as she hummed a Dolly Parton song happily while kneading the raw cookie dough and plucking a few pieces every now and then in between her red lips.

 

“So, will ya think about it?” She asked indifferently, still swaying on her feet. You blinked dumbly and cleared your throat. “I don’t think I want to drive an hour every week to see some overpaid psychiatrist. I just don’t see how it’d be useful,” You replied, knowing your answer would disappoint your mother. She sighed heavily and tried to make it look like your response didn’t hurt her, even though you both knew it did. She silently turned her back towards you and started balling up the cookie dough into spheres and placing them on parchment paper to bake. This went on for a few more seconds until she broke the silence. “Your father would’ve wanted it,” She trailed off. You swallowed hard at the mention of him.

 

Your father hung himself in the basement almost a year ago just as the spring started to turn to summer. Ever since then, your mother has been annoyingly insistent that you see Doctor Hannibal Lecter to work through this “hardship” as your school counselor called it when you tried to talk to her about it. (That was short lived). You just didn’t like to think about it a lot, let alone talk about it with some stranger. It really was that simple. Of course it hurt, it hurt like hell, you’d be crazy to not be hurt, but you knew if you thought about it, all you would think of is the day you found him.

 

It was a late, green, spring afternoon and you were walking home from school like you always did, whilst running your hand against anything it made contact with as you held it out to the side. You passed a group of elementary school aged children that were outside playing in the new found warm weather of the year. They sang a chant that was foreign to your ears as you tried to place if you had heard it before or not.

 

“Oh peach, let's go down, down to the river to pray!

Oh peach, let’s go down, down to the river to play!”

 

And so on and so on until you were far enough away from them to no longer hear it. Your house was quiet, eerily quiet. You knew both your parents were at work, so obviously it would be quiet. It would be alarming if it wasn’t, but there was something so dreadful about this silence, it prompted you to search the house. If you could go back in time and change one thing, it would be this. You should’ve just gone to your bedroom and waited for your mother to arrive home from work. You should’ve, but you didn’t. After a thorough search of the first and second floor, you descended the basement stairs. Another thing you wish you hadn’t done. You were only on the tenth step when you saw your father’s feet, suspended in the air. You didn’t scream, or cry, you still don’t know why. Maybe it was the shock, or at least that’s what you always tell yourself on the rare nights you do think about it.

 

You don’t remember a lot of what happened afterwards. After it happened, you never thought about it in detail ever again. It would be too difficult, you thought. You didn’t really know if it would be, considering you never tried, but you didn’t want to re-open the wound. Ever since then, the only time you thought about him was when you’d sneak into his old workshop to smoke his cigarettes. It made you feel close to him in a comforting way. It’s not like you didn’t love your father, or care about him. You did. A lot.

 

You can remember being small, small enough for him to still be able to pick you up. The two of you stood barefoot on a cloudy beach. Laughing indistinctly, you ran to him and he scooped you up in his arms as you screamed playfully. He spun you around until you felt as if you were going to fly away, like a bird. You didn’t say a word to one another, just laughter.

 

You looked back to your chemistry homework and saw all the work was a blurry mess, and to your bewilderment, you had tears welling in your eyes, threatening to spill out onto the paper. You had so much to say to your mother, but you held your tongue like the good daughter you were supposed to be to your grieving mother. You retired to your bedroom, feebly shutting the door behind you. You stared at your wall of vinyl records, wondering which artist could help you get through the night. You knew whichever one you picked would either make you ten times sadder, or you could make yourself happy. You chose Jeff Buckley’s “Grace”. You smoked a cigarette with your window cracked (not because you were worried about your mother finding out you smoked, she already knew, but you also knew she hated the scent it left and it reminded her of your father) and teared up once again as “Hallelujah” began. His voice, riddled with just the right amount of sadness and depression you thought only a teenage girl could feel, rang beautifully throughout your bedroom and out your open window and into the endless night.

 

“You’ll like him. He’s smart, like you,” Your mother commented aimlessly as she concentrated partially on the road and partially on you. Your mother was great at unintentionally making you feel like a terrible daughter, so after the previous night’s events and her comment about your father, you gave in to this ridiculous therapy exercise and decided to see the great Hannibal Lecter. You had no clue who he was, what he looked like, or virtually anything about him despite how “highly recommended” he came, according to your mother. Smart like me, you repeated in your head, trying to make sense of it. If this guy was anything like you, then you wanted nothing to do with him.

 

It was hot and sunny out, you were on your period and could feel every inch of your pad pressing up against you, the car was stuffy despite the air conditioning being as far up as it could go, and your thighs were sticking to the pleather seat that you sat on. “It’s hot,” You whined slightly while looking out the window at the blue, cloudless sky. You didn’t really care that it was, you just wanted to say something to break the awkward silence that had fallen over the car. Your mother grunted in response. “We’re almost there,” She assured you lovingly, placing a hand on your tacky thigh.

 

You observed as the trees gradually turned sparse and buildings replaced them, a sign that Baltimore was getting closer and closer. You didn’t like Baltimore. You hated big cities that were infested with all walks of life. You liked the quaint house in the countryside in which you came from, each neighbor half a mile apart from each other. People walked their ugly, loud dogs, jogged, walked beside their friends with silly smiles on their faces, and held hands with their partners. Normalcy. You hadn’t known that for almost a year, and you hated all the pedestrians for having it. They should forfeit theirs and give it to you, it was only fair. Did their father hang themselves in their basement? If they had, they were making a mockery of the grieving process by gallivanting about town. They had no right to their happiness, you envied them. A part of you wanted to strangle them and inhale their last breath as if that might give you what you so craved.

 

“We’re here,” Your mother’s voice announced, breaking you from your murderous trance. You didn’t know what to expect as you sat in the lobby. You had never done this before, how were you supposed to know? “I’ll be back in an hour to pick you up, okay? Be good,” Your mother declared as she gathered her purse around her arm and headed for the door, giving you a small peck in between your eyebrows that were growing hair (you hadn’t plucked them in a few months).

 

The silence that you sat in for a few minutes was interrupted by the sudden movement of the door in front of you that had been closed this whole time. You were greeted by the sight of a man. Well, no, he wasn’t exactly a man. He was something otherworldly in the costume of a man. A tall, pale, sophisticated costume-wearing creature. This, you had to assume, was the Doctor Lecter your mother spoke so highly of. You didn’t know what you were expecting honestly, but it wasn’t him. And most importantly, you didn’t expect him to be so handsome for a man of his age. Observing his wrinkles, each of them a mark of wisdom from all his decades on this planet, you wondered what they would feel like under your fingertips.

