calvinbox | open post | 2

[Hannibal Lecter does not sleep in the nude, nor in his underwear. He has a sense of class, of propriety that makes up for his lack of it when it suits him to be as cruel and exposed as he need be. He sleeps in silk because he's earned it, because he treats himself right, with an expensive pair of pajamas to make up for how far he has come, how much he has achieved. Silk pajamas and a world-class mattress, a comfort for a killer's beauty rest.

He sleeps soundly, with no remorse for what he's done and the past far enough away in his life to be wrapped up and hidden from view. Still the slight shift of the mattress wakes him, and with bleary eyes and an understanding smile he regards her, pats the bed beside him.

For her own intentions, Alana Bloom was right. Letting Abigail Hobbs stay in his home would only be detrimental to her recovery. The fact is, of course, that he was planning on that. He had prepared for her to come to his bed to relieve the nightmares, to find comfort. It truly is a shame that such a brilliant mind as that of Alana Blooms could be so easily convinced that they maintained the same goals.]

What is it?

[When she was a little girl, Abigail would dream of monsters. They would chase her, telling her to join them, enticing her to be like them. She would run and hide, trying to get away. But she never could. She would wake up in a cold sweat, gasping for air and clutching her teddy with tears in her eyes. Abigail would slip out of her canopy style bed and pad all the way to her parents' room. The wood floor always creaked to alert them, the door handle sounding strained since the little girl could only just open it.

Abigail would find her father. He would sit up and hold her. He would tell her the monsters aren't scary. He would soothe her back to sleep, and she would wake up a happy, vibrant little girl.

How much things have changed. The vibrancy has turned cold, though her nightmares aren't too different. She's become a monster. She's killed, and she knows what it's like to have blood on her hands. When she wakes this time, there's no father to seek out.

Hannibal isn't her father, but he's as much as replaced him. He's better, she thinks coldly. How true those words really are is lost on her as much as who Hannibal really is is. She can relate. She can be relaxed submitting to him. As much as the happy memories hurt, he gave that to her.

That's why she came to him, dressed in a white nightgown. Trying to keep from waking him, she simply lays beside him. The fact he speaks doesn't alarm her.]

I dream about killing people.

[he doesn't always dream about killing people. Occasionally he dreams of birds, of sitting in his office and listening to Will talk, or any of his other patients babble on about nothing, or of swimming. Even more occasionally, a nightmare may slip in, of Mischa haunting his life and memory. These dreams are rare though, the calm monotony of waking life left to it. More often than not his resting mind keeps him occupied with the vices he has, exerting themselves in ways which he cannot. Butchering on center stage, pressing his fingers into Jack Crawford's eyes while his beautiful dying wife watches, a four course dinner of his own devices with the Queen of England, peeling the skin away from Will's body while he begs for more.

Tonight it was the last one, one that had the pit of his stomach stirring before he was woken from such a pleasant slumber. That was another world, another life. He lays on his side facing her, searching in silence before sighing lightly through his nose and wrapping an arm around her in comfort. He presses a kiss to her forehead.]

More people than you would imagine dream about killing people. We have little control over what and how our minds decide to tell us what needs to be said.

[She feels like she can't swallow, skin still clammy from waking up in a sweat. She should not have done this, gone to him in his bed. It's a line being crossed, but she doesn't care. Not now. Her heart is finally starting to slow. He has a calming presence, his mannerisms, his speech, even in his accent.

His touch is even stiller. He never seems to shy away from touch, not in a negative way, but boundaries are slowly melting away, and she can't help the exhale when he kisses her forehead. She's pressed close to him, close enough to feel the silk pajamas against the upper part of her chest. Can he feel her heart?]

Most people don't have blood on their hands. [Her voice is calmer than she is. Finally her hand moves to his side. She's comfortable at least. That's what he gives her.]

[There is a child, far back in his memory behind the blood, the violence, that lust for control and human flesh, that Abigail's presence brings to mind. It's an echo of that child, that little girl who needed him, who had everything in her to become him, who made him what he was, who needed her vengeance in blood and a pound of flesh. That was so very long ago, and he's poked and prodded at his own psychology for years upon years that it was now nothing but a textbook of defects gone very right. Mischa doesn't haunt him, he lacks the emotional capacity for that as he is all too aware, but in Abigail's eyes there is something. He won't eat her, not unless his hand is forced, but he can groom her. She can be his darling little sister's angel of vengeance, and he can get that rush of power that comes from creating a monster all his own.

