Blehh

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Hannibal

The Intern

Synopsis: Y/N is on the brink of graduation, with just one requirement left—an internship. Somehow, she finds herself under the esteemed Dr. Hannibal Lecter, a man as brilliant as he is unreadable. Cold, precise, and impossible to rattle, he keeps his thoughts well-guarded. But Y/N can’t help her curiosity—she wants to understand him, to get beneath the surface. And whether he intends to or not, bit by bit, he lets something slip. Something darker. Something she might not be ready to see.

Pt 1

Pt 2

Pt 3

Pt 4

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Headcannons

Yandere! Hannibal

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Stranger things

His assignment Jonathan Byers x reader

I let out a quiet sigh. I wasn’t annoyed. Just exhausted. I didn’t want to talk to anyone today. Especially not someone who killed any light feeling in a room with the thick tension that followed him perpetually. But when he stopped next to me, fingers wrapped tight around the strap like it was keeping him steady, I looked up.

“Hey, Y/N,” he said. Voice soft and a little unsteady.

I smiled before I could stop myself. “Hi, Johnny!”

The nickname slipped out. Maybe because I was too tired to be polite. Maybe because I wanted him to feel seen. I didn’t realize how much it would hit him until I saw the way his eyes flickered.

“What’s up?” I asked. Tucking hair behind my ear. Trying to play it cool.

He shifted his weight. Fingers fidgeted with the strap until it creaked. “I, uh, was wondering if you’d wanna come by later?” He gestured vaguely at the camera, then dropped his hand fast. Like he regretted opening his mouth. “I’ve been working on this thing- it's like- I just Could use some help" he stammered "Only if you’re not busy.” he finished with a crooked smile but for some reason his eyes weren't reflecting the same emotion.. weird

He laughed under his breath. Nervous, not creepy. Just unused to people saying yes.

I tilted my head. “What kind of thing?”

His eyes met mine. For a second he looked genuinely excited. “Nothing weird. Just pictures. Light, shadows, that kind of stuff.”

The hallway chaos swelled. Lockers slamming. Voices shouting. But it all felt far away. Just him and me in this tiny pocket of quiet. Before I could answer, the bell rang.

Jonathan took my silence as a yes. He nodded quickly. Almost too fast. Then disappeared into the crowd.

Later, I was lying on his bed. The sheets were cool against my back. I could feel him before he even touched me, His presence filling the room. Steady and sure Like he already knew exactly where I fit.

His hands were cold at first. Long fingers tracing but my flushed skin warmed them up. Careful but firm. He moved my arms, my legs. Posing me the way he wanted. No hesitation. No asking. Just quiet confidence that I wouldn’t stop him.

Heat crept under my skin anyway. Slow. Embarrassing. My heart hammered. But I didn’t stop him for some reason. I stared at the ceiling, trying to see through it, imagining the cool air that I can hear whipping against the trees and his mother's wind chimes.

His fingers brushed the hem of my shirt. Pushing it up just a little. He probably thought I didn’t notice. I did. I just didn’t say anything. My breath came out in small, shaky puffs while goosebumps raced up my arms.

They gave me away. My nipples were already hard. Pressing against the thin fabric. No hiding that.

He saw. Of course he did.

Jonathan paused. His gaze dragged over me. Slow. Deliberate. A tiny smirk tugged at his mouth. Like he’d been waiting for exactly this.

The shy kid from the hallway was gone. In his place was someone grounded. Calm. Taking up the room like he was far larger then he ever will be. He didn’t bark orders. He just watched. Adjusted the camera. Waited.

I shifted under his stare without meaning to. The silence did the work for him.

Click. The shutter snapped softly.

My eyes flicked to him after every shot. He noticed every time. One eyebrow would lift. His mouth would tilt. Just a little to praise me, even though he set me up perfectly.

“Good,” he murmured once. Voice low.

Another pause. His gaze lingered longer than necessary. “You don’t have to look so nervous,” he said softly. Then quieter. “You’re doing exactly what I want.”

The words barely registered. Everything else was louder. His flannel brushing my skin. His scent everywhere. Cedar, smoke, something warm I couldn’t name. The low hum of music in the background.

I let this happen, I let him infiltrate my mind and now anything I thought of him was gone as I just felt needy.

Eventually he set the camera aside and slid onto the bed next to me. His hand found the small of my back. Gentle this time. Guiding me up so we sat side by side.

His shoulder pressed against mine. Warm. Intentional.

He couldn’t show me anything yet. The film was still in the camera. He’d have to develop it later, he explained to me softly like I didn't know, and I didn't, but I especially didn't as long as he talked to me in that tone. But the way he looked at me now said he already knew what he was capturing. The flush spreading across my chest. The way my breathing hitched every time he adjusted me. The obvious way my body responded under his direction.