 

Your face reddened as you heard your name repeated, met with him staring at you with slight amusement. You looked at him and he gave you a small, but genuine, smile. He moved his large body out of the way from the doorway and motioned you in. “Your mother’s told me all about you. Please, come in," He announced. You could hear the accent in his throat, but you couldn’t quite place it. You obeyed and walked past him, hearing him close the door behind him, a true reminder you were stuck with him, alone, for a whole entire hour.

 

It should be illegal for a therapist to be attractive in any way. How could you tell them anything and be truly comfortable with them when they looked a certain way? You stood for a few moments and realized how slight you were next to him. You hated feeling small, powerless, but there was nothing to be done. You’d soon come to find out there was nothing you could do to have power over this man. You sat in front of him in silence for some time. “What brings you here at such a young age?” He inquired with the slightest undertone of smugness. “Why do you care? So long as you get your paycheck you don’t give a damn what I say,” You snarled. It came out nastier than you intended, but you were frightened. A frightened dog ready to bite. Frightened because you were scared if you were nice or cordial to him in any way he would somehow smell your attraction to him.

 

He didn’t react in a grand way. He simply cocked his head with no clear thought behind the action. The doctor was studying you, and was making no effort to hide it. He was probably thinking some profound observation about you, while you sat there thinking about him bending you over his desk that sat right behind him. You had the body of a teenage girl, and the perversions of a widowed man, beyond his years, with no family or friends.

 

“You’re menstruating currently, yes?” He, very out of the blue, probed. You were sure your body had jerked back in reaction. You were bewildered, embarrassed, and confused. Your brows knit together, trying to find the words to answer whatever you just heard. You cleared your throat.

 

“Yes…How did you…?”

“I’ve had a very keen sense of smell ever since I was no older than you.”

 

You didn’t know what to do with this information. You supposed he couldn’t control whether he smelled you or not because of this odd ability (talent?), but what use was it in telling you?

“I can sense the cigarettes on you as well. Marlboro’s, correct?”

You nodded a small nod. You should’ve been weirded out, and at first you were, but there was something about his level of attention to detail in which he could even place what specific brand of cigarettes you fancied that was almost attractive to you. He was observant, intelligent. Maybe you needed that kind of influence in your life. He sat there with his long legs crossed over each other, head still cocked. He wasn’t like how they were in the movies. You saw no notepad that he was aimlessly scribbling in, no odd, vague, philosophical sayings that held absolute no meaning to you.

 

Sure he was intimidating as they come, but in a way you didn’t mind too much. He smiled. An actual smile with teeth. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell your mother,” He teased. You chuckled in response. You felt blood push out of yourself, maintaining eye contact with him as it happened.

 

When the rather uneventful therapy session ended, later that night you found yourself in the shower, shoving your fingers inside yourself at the thought of your next appointment. When you extracted them, they were covered in dark, pungent blood.

Chapter 4: Blue Velvet

Summary:

You didn't know taking out the trash could be so eventful.

Notes:

My apologies for not posting last week, I was unsatisfied with this chapter but I think it's good now.

Hope you enjoy ♡︎

(Also sorry this chapter is kinda short :( )

He came to you in a dream. Though it was only a dream, you swore you could smell him. He leaned down to inhale your scent, but he instead licked your forehead gently, slowly turning it into a lukewarm kiss. You laid in a pool of silk, both of you nude, your psychiatrist leaning over you, lewd intentions apparent. “You’re a picture of divinity, my beautiful,” The man cooed in your ear, his lips daring to brush your earlobe. Divinity. How? You were just a girl, your dream self thought.

 

He straddled your naked body and slid his penis into your young, inexperienced hole with ease and skill that can only come from decades of practice. A strand of gray-blonde hair unwillingly protruded from the rest of his slicked back hair and hung just above your forehead. You made eye contact with him for a moment. He then began fucking and ramming into you at an obscene pace that if this wasn’t merely a dream, you’d probably start bleeding.

 

You yearned to feel it, for this to be real, but you would take what you could get for now. You awoke to find you were drenched in between your legs, the dream still clearly fresh in your mind. You pulled off your underwear and began running your delicate fingers in circular motions on your clit. You closed your eyes and thought about Hannibal. His eyes, how big he was, his aged face, his intelligence. All things enough to give you a quaking orgasm while whimpering his name until you felt yourself finish. You needed this man, you ached for him all throughout the night and into the morning.

Awakening the next morning, you find a slight ache between your legs. You turned lazy during the night and let your cum sit on your inner thighs all night. Still in your pajamas, you sluggishly emerged from the loneliness of your bedroom to find a silent house, in a thick blanket of summer morning light. Taking the silence as a cue that your mother was at work, you lit a cigarette and sat in front of the television. You thought about watching something new, but you opted for Twin Peaks (which you had seen three times before already). Tears welled in your eyes as Laura Palmer’s body was revealed on screen.

 

You took a drag of your cigarette and looked out the window. You squinted as the sun hit your eyes as the theme song to Twin Peaks played soullessly in the background and the birds chirped aimlessly. It was summer vacation which meant lazing around through the days, watching television, unwashed hair, masturbating, long showers, and not having to wait until the end of the school day to smoke a cigarette. Hunger gently poked at your stomach and you rose to the kitchen, your bare feet cold on the tile underneath them. On the fridge was a light green sticky note with thick black writing on it. It read; “Please take the trash out, sweetheart” With a smiley face that was clearly drawn hastily.

 

You sighed a small sigh and went upstairs to grab your bathrobe and slippers and you begrudgingly left the comfort of your home and into the unknown of the countryside, the woods looming close in the distance. The early morning air was cool, despite it being early August, so you shivered when you opened the front door. You dragged the trash bin behind you, cigarette in between your lips. It was a tedious task, but that almost made it nice. You hadn’t known a lot of routine and things being on track for a long while now. It wasn’t an eventful task by any means, but it was something you did once a week at the same time in the morning. You walked as your slippers threatened to slip off your ankle as they were beginning to get too small for your feet. You didn’t know your feet could still grow into your teen years.

 

You stood out against the green of the plains and the forest in your fuzzy, bright pink robe with black hearts dotted along it with a toothpaste stain crusted into it. You were used to this, taking out the trash, and the scenery of your front yard, so you were caught off guard when you saw something that you hadn’t seen on these morning trips with the trash can. A figure, perhaps a man from what you could tell from where you were standing. You lived in the middle of nowhere, this was not usual on any day at any time, but especially not this early in the morning when everyone should be in their respective houses. You stood about maybe sixty feet away from the man, approaching him (still hauling the trash can) until you stood a mere few feet away from him. You stood in an eerie silence until you decided you had to speak.