But the rush itself isn't innately sexual. It hasn't been for a long time, the drive sexually possess another having not satiated his needs enough. Still, the moment is oddly opportune, with her hand on his side in such an intimate way and his body responding to prior stimuli. He doesn't nudge her away, instead he brushes hair back out of her face, tilting her chin up to look at him. Eye contact is key for keeping control, and he never does break it when he has the option.]

Again, more people than you would think.

[She lets him move her, simply out being thrown into this new world and not knowing how to swim. And that's what this is. She knows Jack is watching her carefully, that he wants to hang her for what her father did. She still feels the guilt of those girls, and the way killing Nick Boyle felt, that sudden rush and elation, the drive to keep wanting to plunge that hunting knife into him, and the shock that she actually killed someone.

Her chin lifts and she looks him in the eye. His words are soothing when they shouldn't be, but she doesn't shy away from him. He touches her, she accepts it, and responds back.]

Shouldn't it feel wrong? Will said it's the ugliest thing in the world.

[ his words are careful, precise, but honest. Honesty is key when the web is not yet taut and tight around her to its fullest. She could always slip away, and then he would have to kill her. That...would be messy, metaphorically. ]

Will Graham says a lot of things in order to convince himself that the world order as it stands is right and his own nature is wrong. Who would you say has the final word, Abigail? Nature or Society? There is nothing wrong with your nature, nor his, only with the way society constrains you.

[She isn't sure how much of that she actually believes or can believe in. But she doesn't want to debate. She wants Hannibal to have all the answers to just make this easier. Her eyes look back up at him, trying to reconcile this within herself.]

It's still killing though. It's what my dad did. [And she'll give anything to not be like him. She wants Hannibal to tell her that there's no way she's like him, but she feels too much like she is. Like there's this darkness in her that thrives off the same things.]

[ Eye contact never wavering he continues, bringing a hand up to brush her hair. The action is fatherly, affectionate, contrived in ways only he could know. ]

You are nothing like your father, Abigail. What your father did was an extension of his psychosis. The positive rush of killing another is entirely natural for the dominant of our species. The need to project fear onto another and consume them for it is not.

[His words are smooth, and they sweeten such bitter acts that she cannot help but agree with him, simply because he doesn't want to excuse that languid delight one feels with taking a life like the way a sharpened knife slices through skin. It's one motion, quick, and trailing, and Abigail has been harboring it since she first felt it. First she felt shame, because it was wrong and she would be judged for it, but not with Hannibal. He has always accepted the monster he made.]

Then what do you do when you feel it again? Or want to feel it? [She's asking to be crafted in whatever way he wished. She is his to be molded.]

You think, consider all of the possibilities carefully, and act on whichever seems most sustainable.

[ His hand curls around her neck and he brings her face forward ever so slightly, so that their foreheads rest together and in intimacy he can dominate her entirely. ]

Never be rash, or the world will decide for you what manner of monster you are. Is that understood?

[She listens carefully, hinging on every word he says. She's taken by it, but it scars her. He scares her to some degree, too. It may be all the conditioning society says about taking lives, about this fascination with killers and everything said about them.]

Aren't I though? If you're telling me to do... this? [Take a life? She leans in closer, curled in closer to him.]

[ He breaths in the smell of her hair as she comes closer, and it smells like camomile and shampoo. It smells like abigail underneath.

Was he sexually attracted to Mischa's new vessel, new form on this earth? Hardly. It was merely the moment from which she had woken him, stirring, the beast of human nature.

He smiles, amused. ]

Are you asking if I'm instructing you to be rash or to be a monster?

I'm asking you what to do. [Because while she knew exactly what they were talking about and the million ramifications that could happen, it still felt comfortable to have someone to talk to about this, a mentor.]

[ Being asked what to do, in any situation, lights a fire in his belly that warms him where he is hollow and often so cold. It is pride and ego swelling and confirming what he already knows: that his advice is worth the weight of the world in gold. ]

Do whatever you like, if you believe that you can get away with it.

[She shakes her head at that, avoiding his gaze again.]

My father thought he could get away with what he did. [And that hadn't turned out well for anyone. Except Hannibal.]

open post | 2 | kink

this makes me irrationally happy

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