He knew.

I could feel how wet I was. My thighs kept pressing together. My hips shifted restlessly. My breathing wouldn’t steady, Jonathan didn’t comment. He just watched, Dark eyes cataloging every tremor, Every hitch.

“You’re breathing really hard,” he said quietly.

I tried to laugh. It came out weak. “It’s warm in here.”

He tilted his head. Hair fell into his eyes. “Doesn’t feel warm to me.” he remarked so nonchalontly

He stretched one leg out. His knee brushed the outside of my thigh and stayed there. Warm denim against bare skin.

I swallowed.

His thumb started tracing slow circles on his own jeans. Patient. Hypnotic.

My thighs clenched again. A tiny sound escaped me.

“There it is,” he whispered.

Still no hands on me.

He leaned in instead. Breath hot against my cheek. My jaw. Under my ear. So close.

I turned.

Our lips grazed. Just barely. My whole body jolted.

He pulled back an inch. Eyes locked on mine.

“Tell me what you want,” he said. Voice rough now. “Or keep looking at me like that. Let your body embarrass you. I’m not touching you until you tell me how I'm making you feel, baby”

Where had this ego came from- how absurd for him to think he's just this magical force, I wanted to slap him, I wanted him to be wrong, but- he wasn't

I shifted forward. My hand found his chest. His heart slamming under my palm, maybe he wasn't so sure. I slid lower, Fingertips brushed the hard outline of him through denim.

He groaned. Head tipped back. But his hands stayed fisted in the sheets.

I looked down at the outline of his cock and my fingers curled, bunching up the fabric of his exposed boxers "please touch me Jonathan- please"

That was it.

His control broke.

Hands everywhere. Gripping my hips. Dragging me into his lap. My shirt yanked over my head. His mouth on mine. Deep. Starved. Tongue moving expertly. Fingers digging into the fat of my ass. Grinding me down against him until I moaned.

“Been hard since your nipples got hard for the camera,” he rasped against my lips.

Then he flipped us.

Me on my back. Him between my thighs. Jeans unzipped but still on.

He didn’t rush.

Hands under my knees. Lifting. Spreading me. Skirt bunched at my waist. Panties soaked. Clinging.

He stared. “Jesus. Look at you.”

My hips twitched. He pinned my stomach with one palm. “Stay still.”

Breath ghosted over the wet fabric. I whimpered.

Fingers tugged my panties aside. Cool air hit me. Then his mouth. Soft at first. Lips kissing my clit slow and deliberate.

My back arched. Hands flew to his hair.

He hummed. The vibration wrecked me.

Then his tongue, Flat, Dragging up the full length of me, trying to take a mental picture of his moment.

I cried out, my thighs squeezing against the two sides of his head as I babbled to him about it was too much- but he knew I could take more

Circling my clit in tight loops, Flickering and quick, obviously precise. Sucking gently until my thighs shook.

“m'Johnny-”

He pushed his tongue inside of me, immediately curling up While his nose nudged my clit. I looked down in a haze as we locked eyes, watching his jaw flex and the vein in his neck bulge. I then lost concentration as the only thing still processing was the pressure between my thighs and the wet sounds that filled the room.

One of his big veiny hands slid up my body, Thumb brushing my nipple Pinching it just enough to make me gasp, whine for him.

I was close

He pulled back barely an inch. “So fucking wet. Been like this the whole time, haven’t you?”

I nodded frantically. Thighs clamped around his head.

“That's right honey” he breathed against me

Then mouth back on me. Sucking harder. Tongue relentless. Two fingers sliding inside. Curling against that spot.

I shattered.

Back bowed, Thighs trembling like I had just ran a mile, Pulsing around his fingers as he didnt let anything go to waste. "Such a good girl-" Groaning like he was the one coming apart.

He lapped through my aftershock until I was trembling, Oversensitive, begging as I weakly pushed at his head.

He pulled back, looking up at me with swollen lips, his face all wet and something still in his eye that I couldn't make out.

He licked his lips slowly. Never breaking eye contact.

“Still shaking,” he rasped, Voice wrecked.

His thumb brushed my clit once. Light. And I jolted with a whimper.

He smiled at me, a small satisfied one as he patted the side of my thigh like I was a dog

Then he crawled up to lean over me, his jeans still half open. I felt him hard and strained on my tummy as he kissed me softer now, Letting me taste myself.

“Think we’re done with the assignment?” he murmured.

I shook my head. Panting.

“Not even close.”