 

“Are you lost?” You asked the mysterious man. As he hesitated awkwardly, you observed him. He wasn’t quite old, but not the most youthful either, you guessed late thirties or early forties. He wore an ugly checkered flannel with jeans, an appearance implying he might be from the area or somewhere adjacent. He had dark brown curls, a somewhat patchy beard, and pretty blue eyes that balanced out his more masculine features. You were growing impatient with his hesitancy to answer, which he picked up on and finally choked out an answer. “No, but my car broke down and my phone’s dead. Could I come in and use your phone?” He weakly asked, not making eye contact with you once.

 

Your eyes narrowed as you felt a slight ping of skepticism. You wanted to believe him, and a part of you did, but the other part told you about stranger danger. You noticed no obvious weapons on him and he wasn’t the tallest person you’d met, so you took a chance on him. You set the trash can near the side of the road and beckoned him to follow you back up to your house. He followed silently at your arm. You opened the door for him politely, he awkwardly shuffled past you, slightly sweating on his forehead and clearing his throat every few seconds. You chalked all this up to him just being a nervous person around people he didn’t know, and you left it at that for the time being.

 

“I’ll go upstairs and get my phone,” You mumbled, desperate to escape this terribly awkward situation. You were never the best with people. You were aware of his eyes watching you all the way upstairs until you disappeared behind your door, leaving it a crack open. Walking thoughtlessly towards your nightstand to retrieve your phone, before you could even think, your bedroom door was opening and the man was running at you and pinning you down on your bed. You yelped as if it would solve anything in the slightest. “I’m sorry. He told me to do this. I’m so sorry," The man borderline whispered.

 

You could tell his voice was riddled with genuine regret. Sorry for what? You were mortified, having no idea what was about to happen to you. Did he have a gun or knife hidden somewhere on him? Was he a serial killer that hadn’t been caught and you were going to be his next victim? Were you about to get murdered in your own bed, in your own room, in your own house, by a man that you invited in? These questions raced through your disoriented mind, but you’d come to find out you were to suffer a somehow worse fate than either of those things.

 

He might not have been very big, but neither were you, so he was able to pin you to your bed with ease. You began to cry and beg for him to let you go. It was no use, whatever you were to endure was a given. It had to happen in his eyes. He scanned your body up and down and exhaled shakily. He whispered an apology once again, and began undoing his belt. Your eyes widened in fear, his intentions obvious. You shook your head in a violent protest as your eyes filled up with even more tears, your face wetting. He pulled out his penis and worked on getting your shorts off and around your ankles. He was so erect it was hard to look at. It didn’t matter how sorry he was, or who was making him do this, he was still going to take pleasure from your body in this violent act, whether you wanted it or not.

 

You were still a virgin, you had never even held hands with a boy or went on a date with one, and now you were about to get raped by a grown man you just met a few minutes ago. How could you have been so foolish? So naive? So utterly stupid? He was a stranger, and you just let him in without a fight. You deserved this. If God was out there somewhere, this was your penance for being dumb. He painfully shoved himself into you and you screamed until they were muffled by his palm he slapped over your mouth. Tears fell to the sides of your face and stained your pink-flowered bed sheets. You wanted your parents, you wanted this to be a bad dream, you wanted to run into Hannibal’s arms as he shushed you, you just wanted this to stop.

 

He leaned down so that he was at your ear and breathed heavily on you. Sweat beads dripped from him onto you as he moved himself ruthlessly inside your young, virgin body. You were certain you were going to bleed after this was all done and over. If it ever was going to end. You hated to admit this, but as this went on for a few minutes you began to feel small sparks of pleasure from this action. It was still horrible, fucked up, and physically painful, and you wanted it to stop, but the pain almost felt good. You closed your watery eyes and imagined Hannibal in place of the strange man.

 

You thought about your dream. The silk, the darkness, the naked bodies, the lewdness of it all. You tried to channel that into this situation, but your efforts proved to be useless. The man groaned and heaved above you, as if raping you pained him. And maybe it did, he did seem genuinely sorry when he was apologizing. But you just didn’t understand. He said someone was making him do this, but at the same time, he was an adult and could opt not to. You stared at your silly alarm clock that was shaped like an apple on your nightstand. You counted the minutes that passed, watching the long minute hand move slowly in small amounts each time. You stopped crying, or even really thinking, and let this madman ravage you to the point where you thought you might just simply pass away from all the overwhelming pain, both physically and emotionally.

 

You thought about your cigarette and how you had lost it in between spotting the man and now getting taken by him on your bed. You hoped wherever it was, it didn’t cause a fire. Maybe a fire would be the best thing to happen to you right now. The minute hand moved three numbers. Fifteen minutes and the man finally grunted and pulled out of you, spilling his semen all over your stomach. He wordlessly put his penis away, not daring to look at you, at what he’d reduced you to in such a short span of time.

 

He picked up your shorts with teddy bears embroidered on them and shoved them in his pocket, exiting your bedroom silently. You watched from your bedroom window as he walked down the driveway, and all the way down the road until you couldn’t see him. Almost like he never existed. You sat there, partially naked, and smoked a cigarette, not bothering to wipe the semen from your stomach.

 

“I did it. It wasn’t easy, but I did it.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“When have I ever lied to you?”

“Will.”

“Here.”

 

A pair of tiny shorts with brown teddy bears was produced from the younger man's coat pocket and laid out on the table between him and Hannibal. The shorts had slight blood residue on the crotch of them, and the doctor took great pleasure in that. He held the shorts between his aged, long fingers and smiled a very small, almost nonexistent smile. “I’m proud of you, Will,” The doctor beamed. He said this like a father proud of his son for winning his high school football game. “Did you do it exactly as I told you to?” He asked the younger man. Will nodded weakly.

 

“Exactly as you told me to.”

Chapter 5: If You Lie Down With Me

Summary:

Hannibal and our reader have a heart to heart.

It was the oddest feeling, you were never a sensitive person. You didn’t cry at your father’s funeral, and now there you sat in your bedroom, covered in a stranger's spend, not feeling anything. You had been violated in your own house, your own room, but you just didn’t really care. You replayed the events in your head over and over again. You didn’t even care as you stood in front of the bathroom mirror and wiped semen from your stomach, and in between your thighs from the previous night. You thought about it all happening, you wanted to cry, you really did. It was the normal thing to do.

 

You made crying noises, hoping that would do anything, but it was useless. You showered and observed your naked body, your pained and abused private area. When you went to wash it, the wet, warm washcloth sent a shock of pain up through your entire body, causing you to wince and make a sharp sound through the gap in between your teeth. You showered until you thought the smoke detector was going to be set off. Naked, steam radiating off your body, you wiped the moisture off the mirror to look at the fogged image of yourself. Your period had been over for weeks now, but a small drop of blood ran down your inner thighs and all the way down to your ankles and the bath mat underneath your feet. You exhaled, knowing it would leave a dark pink stain.

 

You stepped off the dirty bath mat, picked it up and walked downstairs (still naked and dripping with hot water) to the laundry room. You turned the knobs on the washing machine and listened to it whir and shake about. You laid nude on the couch, cigarette in between your fingertips, body still slightly damp. Your nipples were hard due to the exposure of them to the air conditioned environment of your house. You lazed around until early afternoon, smoking cigarettes until you realized you had gone through an entire pack in the few hours you had been lying around.

 

You peeked over the back of the couch at the song bird themed calendar hung on the wood paneled wall. Your eyes slightly widened in shock and stupidity when you saw in thick black sharpie the time for your therapy appointment was written with Hannibal’s name next to it. You slapped your hand to your forehead like a character in a cheesy sitcom, causing your cigarette to get bumped out from in between your fingers. You picked it up off the dusty floors, took a drag of it and then ashed it in the opening of your energy drink on the coffee table next to you.

 

Maybe it was the afternoon sun hitting your body, but you suddenly felt serene. High or drugged in a way. You pictured Hannibal looming over you, observing you and your body, touching you. Grabbing at your breasts, kneading your nipples, daring to slip his penis in and out of your vagina. In this terrible state of horniness and tranquility, you grabbed your phone and scrolled through your contacts under the letter “D” until you found “Doctor Lecter”. He had given you his phone number after your second therapy session a few weeks ago, assuring you it was only if you needed him, and it was something he did with all of his patients.

 

It was midday, you had no clue what his schedule was, maybe he was working, or at home, you didn’t know. You smiled to yourself as you imagined him reclined in a chair, a drink in his hand, unwinding after a long day of work with his tie loosened, hanging lazily about his clavicle. You dialed his number and patiently waited for his beautiful voice that brought you an embarrassing amount of comfort as you lit another cigarette. You heard your name being said back to you mixed with the sound of his breathing. Your heart skipped a few beats.

 

“Hannibal,” You uttered breathlessly. Calling him by his first name seemed taboo, but you were talking to him naked on your couch, so maybe you were past that. He repeated your name again, indifference hanging in his voice. You thought about telling him about the rape, but in that exact moment you just couldn’t force it out. He’d know eventually, just not right then and there. You inhaled on your cigarette and laid there silently for some time, enjoying the calming sound of his breathing, a gentle reminder that he was there. “I just wanted to hear you,” You mumbled through your cigarette. There were a few seconds of silence.

 

“You’ll hear me in a few hours during our appointment.”

 

You smiled. “Yeah, guess so. Bye.” You hung up quickly with a beep. You felt oddly giddy, like you had secured plans for a date with your crush. In a way, you had. Sure it seemed pretty silly calling Hannibal your crush, but he sort of was. You not only lusted after him, you found yourself wanting to impress him more often than not. You craved his attention, validation in every way. Daddy issues be damned, all you wanted was to be loved by him.

 

You spent the remainder of the day until your appointment trying on different outfits that you thought would catch the Doctor’s eye. Pastels, neons, monotones, velvets, silks, polyesters, you tried on a variation of all kinds of things. From over the top dresses to low cut tops, your mini fashion show in front of the bathroom mirror was cut short with a horrible feeling of sadness. You suddenly pictured your father behind you, hand on your shoulder. “What are you all dolled up for, love bug?” He asked playfully. His voice didn’t echo off the empty walls of the white bathroom like your footsteps did. You inhaled shakily, fighting the terrible urge to cry. Your lower lip protruded in a pout. You ignored his question and smoothed out the nonexistent wrinkles in your magnificent silk blouse that you knew you weren’t going to actually wear.

 

He poked at your rib cage but you couldn’t feel it. “Look at you. You look beautiful. Just like your mother when she was your age,” He laughed dryly. You closed your eyes and exhaled painfully. When you slowly opened your eyes, he was gone.

 

You scanned the counter top at waist level and your eyes fell on your mother’s Chanel No. 5 bottle and held it just under your nostrils. It smelled mature, like a grandma. Your mother almost never wore this. You could tell not only because you knew how your mother always smelled (like crayons and cheap nail polish), but also by how full the bottle itself was. It was a gross diluted piss color. With all these factors in mind, that didn’t stop you from drenching yourself in it.

 

You had absolutely no clue what a man like Doctor Lecter would be attracted to, but he was older, and this perfume was certainly reminiscent of an old lady, so maybe that would leave him bit on your hook. You heard the familiar sound of the front door opening and your mother’s footsteps. She babbled on the phone indistinctly for a few minutes as you admired your outfit that you had decided on. A bright red turtleneck made of cotton that was not weather appropriate, a black skirt with sheer, dark pantyhose underneath them, and black boots that allowed the tops of your white socks to peek out. To top it off, you added small gold hoops and a dainty gold necklace with your name on it, and your mother’s bright red lipstick that almost perfectly matched the color of your sweater. You lopped mascara onto your eyelashes until they were practically being weighed down by it. You slowly slid your mother’s chalky, dried out red lipstick over your young lips.

 

Your mother barged in without knocking to tell you it was time for your appointment when she stopped in the door frame to scan you top to bottom. “Wow. Look at you,” She trailed off, a smile spreading across her lips. You couldn’t tell what she was thinking, you were never good at telling what anyone was thinking. “Do you like it?” You stupidly asked, avoiding eye contact.

 

“I love it.”

 

You chuckled quietly. “You should go start the car. Don’t wanna be late,” You said in hopes she’d depart as soon as possible. She nodded and turned around but not in silence. “I think Doctor Lecter will like it too,” She teased, smiling this time with teeth. “Mom! Don’t be like that,” You laughed. You both laughed, dropping your heads, hair in your faces. You couldn’t remember the last time you and your mother had laughed, genuinely laughed, together. Warmth bloomed underneath your breasts and all in your throat. You hadn’t even actually focused or really cared about the words she said, it just made you so happy to hear her laughter. You never noticed how much she lit up a room when she smiled and laughed. Like flowers were going to bloom merely at her happiness.