A/n

Yandere! Hannibal who deliberately took up new hobbies—ones he knew you loved—just to have an excuse to spend more time with you.

Y/N lit up the moment she stepped into the studio, her eyes wide with happiness. It was an expression I had come to enjoy—genuine, seeing me among the rest of the potters.

"Doctor Lecter! I had no idea you enjoyed pottery as well!" she said, her voice warm, even a giggle slipping out.

I smiled, hands still dusted with clay. It was true that I had no particular passion for pottery, but I had learned. For her. And now, standing before me, she believed this was a passion of mine.

"Of course, Miss L/n," I replied easily, meeting her gaze. "I'm sure we've spoken of it before."

She hesitated, just for a second. Had we? The question flickered behind her eyes, but she dismissed it just as quickly. If I said it was so, then surely it must be.

She launched into conversation without another thought, her words flowing freely—soft, lively, unguarded. I nodded at all the right moments, smiling when she laughed, watching the way her enthusiasm bubbled over. It was an effortless thing, listening to her.

But my attention wasn’t truly on her.

It was on him.

Her boyfriend stood just behind her, arms crossed, gaze flicking disinterestedly over the room. He had no appreciation for the art, not even for the things that brought her joy. He was here out of obligation, not care. And yet, he stood at her side, playing the role he assumed was expected of him.

I watched him, my gaze steady. Unwavering. Not a glare, not an obvious threat—but something quieter. A measured, deliberate look that spoke more than words ever could.

He felt it. I could see it in the way his posture tightened, in the way his jaw clenched ever so slightly. He wouldn’t meet my eyes for long.

Good.

She didn’t notice. She was still talking, still laughing, blissfully unaware of the moment unfolding between us. But I held my gaze a beat longer, just to be sure the message was understood.

Just to be sure he knew he didn’t belong.

Yandere! Hannibal, who carefully manipulated doubt into your mind, never overtly suggesting you leave your boyfriend—but making you see the cracks you’d once ignored.

Hannibal watched you unravel in real-time, your delicate fingers fidgeting with the loose thread on your sleeve, your voice quiet, hesitant. You were always hesitant when it came to him. That fool. That boy who didn’t understand what he had—what he was so carelessly throwing away.

"He left me in the middle of the store… and I was so scared," you murmured, like you were embarrassed by the admission, like it wasn’t something that should infuriate you.

But you weren’t angry. No, you were simply hurt. Still trying to justify his actions, trying to shrink your feelings into something more tolerable, something that wouldn’t make you seem like a burden.

Hannibal exhaled slowly, though the tension coiled within him like a serpent.

"He knows about your anxiety, doesn’t he?"

The way your breath hitched—so subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone who wasn’t watching for it—told him the answer before you even nodded.

Of course he knew. And yet he still did it.

How reckless. How unworthy.

Hannibal’s fingers curled slightly against the arm of his chair as he studied you, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make you question it, just long enough for the thought to begin forming in your own mind before he spoke again.

"Then he knew what he was doing."

It wasn’t a question. It was a fact. One that you needed to hear. One that you needed to accept.

You frowned slightly, your gaze lowering as if you were trying to find some hidden excuse for him among the lines in your palm.

Hannibal leaned forward just slightly, lowering his voice, making it intimate. “And when you found him… what did he say?”

You swallowed. That small, nervous movement of your throat. He wanted to reach out, to smooth his thumb over the tension there. Instead, he waited.

"He just laughed. Said I was overreacting."

Overreacting.

Hannibal nearly smiled. Not out of amusement, but out of sheer disbelief at the audacity of such a dismissive remark.

“I see,” he murmured, but there was nothing soft about it. “Tell me… if it were the other way around, if you had left him there, knowing his fears, knowing how much distress it would cause him, would you have simply laughed?”

Your reaction was immediate—head shaking, eyes widening, an instinctual no.

Of course not. Because you were kind. You were thoughtful. You cared too much, even for those who didn’t deserve it.

He tilted his head, studying you, letting you sit with the realization. “Then why does he deserve that kind of grace?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Nothing to say. No excuse to offer.

Good.

Hannibal relaxed back into his chair, watching you intently, watching the weight of his words settle into you. He didn’t need to say anything else. The idea was already there, curling around your thoughts, winding itself into your heart.

All he had to do now was wait.

Yandere! Hannibal, who held you as you cried over your breakup, but secretly was getting off on it.

She collapsed into me the moment she stepped inside, her fragile frame trembling as if the weight of her sorrow had finally become too much to bear. I caught her effortlessly, as if I had always been meant to, my arms wrapping around her without hesitation. She was so small like this, so breakable, and yet, she clung to me as though I were the only thing keeping her from falling apart entirely.