 

You sang along with her in the car. She let you smoke a cigarette as long as the window was open. You began to sweat through your sweater in the late summer heat and you could smell your baby powder scented deodorant. The sun was in the early stages of setting and shone gorgeous bright oranges, reds, and pinks. The two of you drove in sweet silence until you heard your mother’s voice mixed with the sound of the engine and the whoosh of each car that passed.

 

“Are you wearing my perfume?”

 

Your face reddened slightly. You had no reason to be embarrassed, it wasn’t a felony to wear your mother’s perfume, but you couldn’t help feeling like a child pretending to be grown up with your obnoxious red lips and borrowed perfume. Shame settled over you like the sun over a desert. You swallowed and nodded. “A little goes a long way. Next time don’t use so much. You smell like an old lady,” Your mother laughed, playfully slapping a hand to your knee. She was trying to recreate the moment you shared in the bathroom earlier, but she failed. You guys sat in silence for the remainder of the drive (which was only ten minutes so it wasn’t too terribly unbearable).

 

She parked the car outside Hannibal’s office and took a second to turn and look at you. She placed her aged hand just underneath your chin on your jawline and caressed your cheek. She smiled a warm maternal smile at you. The kind of smile one would give to a stray animal, or a child lost in the grocery store. “I’ve gotta run some errands while you’re in there. Be good, okay?” You nodded silently. She smiled at you and placed a closed mouth kiss on your temple. You knew it was going to leave a faint pink-nude colored stain. You returned her smile, knowing it would make her happy, still not talking. You opened the car door and watched your mother drive off to God knows where.

 

You loitered outside the building, finishing your cigarette, until it was merely a nub in between your fingers and put it out on the sole of your boot. You sat in the dark, dimly lit waiting room, waiting impatiently for the door only a few feet away from you to swing open. You contemplated running out the door and walking around Baltimore for an hour, completely avoiding him. You realized how ridiculous that was considering you were all dolled up specifically for him. You tapped your foot anxiously awaiting the motion of the door. You stood up and paced around, but not too vigorously as to avoid sweating even more than you already had in the car.

 

After what was only a few minutes but felt like hours, the door swung open slowly. You whipped your body around, stupidly excited to see Hannibal, but instead, your heart sank all the way down to your stomach you felt like you were about to shit it out. It wasn’t Hannibal, but it was someone you knew. You didn’t know his name and he didn’t know yours, but he knew what the inside of your house looked like. He had stood in it not too long ago. He was also familiar with the inside of you. This was the man that lingered at the end of your driveway. The one that lied to you about his car, the one that needed to use your phone, the one that was forced to rape you.

 

He looked so normal it was difficult for you to imagine him doing such a thing. He looked so harmless you questioned your own sanity, if the man before you was truly the one that violated you, if it even happened at all. You foolishly thought he might not recognize you with your makeup and outfit, but he knew your face, you could see it in his eyes. His eyes weren’t emotionless, he wasn’t a cold sociopath.

 

But if not that, then what? He was a violent, lying rapist, how could you excuse that? You stood only a few feet in front of him, close enough to hear how his breathing became more labored and to see his heart beat faster underneath his flannel at the sight of you. You felt every organ in your body turn with discomfort. Why was this happening now? You had been seeing Hannibal for a few weeks now and you hadn’t seen him anywhere near Hannibal until this very moment. The two of you shared a moment of staring at each other, not daring to utter a word. What were you supposed to say? “Hey, I remember you. You’re the guy who raped me a few days ago.”

 

You bit your lip and realized how bad lipstick tasted. He shuffled uncomfortably past you and out the door, just as silently and detached as he had when he left your house. You felt the aching pain between your legs that you felt the morning he left your house. You could’ve sworn you felt blood resurface in the area he abused. Hannibal stood behind him in his office. You didn’t notice immediately in the moment, but he had an odd expression of smugness painted across his face, his slender lips daring to upturn into a smirk. He said nothing and simply motioned you into his office. You sunk into the leather chair across from him.

 

He stayed silent as you slumped into a somewhat uncomfortable position. “Is everything alright? You look troubled,” He observed, his voice echoing on the large, tall walls of his office. You wondered if now was the time to tell someone. You breathed in deep, your breasts moving up and down with every breath you took. The appointment was silent for a few minutes until your eyes fell upon something that you hoped would change the subject.

 

On his desk just a few paces behind him were two framed photos. One in a detailed silver frame and the other lined with a dainty gold frame. Your eyes were drawn to the gold one. You stood up and walked over to it to get a better look at it. You felt his eyes watch you as you did so, like a mountain lion stalking a lonesome hiker. You held it in your hands, it was heavier than you’d expected. You finally spoke at last.

 

“Who is she?”

 

The photo showed a young girl, maybe nine or ten years old, sitting on a wooden floor with her legs behind her, her feet bare and small. She was dainty and slight for a girl her age, a cute round face and a smile with some of her teeth still obviously being her baby teeth. “She was my sister. Her name was Mischa,” His voice sounded closer than it should’ve, and when you turned around you saw it was because he was standing much closer behind you than he had previously been.

 

“Was?”

“She passed away a very long time ago. When I was around your age, perhaps.”

“I’m sorry. She looked sweet.”

 

You didn’t want to be invasive and pry for what happened to her. You could see the hint of melancholy he carried in his eyes and voice. “She was.” He looked deeply into your eyes, you wanted to say romantically but you could’ve just been being delusional. He inched closer to your body until you were certain he was going to kiss you. But he didn’t. Instead, he brushed a lock of hair that had fallen in front of your face, his fingers caressing your neck.

 

He held your face like how your mother had in the car just a few minutes ago. His thumb rubbed small circles on your cheek. You melted under his touch like you never had to anyone before. You hesitantly looked down and to your slight bewilderment his penis was erect through his pants. You would’ve loved more than anything to get on your knees right then and there and relieve him of it. The two of you stayed in this moment for some time until his mouth started moving.

 

“I think you would benefit from a more personal approach to therapy,” He said, not breaking eye contact with you.

 

“Personal?”

“We hold some of your appointments in my house. Your appointments fall at a convenient time so that we could even dine together after your appointments,” He explained, still holding your face. You imagined what the inside of his house looked like. If it was big, what kind of decor he fancied, where his bedroom was. “I’d like that,” You admitted, his touch causing you to feel breathless.