I settled her in my lap, letting her bury her face against my chest, her quiet sobs muffled against my suit. My fingers threaded through her hair, slow and deliberate, savoring the way she melted into my touch. She fit so perfectly here, as though she had always belonged in my arms.

"There, there," I murmured, my voice a soft lull, soothing, patient. "You’re safe now."

She shuddered at the word, pressing closer, gripping my jacket like a lifeline. Such a delicate thing, so desperate for comfort, for security. And she had come to me for it. Just as I knew she would.

I had warned her. Had spent countless hours listening to her, guiding her, gently nudging her toward the truth. That man had never deserved her. He had only ever caused her pain. And now, here she was, weeping in my arms, proving me right.

I tightened my hold on her, tilting my head down so my lips were close to her ear. "I told you, my dear," I whispered, my voice a quiet promise, a claim. "I would never abandon you like he did."

She didn’t pull away. Didn’t question it. She simply let herself sink deeper into me, into my warmth, into everything I had been so patiently offering her.

And God, if that wasn’t the most intoxicating thing of all. The way she nestled into me, completely unaware, her soft, warm body pressing so perfectly against mine. Every shudder, every shift, only made me grow harder—her delicate frame settling right over my bulge. She didn’t notice, too lost in her grief, too trusting, too utterly mine.

Yandere! Hannibal, who killed your ex and invited you into his home as if he did nothing.

She arrived at my door without memory of the decision to come, her body guiding her on instinct. I saw it in the way her frame sagged, the way her breath hitched unevenly, her red-rimmed eyes barely able to lift to meet mine. The moment I opened the door, her lips parted, voice ruined.

“Hannibal.”

The sight of her in distress, so utterly lost, sent a quiet thrill through me. But I said nothing at first. I merely stepped aside, allowing her entrance. She obeyed, stepping into the warmth of my home, though she looked as if she hardly felt it.

Her arms wrapped around herself as she stood just past the doorway, fragile, crumbling. "He's dead," she whispered. "They found him—my boyfriend. His head was on a fence. Just… stuck there. In the middle of nowhere."

I shut the door with a soft click, carefully hiding the satisfaction that curled in my chest.

"That's terrible," I said, smoothing my voice into something gentle, something she needed.

She let out a bitter, humorless laugh. "Yeah. Terrible." Her fingers brushed at her swollen eyes, sniffling. "I just… I don’t get it. Who does that?"

I took a slow step closer, allowing my presence to steady her. “Cruelty is often senseless,” I murmured. “But you shouldn’t let this consume you.”

She shook her head, lips pressing together, fighting another wave of emotion. "How am I supposed to just… move on from this?"

"You don't have to figure that out tonight." I reached for her, placing a firm hand on her shoulder, watching as she exhaled, accepting the comfort, needing it. "You need to eat. Come, sit with me for dinner."

She hesitated. Her stomach twisted—grief stealing her appetite, no doubt. But she was exhausted, vulnerable. She needed something to ground her, and so she followed.

The meal I had prepared sat warm and inviting before us, though she barely touched it. Her fork scraped against the plate, each bite an effort. Her body was weary, her hands shaking as she set the utensil down. Her lip trembled as she pressed her fingers into her lap, trying to control her breathing, trying not to break.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, voice cracking. "I—I can't stop crying. I feel so stupid. I don’t even know why I came here." A weak, bitter laugh left her. "I just… I didn't know where else to go."

How beautifully tragic. How utterly mine.

I took my time, dabbing at the corner of my mouth before setting my napkin aside. "There is no need to apologize," I said, calm, unwavering. "Grief isn't something to push down. You are allowed to feel this, especially here. You are safe with me."

Her pretty lips trembled further, her lashes wet with fresh tears. They spilled over before she could stop them, a choked laugh escaping her as she shook her head.

“God,” she sniffled, grabbing her napkin and dabbing at her face. “You must think I’m pathetic.”

I tilted my head, gaze steady. “Not at all,” I murmured.

A fragile smile attempted to grace her lips, though it barely held. She played with the fabric of her sleeve, her fingers delicate, uncertain. Slowly, she picked up her fork again, forcing herself to eat. “Thank you,” she said softly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

I leaned forward slightly, watching her closely.

“You don’t have to find out.”

The words wove themselves into the air between us, binding her tighter to me. If she weren’t so drained, so consumed by grief, perhaps she would have questioned them. Perhaps she would have felt the weight of my claim.

But instead, she only nodded, clinging to me as her anchor, unaware that I had already secured her in place.

Yandere! Hannibal who fucked any thought you had of your ex out of your head.

Her sobs were beautiful. Each one made her smaller in my arms, pressing closer, seeking comfort, seeking me. I held her as if she were fragile, my touch gentle, patient—calculated. She was unraveling, and I had known she would.

I had known she would come to me.

And now, here she was, breaking apart, utterly lost. My sweet girl. My perfect little dove. She lifted her head, glassy, swollen eyes searching for something, anything, that might make the pain lessen. I could see the moment it happened—the way her gaze faltered on my lips, how the realization hit her.

Yes, my dear. That’s it.

I had been guiding her to this, shaping her thoughts, her fears, her dependencies. Him—that waste of a man—was gone, and she was here, right where she belonged.

When she leaned in, uncertain but desperate, I met her halfway. My lips captured hers, firm and knowing, a promise sealed in the heat between us. She gasped into my mouth, and I swallowed the sound greedily, my fingers threading through her hair to keep her there.

She thought this was a mistake. A reckless, grief-fueled lapse in judgment.

She was wrong.

As our kiss deepened, it quickly unraveled into something messier, more desperate-a frantic clash of lips and breath as she melted into me.

"So good for me, angel," I murmured against her mouth, my voice dripping with approval. My hands found her hips, firm and possessive, guiding her as I pulled her into my lap. A satisfied hum rumbled in my chest as I pressed her down against me, ensuring she felt just how much I wanted her.

As our kiss deepened, it quickly unraveled into something messier, more desperate-a frantic clash of lips and breath as she melted into me.

"So good for me, angel," I murmured against her mouth, my voice dripping with approval. My hands found her hips, firm and possessive, guiding her as I pulled her into my lap. A satisfied hum rumbled in my chest as I pressed her down against me, ensuring she felt just how much I wanted her.

Her fingers tangled in my hair, tugging gently as she rocked against me. A soft whimper escaped her lips, swallowed by our kiss. I could feel her trembling, begging for me.

Breaking away, I trailed heated kisses along her jaw, down her neck. Her pulse beating wildly beneath my lips. I nipped at the sensitive skin, drawing a gasp from her.

"Please," her voice barely above a whisper as Her nails scraped lightly down my back,

I growled low in my throat, my control slipping, Her eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with desire as she gazed up at me.

"Tell me what you want, angel," I commanded, my voice rough with need.

"Touch m-me," she pleaded breathlessly. " hurts s’bad." She slurred through whiney hiccups

I smirked, trailing my fingers teasingly along her sides. "Where does it hurt, sweetheart? Show me."

She whimpered, arching into my touch. Her hand grasped mine, guiding it lower, over the swell of her breast and down her stomach. My breath caught as she pressed my palm between her thighs, where I could feel the heat radiating through her clothes.

"Here," she whispered, her cheeks flushed. "Please-"

My hands slipped under her skirt, gently caressing her silky thighs. She shivered beneath my touch, her legs parting instinctively. I traced lazy circles on her inner thighs, inching higher with each pass.

"Is this what you need, angel?" I murmured, nipping at her earlobe.

She nodded frantically, her hips lifting off the bed, seeking more contact. "Yes, yes! please- don't stop."

I chuckled darkly, my fingers finally brushing against the damp lace of her panties. She gasped, her back arching beautifully.

"So wet for me already," I purred, applying the slightest pressure. Her hips bucked, chasing the friction. "Such a needy little girl."

I captured her lips in a searing kiss as I pushed her panties aside

My fingers found her slick folds, toying with her sensitive nub. She moaned into my mouth, her hips rocking desperately against my hand.

"Please," she whimpered between kisses. "I need more. Please, please..."

I circled her clit slowly, building the tension. Her nails dug into my shoulders as she writhed in my lap.

"What do you need, angel? Tell me," I commanded softly.

"Your fingers... inside... please," she panted, her eyes glazed with lust.

I smirked, enjoying her desperation. Slowly, torturously, I slipped one finger inside her tight heat. She cried out, her inner walls clenching around me.

All I could do was admire her beauty—the way her glassy eyes pleaded with me in silence as she clung to me, desperate and fragile in my arms.

"More," she begged shamelessly. "Please, I need more."

I added a second finger, curling them to hit that spot that made her see stars. She cried out, her back arching off the bed as pleasure coursed through her. My thumb circled her clit as I pumped my fingers in and out, building a steady rhythm.

"That's it, good- good girl," I murmured, watching her face contort in ecstasy. "Let go for me. Show me how good it feels."

Her hips rocked frantically against my hand, chasing her release. I could feel her getting close, her inner walls fluttering around my fingers.

"I'm- I'm so close," she gasped, her nails raking down my back.