 

He looked at you before bringing you into his arms, pressing your face against his broad chest. You wrapped your arms around him and nuzzled lovingly into him, like you had known him for your entire life. You began to cry. Really crying for the first time ever since your father died. Your mascara stained his cream colored shirt and he ran a hand through your hair, shushing you like you were his child.

 

“Something happened, Doctor Lecter.”

“I know darling, I know.”

Notes:

I've changed my uploading schedule to every Friday as opposed to every Wednesday, so please keep that in mind ♡︎

Hope you enjoyed this chapter! ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅

Chapter 6: Not an actual chapter

Hi everyone, as the title suggests this is not a real chapter, but I want to apologize for my lack of chapters as of recent. I have to be honest and admit I am going through some very hard writers block. I have honestly thought about deleting this fic because it’s my very first one and I’m just not very confident in it lol but I’ve decided against that. I can’t promise a chapter by this Friday but hopefully next week. Hopefully I get my spark back :( Thank you all for being so understanding <3

Chapter 7: Violets for Roses

Summary:

Hannibal's hands-on approach to therapy.

Tongues. Two tongues. Will Graham felt two different tongues licking, slopping at him. One at his hand dangling off the edge of his bed. This tongue obviously belonged to one of his canine companions. He welcomed the wet warmth around his fingers, lifting his head up slightly to admire the furry creature while it indulged on his fingertips and smiled at it. The other tongue was no dog, no. It lapped at his bare shoulder and sucked, making small, wet hickies. This tongue was held in the mouth of a monster. A horrible monster, the worst kind of monster that one knew they could never get rid of, almost like it was attached to them, sucking and stealing from them like a greedy leech. Hannibal kissed and licked at him with no real end goal in mind. Will felt how hard is penis was wedged in between his ass and Hannibal’s body.

 

The air conditioning hummed and rattled slightly. The thing was old and collecting dust, no matter how often Will cleaned the filter. Will had owned the gross thing ever since his parents were still alive, so it was no wonder all these decades later the dreadful piece of equipment was on its last leg. It was ridiculous, but after the initial shock and grief of being raped by Hannibal, Will actually bounced back fairly quick. In fact, only two days after it happened things resumed back to normal. He went to work in his flanneled shirts that always seemed to be too tight around his biceps, he typed away at his computer into the long hours of the night, the sound of his fingers applying pressure to each key echoed throughout his large classroom. He drank his black coffee with one packet of creamer in it every morning. He fed his dogs, played with them outside. He eased his way into the calmness of the stream and patiently fished. He thought it was so odd how something so terrible can happen to him and as much as he thinks about it, he feels completely fine.

 

He knows he really does feel fine because he doesn’t have to perform or put on a mask for anyone. If he wasn’t okay, he didn’t have to act like it. But he was. He was fine, and that’s what scared him. He attended his appointments with Hannibal and they talked like nothing happened. They even continued their sexual relationship, sharing long nights in each other's arms. Hannibal drank wine and Will whiskey that eventually bled into sounds of the bed frame creaking and hitting the wall and moans filling the room. Certain as he was about his own feelings about what had happened to him, he didn’t know how to feel about what he did to you. On the very rare nights he spent alone, he liked to tell himself Hannibal forced him to do it.

 

It was Hannibal who had told him to do it (and he probably never would have done it without him suggesting it), but Will was an adult. He knew rape was wrong, especially against someone so young. He liked to say he just did it so he didn’t lose Hannibal, but he couldn’t deny how he felt when he ran his hands up and down your body. And either way, it’s not like he forced himself to get erect when he was raping you. Will had gone so long in his life shutting off his emotions, he went about everything with painful indifference. Hannibal called that a “trauma response” in therapy, but Will was so far detached from his childhood he didn’t even want to think about his childhood. Hannibal continued kissing and licking Will, tasting him without eating him.

 

Will smiled and pat Winston’s fluffy head. Hannibal wordlessly started inching his penis into Will’s hole with no lube. Ever since Hannibal raped will without lube, Will took a liking to the feeling and requested they do it like that more often. Before Hannibal could finish pushing himself inside Will, Will suddenly turned his head of curls around to meet Hannibal’s gaze. “No, not today. I wanna be on top this time,” He mumbled. Despite his quiet tone, Hannibal could tell he would not be told no, so he pulled out of Will and laid to the side of him. He ran a hand through his dark curls and simply admired his beautiful lover. Nobody would ever compare. Will occupied Hannibal’s mind more often than he’d like to admit. Hannibal loved power; he loved that he occupied other people’s minds. Will would always be the only person Hannibal would ever fully, truly, submit to. So just for him, Hannibal sharply inhaled as Will put himself inside him, his chest pressing up against the other man's back.

 

Will kissed Hannibal, bit and tugged on his ear slightly, and then began slowly moving his hips up against him. When all was said and done, the two men were left panting and speechless and sweaty in the mid-morning light. The dogs whined a horrible high-pitched sound, signaling they needed to be fed. Will clothed himself and cooed and talked playful whispers at his dogs as they excitedly pranced around his feet, knowing they were about to be fed. Hannibal remained in Will’s bed, propping his head and back up against the wall to get a better view of Will. He touched his hand to his face and felt the growing texture on it, knowing he hadn’t met with a razor for a few days. Hannibal walked over to Will’s dresser and began putting his clothes on. He had been staying over so often at his house, he thought it was fit to begin keeping his own stash of clothes in his dresser. He remembers how happy and proud Will looked when he presented the emptied out drawer specifically for Hannibal.

 

“Leaving already?” Will asked nonchalantly, looking over his shoulder. Hannibal cleared his throat. “Yes. I have clients to see and such. In fact, I’m experimenting with a new form of therapy with one of my more recent patients.” Hannibal replied. “Really? Trying something new? You don’t strike me as someone who strays far from tradition when it comes to your therapy practices. Except for me.” Will chuckled, scooping some horrendous smelling and looking slop into metal bowls that was supposed to be dog food. “I believe you know her, the patient in question,” Hannibal said, looking directly in Will’s eyes, anticipating his reaction. Will turned around the face Hannibal at once, a frown across his forehead. Your name spilled from his throat and out his mouth, echoing off the walls of Will’s house.

 

Will’s balance shifted from foot to foot, a clear sign he was nervous that Hannibal had picked up on some time ago. He was looking at Hannibal like your name was some sort of ancient curse. Will cleared his throat. “I never asked you, how did it feel when you did it, Will?” Hannibal asked simply like he was asking about the weather. Will frowned like he had no idea what Hannibal was talking about, but they both knew how terrible of a liar he was. Will looked at Hannibal and sighed, knowing he wouldn’t accept his silence as an answer. He looked down at his dogs, tail wagging, tongue out and flopping. “Pity. I felt pity. Both for her and for me.” Hannibal smiled and leaned against the drawer in Will’s house, surrounded by Will and everything that came with him. He sighed contently, enjoying the knowledge of what place he had in Will’s life. He knew in that moment, that was where he was supposed to be.