I leaned down, capturing a nipple between my lips through the thin fabric of her shirt. The dual sensation pushed her over the edge. She came with a cry, her body tensing and shuddering

She panted softly as she came down from her high, her wide, doe-like eyes gazing up at me with a mix of gratitude and adoration

Third person (Hannibal)

Hannibal couldn't rid her of his thoughts, no matter how irrational it was. The girl was hopelessly naive, pitiful in the way she shrank under his slightest disapproval—so easily swayed, so unbearably foolish. And yet, despite her fragility, or perhaps because of it, she had wormed her way into the crevices of his mind, an unshakable fixation.

It was maddening.

She was nothing extraordinary—soft-spoken, nervous, entirely unaware of the danger she courted by lingering too close. And still, he needed her. The thought of her consumed him, nestled deep in the marrow of his being. Even now, in the quiet solitude of the night, she plagued him, slipping seamlessly into his dreams.

“H-Hani-” she moaned pathetically under his crushing weight, small hands scratching his back as her sweet noises almost sounded like pleas’

“Sh sh sh” he tutted, holding her face as the other supported all his weight as he slowly increased the pace which he rocked his hips into hers. “You're doing so good sweetie- g-god- so beautiful” his voice rumbled as he held back groans, instead sinking his teeth into her neck to muffle the noise.

He felt her walls contract around him desperately- almost begging for him to stuff her even though she hadn't said a word, just cried and mewled into his rough skin.

Hannibal jolted upright, his breath uneven, the weight of his dream still pressing against him. The room was dark, except for the faint glow of the moon filtering through the curtains, casting long shadows that did little to cool the heat thrumming beneath his skin. He dragged a hand through his hair, slicking it back, but the gesture did nothing to settle him. What was that? He thought.

The tension in his body was undeniable—tight, lingering, pooling low in his abdomen. His boxers felt uncomfortably restrictive, a stark reminder of just how deeply the dream had affected him. He exhaled slowly, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth, attempting to compose himself, but the sensation of her—soft, yielding, utterly helpless beneath him—clung to him like she would die without him..

He stood abruptly, forcing himself to shake off the lingering heat as he dressed quickly, His fingers barely hesitated as he reached for his phone, dialing without a second thought. It was 1:05 a.m.—an ungodly hour for anyone else, but she would answer. She had to.

She may not have realized the full extent of what she had agreed to when she signed the contract, but that was of little concern to him now. Whether she was awake or not didn’t matter. What mattered was that when her phone rang, she would pick up.

And she did. Not on the first ring, but soon enough.

At first, there was only the sound of rustling—sheets shifting, a quiet inhale—before her voice finally broke through the speaker, soft and laced with confusion.

“H-hello?”

It was barely more than a whisper, cracking slightly, still thick with sleep. The disoriented innocence of it made something in him tighten. She had no idea. No idea why he was calling.

Hannibal’s grip on the phone tightened, his fingers absently smoothing over the polished surface as he listened to the sleepy hesitation in her voice. It wasn’t enough. Hearing her—fragile, unaware, obedient—only stoked the need simmering in his chest. He needed to see her. Right now.

His mind worked quickly, crafting the perfect excuse, something that wouldn’t raise suspicion but would ensure her immediate compliance. Work. Yes, work was always the best justification. She had signed the contract, after all. Even if she hadn’t realized the full extent of its demands.

Clearing his throat, he let a measured calm seep into his voice. “I apologize for the late hour, but something’s come up that requires your attention. I trust you’ll be able to meet me at my office within the next half hour?”

It wasn’t really a question. It never was.

"S-Sir—that's a thirty-minute walk for me—I-it's the middle of the night—" her voice was hesitant, uncertain, almost pleading.

There was a pause. A heavy, deliberate silence that sent a chill down her spine. Then, his voice came through the speaker, smooth and unshaken, yet carrying an unmistakable weight beneath it.

"I’m aware," Hannibal said, as if my protest was nothing more than an observation. "But I wouldn’t have called if it weren’t important. Surely, you understand that."

The way he spoke—it wasn’t a request. It wasn’t even a command. It was an inevitability. Her fingers tightened around the phone as I swallowed hard, already feeling the pull of his words, the unshakable sense that saying no simply wasn’t an option.

She hesitated, gripping the phone tighter as she tried to steady her voice. “I—I do understand, sir, but… it’s really not that simple.” She winced at how uncertain she sounded, but she pressed on, forcing herself to explain.

“It’s the middle of the night. I live far, and my neighborhood… it’s not safe. There aren’t even streetlights, and I—I don’t have a car. Walking that far, alone, in the dark—”

She cut herself off, realizing she was rambling. That she was pleading.