 

*

 

When it comes to depression, some people are lucky. You weren’t referring to the people who simply weren’t depressed, of course they were lucky, everybody knew that. You were talking about the people who experience something mildly traumatizing in their life and they get depressed for a few months, but with the help of their amazing family, doting friends and overpaid therapists, they make it out unscathed. They can add it to their list of things they briefly experienced so therefore they think they are experts of, and then move on with their simple lifes. But that wasn’t you, and you knew that.

 

You wanted so badly to blame the rape, or your father’s suicide, but you couldn’t lie. You had been like this years before any of that. It was frustrating, invalidating, that you had no substantial trauma to explain why you were so miserable and depressed at such a young age. What was wrong with you? Why couldn’t you just step outside, live a life, make friends, kiss ugly boys? You watched all the people you knew from elementary school make something out of themselves, even in high school. Meanwhile you were stuck frozen in time. You watched from the sidelines as everyone surpassed you.

 

Full-ride scholarships, prom proposals in the middle of the hallway with flowers and a poster, drivers licenses and permits, after school jobs, cheerleaders painting their faces the school colors for pep rallies, plans after school, sparkly, short, tight homecoming dresses on pretty girls. You knew you’d never get any of that, and it was your fault entirely for isolating yourself so much. You dragged yourself out of bed, went to school and didn’t say a word and barely passed your classes, and then went straight home. You had absolutely no life, and you’d resigned yourself to that, accepted it. You turned your nose up and scoffed at the idea of therapy only a mere month ago, but now you had Hannibal.

 

He was mysterious, purposefully quiet and intelligent. He listened more than he spoke. A part of you hated him, thought he was a pretentious know it all, but you couldn’t deny your attraction to him. You didn’t want to call it love at first sight because you were too good for that, but from the very first second you laid eyes on him, you fantasized about him. You craved him, and now in a few days at your next appointment, you were to be in his home.

 

You stood in the bathroom, gazing into the mirror for no apparent reason. Your reflection was always a hard thing to see. Not because you were insecure or hated yourself, but rather it served as a reminder that you were here. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to be here, you were not suicidal, but you hated that it was you. You inhaled sharply through your nose, making an odd sound of air. Opening the mirror in front of you, you shuffled through the band-aids, your mother’s anxiety medication and her birth control until you found a small antique box. It had vintage drawings of kittens on it and was for some reason Valentine’s Day themed, as the kitten’s licked each other inside a red, lacy heart. In small cursive it read “We’re purrrfect for each other!”.

 

You ran your fingers over the image and opened the box. Inside was a small pair of silver scissors, only a few inches big, a razor blade you removed from a pencil sharpener, and a white sock bunched up at the bottom with small specks of dark red. You sat down on the edge of the bathtub and pulled down your pajama shorts and observed your previous work. Lines, straight lines all across your upper thigh. You weren’t a stupid attention seeker who cut themselves on their arm, begging for everyone to notice. This wasn’t for attention. This was how you coped outside of therapy.

 

The scars varied in stages of the healing process, being anywhere in between years old and weeks old. You ran your fingertips over them, like a blind person reading braille. What message these spelled out you didn’t know. You chose the pencil sharpener razor blade for today, and hovered it over the flesh of your thigh. You applied pressure and watched as scarlet bloomed underneath the metallic blade. Your breath hitched, it hurt, but the hurt was good. The hurt was good. The hurt was necessary. That’s what you always repeated in your head when you did this, a reminder to keep you grounded. Thick, dark, blood ran down your thigh. It reminded you of how you bled when the rape happened.

 

Eyes closed, head slumped up against the wall, you thought about Hannibal’s words at your last appointment when you said something happened. I know darling, I know. What was that supposed to mean? Was he really just that good of a therapist that he could tell something was wrong without you having to say anything? You groaned at not only the physical pain, but at the image of your rapist leaving Hannibal’s office. Tears streamed down your face uncontrollably when you remembered how he said he was being forced to rape you when he had you pinned down on your bed. Your brain was connecting the dots, but you couldn’t bring yourself to see the full image. In your eyes, Hannibal would save you. He was your therapist, so therefore he had to be good. Hannibal was good, the other man was bad. You knew it wasn’t that black and white, you knew you had to open your eyes eventually, but you simply couldn’t.

 

With this terrible thought, you pressed deeper into your skin. Before you bled all over the tile, you took the sock from the tiny box and mopped up the blood. In this semi hysterical state you were in, you limped to your room, grabbed your phone and hastily dialed Hannibal’s number. He picked up quickly, and you heard the first beginning sounds of your name, but you cut him off before he could finish. “What’s his name?” You panted through the phone.

 

“I’m sorry?”

“His name. The guy that was in your office before my appointment last time I was there. What’s his name?” You repeated, this time making no effort to hide your anger and pain (both physical and emotional). He exhaled, as if he knew he’d been caught but was still trying to hide it. “Why are you asking me this, darling?” He asked like a concerned father. You began to cry. “What did you do…?” You trailed off, still crying. You hung up the phone and flopped backward onto your bed and wrapped yourself up in your blanket. You snaked your arm around your body and rubbed small circles over your shoulder blade, pretending your hands belonged to Hannibal. You sobbed into your pillow until you fell asleep.

 

“It’s not that uncommon for therapist’s to do these types of things in their houses. A lot of people work a business out of their house. I remember when I was your age my hair stylist did everything in her house,” Your mother was rambling as she fiddled with the car keys and started the car. You grunted in response, not in the mood to entertain her nonsense right now. “School starts in a few weeks. We’ll have to go shopping soon. Which reminds me…” You tuned her out when she mentioned school, dreading the horrible thing it was. The window was cold against your temple as you rested on it, observing the vast wilderness outside.

 

Hannibal’s house was large, the kind of house you knew some of your classmates lived in, and you envied them for it. You didn’t exactly know how much therapists made, but you didn’t know it was enough to afford this. “Okay, we’re here. I’ll be back in an hour to pick you up.” Your mother pressed a quick, closed-mouth kiss to your cheek. You stood on his front porch, the door was bigger now that you were less than a foot away from it, making you feel small, engulfed. Before you even had a chance to knock, the door swung open and Hannibal smiled at you sweetly. He moved to the side and ushered you to come in.