She inhaled sharply and tried again, softer this time, as if appealing to whatever mercy he might have. “I just… I don’t think I can make it there right now.”

For a brief, foolish moment, she thought he might understand. That he’d hear the logic in her words and let her go back to sleep. But then there was silence.

A long, heavy silence that made her stomach twist.

Then, finally, his voice returned—calm, patient, but utterly unmoved.

"You’ve always struck me as a resourceful young woman," Hannibal mused, as if he were merely making an idle observation. "I imagine you’ll find a way."

Her stomach sank.

He wasn’t letting this go.

She glanced toward her window, the street outside swallowed in darkness. The thought of stepping out into it, of walking block after block alone, sent a nervous shiver down her spine. She gritted her teeth, trying to think of an excuse, something firm, something that would make him understand—

But nothing came.

Because deep down, she already knew: there was no argument to be made. No polite refusal he would accept.

If she told him no, would that really be the end of it?

Somehow, she doubted it.

"I…" she started, barely above a whisper. She squeezed her eyes shut, defeated. "Okay. I’ll come."

"Ah, there's my good girl," Hannibal said smoothly, and the line went dead.

She groaned, rolling onto her side as the phone slipped from her hand, landing forgotten on the bed. A muffled scream escaped into her pillow, her body curling inward as a wave of embarrassment and an unfamiliar, tingling heat spread through her.

Begrudgingly, she pulled herself together, slipping into whatever clothes she could find, though the lingering embarrassment still clung to her like a second skin. His simple praise had been enough to override her hesitation, enough to make her consider stepping out into the night just to prove she was capable—just to prove she could obey.

Maybe she could call a cab. Or maybe—just maybe—someone would be lingering in the dorm lobby, someone who could give her a ride. But she was never that lucky.

The clothes she managed to pull together were the same ones she had been wearing—an old camisole, one from years ago, maybe middle school? It fit her more like a crop top now, the hem riding up every time she moved. Her sweatpants, once snug, had long since lost their elastic grip, hanging loosely on her hips from years of wear. She shoved her feet into her Uggs, pulled on her oversized winter coat, and ran a brush haphazardly through her hair before exhaling sharply.

She caught her reflection in the mirror—a mess of tired eyes, messy hair, and exposed skin. This was ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. And yet, she still found herself grabbing her keys and stepping out into the cold night air.

As she locked the door, the creak of another one opening caught her attention. A boy from down the hall was stepping out of his room, tugging a hoodie over his head. Her eyes widened in recognition—she knew him! He was in her social psychology class.

How perfect.

She forced a smile, pushing away the lingering embarrassment still buzzing under her skin. "Hey!" she called out softly, stepping toward him. "Are you heading out?"

He blinked at her sudden enthusiasm, clearly caught off guard. She knew she had never been this forward, this desperate—but she needed that ride.

"Uh, yeah," he said, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. "Just heading to grab something to eat. Why?"

She hesitated only for a moment before forcing another smile. "Would you mind giving me a ride? Just… downtown. I, um, have something important to take care of."

He raised an eyebrow, glancing at her thrown-together outfit—the tiny camisole peeking out from under her oversized jacket, the loose sweatpants barely clinging to her hips. She probably looked insane, asking for a ride in the middle of the night, but she didn’t care.

"Downtown? Now?" He let out a short laugh but didn’t say no. "You in trouble or something?"

She shook her head quickly. "No! No, I just… need to be somewhere. Please."

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Alright, yeah, sure. But you owe me."

Relief flooded her chest as she nodded. "Yes! totally! Thank you so much- you don't know how badly I needed this.

She climbed into the passenger seat minutes later, staring out at the dark streets, trying to ignore the way her stomach twisted with nerves. She was really doing this.

She slides into the passenger seat, pulling her jacket tighter around herself as the cold still clings to her skin. The boy glances at her outfit—a fleeting look, but she catches it. His brows lift slightly at the camisole barely visible beneath her coat.

"Late-night plans?" he asks, his tone light, teasing.

She forces a small laugh, shifting uncomfortably. "Something like that. Just... work stuff."

He hums in acknowledgment, not pressing further. The car rumbles to life, and as he pulls onto the empty streets, the glow of streetlights flickers across her face. She keeps checking her phone, her fingers tightening around it each time the minutes tick by. She’s already late. She shouldn't be, but she is.

"You good?" he asks after a stretch of silence.

She exhales, only now realizing how tense her shoulders have become. "Yeah. Just tired."

Silence again. The heater hums softly, filling the space between them. Her mind is elsewhere—already at the office, already facing him. She wonders if he’s waiting impatiently, if he regrets calling her at all.