 

His house was dimly lit, large, and decorated obscurely. Some walls were tall, some shorter, some made of stone. Antlers and surreal paintings that reeked of Old Money filled any empty space. You felt like you were in a museum and were far too intimidated to even speak. The only sound for a few seconds was feet against hardwood floors. He led you into what looked like a living room and you sat down in a large leather chair across from another one. He looked at you before he took his seat, like this really was a museum and you were a framed piece of art on display for his viewing pleasure.

 

“Your house is cold,” You commented, breaking the silence at once. The silence since you had entered the house hadn’t been an awkward one, in fact you found it rather peaceful. You both found comfort and tranquility in silence. And it was true, his house was cold. Your hair had been standing up the entire time, with your arms and legs being pricked with goosebumps. Hannibal stepped closer to you, he was only a foot away, and placed his larger, aged hand over yours. He wordlessly traced your veins and felt your knuckles under his fingertips. This type of contact should have thrown you into a fit of hysteria, considering your feelings for him, but they didn’t. You were calm, accepting, as if he had done this multiple times with you before.

 

He knelt before you, like Julius Caesar at the mercy of Cleopatra, and leaned his face against the top of your hand. His face on your hand, his chin rested intimately on your upper thigh, putting pressure on where you had cut yourself the previous night. You heard him inhale and flare his nostrils slightly. He looked up and made eye contact with you, you never realized how beautiful his eyes were. His lower lip protruded outward, casting a small shadow right underneath it. The dark lighting casted weird shadows over his face, making him look obscured, like a different person almost. He pressed his lips to your thigh over your jeans. He ran his lips over the denim, and you thought about how you would explain this stain to your mother. You laid your head back on the seat that seemed to be engulfing you with every second that passed.

 

“Well, I’m relieved to smell you’re not wearing that horrendous perfume today,” Hannibal remarked, his voice barely above a whisper and slightly raspy. You smiled at how casual he could be, even in moments like this. You had gotten used to his bizarre remarks on how you smelled, in fact you almost found it charming. You wondered if he ever thought about you like how you thought about him. Late at night when sleep was a no-show, your hand in your shorts relentlessly working your clit thinking about him being beside you. When you left your appointments, sometimes his smell would follow you home and into your bedroom where it wrapped you up tightly and held you.

 

“What else do you smell?” He hesitated.

“Blood. And metal.”

 

Your smile faded and you adjusted your head to look down at him. Meeting his gaze, you analyzed what he said, and finally realized. Of course, God forbid you keep anything private from him. “What happened?” He asked gingerly. Not judging, not demanding, just worried. You sighed before answering, thinking carefully if you were ready to be this vulnerable with him yet. He was your therapist, you were supposed to talk about things like this with him. However, maybe you were past all the ethics and boundaries. I mean, you were in his house, he was kneeling with his head in your lap, kissing your thigh, and you were accepting it, welcoming it, wanting it.

 

Without putting a whole lot of thought into the action beforehand, you undid your jeans and pulled them down to just above your knees. He didn’t react grandly. He was almost completely unfocused on the fact that you were in your underwear before him, and observed the red, scarred, crusty lines on your thighs. He mumbled something sadly and lightly grazed the scars. “Self destructive behavior is usually a cry for help. Someone begging to be noticed, to be helped. But judging from the area these are in, these aren’t for other people to see. Is this your way of coping with something?” He asked, looking at the scars instead of you. Your chest heaved. “I’m fine.” It was a lie that you had told so many times before it came as easy to you as saying “here” during attendance.

 

“People that are fine don’t do such things.”

“Astute observation.”

 

He grinned at your sarcasm and kissed your thighs, running his tongue over them. It stung, and you hated how much you loved the pain. His slender fingers wrapped around the waistband of your underwear. Your heart skipped a few beats. You didn’t want to call him your crush, that felt silly and immature, but you were just a teenage girl. The boys at school never looked at you, and even if they did, you were just as uninterested in them. You resigned yourself to the fact that you’d probably never marry or bear children, not until you walked into Hannibal’s office for the first time. You still didn’t want children, but you wanted him.

 

Because your life had never been in favor of you, things always going awry, you thought because you liked him, because you wanted something for yourself, that the universe would never give it to you. Yet here you sat before your desired man, partially naked, and he clearly had no intention of stopping. Looking down upon him, you thought of yourself undeserving. Undeserving of love, happiness, overcoming your depression, any chance at a normal life.

 

But you were deserving of your father’s death, your mother’s blatant emotional neglect, the rape, it was your penance for whatever you did in your past life.You turned your head to the front and looked at Hannibal. He was entranced by your naked lower body, he looked like he could’ve ate you up right there in his living room. He met your eyes for a moment.

 

“I have something for you.” You leaned your head back again and frowned. “What do you mean?” He fumbled around in the pocket of his burgundy suit jacket and when he revealed what he had, you got a terrible feeling in your stomach. The terrible feeling when you’d been suspecting something so horrible, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to see it for what it truly was.

 

In his hands he held a pair of shorts. But not just any pair of shorts, they were yours. They had small teddy bears embroidered on them and blood stained on the crotch that looked like he had made no attempt to remove. You felt Will’s hands all over you at once, and reimagined the situation with Hannibal standing in the corner of the room, observing, making sure he did it exactly how he wanted it done. You heard Will’s voice. “I’m sorry. He’s making me do this.” Repeated in your head in a twisted echo. Tears brimmed in your eyes. “It was you. You made him do it, didn’t you?” You choked out, barely being able to speak. Hannibal rested his head between your thighs.

 

“It was a test.”

“Well, did I pass?”

“With flying colors.”

Notes:

Sorry for being on hiatus for such a long time. Anyway, I'm back now and I plan to go back to my regular uploading schedule every Friday. Thank you for being so patient with me <3

Chapter 8: No title

Hello everyone. I would like to apologize not only for my long hiatus but for the fact that I will not be continuing this story unfortunately. I thought it was writers block but every day since I have uploaded my last chapter I have been trying to write and simply had no ideas and my motivation is slowly decreasing too. I would like to thank everyone for all the kudos and comments, it really meant a lot to me considering it was my very first upload on here. I will keep this piece up for anyone to read but just so you all know there will be no further updates. I will be writing other pieces on here too. They might not be Hannibal related but even if you haven't seen the media it's based off you'll probably still enjoy it! It's going to be about 2 characters from Silent Hill 2 and it has very similar themes to this story so be sure to check it out when it comes out (it's not out yet)! Thank you for all the support I wish you all well <3