"Where am I dropping you off again?" he asks, glancing at her.

She hesitates. Saying Dr. Lecter’s office feels too personal, too exposing. "Just downtown. Near the courthouse."

He gives her a look—curious, maybe, but not enough to pry. As they near the courthouse, Y/n’s breath catches when she spots a lone figure standing just outside. Hannibal. Waiting. The dim glow of the streetlamp casts long shadows over him, but she can still make out the sharpness of his posture, the stillness of his presence—like an impatient child trying desperately to appear composed.

The driver notices him too. His hands tighten slightly around the wheel, his gaze flickering between her and the man outside. "That him?" he asks, voice low with something unreadable.

Y/n swallows hard, gripping the door handle. "Yeah."

The car slows to a stop, but for a brief moment, she hesitates to move. Hannibal hasn’t taken his eyes off her since she entered his line of sight.

"Thank you," she whispered, barely audible, as she unbuckled and reached for the door handle.

-

As she stepped out, the cold air bit at her exposed skin, sending a shiver down her spine. The car door shut softly behind her, and she hesitated for just a second before turning toward Hannibal.

He stood motionless, watching her with an unreadable expression—waiting. The weight of his gaze made her pulse quicken, but she forced herself to move, forcing one foot in front of the other as she approached him.

Hannibal’s jaw tightened the moment his eyes took in her appearance. The thin camisole barely clung to her frame, exposing far too much skin to the biting cold. The sweatpants, loose and hanging low on her hips, did little to add to her modesty. And then there was the boy—the nameless, irrelevant boy who had driven her here.

His fingers curled slightly at his sides, the only outward indication of his displeasure. He had called for her, and yet she had arrived in another man's car, wearing something so improper. His gaze flickered past her to the boy still sitting in the driver’s seat, his presence an irritation, a speck of dust on an otherwise carefully controlled moment.

Slowly, he exhaled, schooling his features into their usual unreadable calm. "I see you've found a way here after all," he murmured, his voice smooth but laced with something else—something she couldn’t quite place.

A beat of silence filled the air between them for the moment before Y/n spoke “so-”

“You are not to get rides from strange men,” he interupted, his voice clipped, controlled, but unmistakably sharp. “If you truly needed a ride, you should have asked me.”

The weight of his words settled heavily between them, leaving no room for argument. The streetlight cast long shadows across his face, accentuating the sharp lines of his expression. He wasn’t just upset—he was disappointed.

The car’s engine hummed behind her, the driver hesitating for just a second before pulling away. She swallowed hard, suddenly feeling small beneath Hannibal’s gaze, alone.

Hannibal’s gaze sharpened, his expression unreadable as he studied her. The way she stood before him, arms tucked into her oversized coat, eyes wary yet defiant—it only stoked the slow-burning irritation beneath his composed exterior.

“You didn’t seem like you were going to help me, sir,” she murmured, her voice quiet but firm, laced with exhaustion.

His lips pressed into a thin line, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes. "If you had simply asked, I would have ensured your safe arrival. Instead, you put yourself in the hands of a stranger."

There was something unsettling about the way he said it—not anger, not outright scolding, but an edge of something possessive, something final. As if the decision had never been hers to make in the first place.

First person (Y/n)

"You know—you’re not my dad. You can't tell me who I don’t get rides from," I snapped, finally pushing back against him. "What if that was my boyfriend?"

Hannibal's expression didn’t shift much, but there was something in his eyes—something dark, something warning. His jaw tightened ever so slightly as he regarded me, his gaze sharp enough to cut.

"If that were the case," he said coolly, stepping closer, "I would be having a very different conversation right now."

His words sent a strange chill down my spine, though whether it was from fear or something else, I couldn't tell. He exhaled slowly, as if reigning himself in, before continuing, "You will not accept rides from men again. If you require transportation, you will ask me. Do you understand?"

I scoffed, shaking my head. "You can't be serious."

His gaze hardened. "I assure you, I am."

There was no use arguing—not when he looked at me like that, as if my defiance was merely a temporary inconvenience, one he could erase with time.

Hannibal’s gaze swept over me, lingering just long enough to make my skin prickle with unease. His jaw was still tight, his displeasure evident, but his voice remained calm—too calm.

"Also, I don’t appreciate your tone," he murmured, stepping even closer, his presence nearly overwhelming. My breath caught in my throat as his hand lifted—just barely grazing the edge of my sleeve, a ghost of a touch. Then, he leaned in, his lips dangerously close to my ear, his voice no louder than a whisper.

"If you insist on behaving like this, little one… I will fix that attitude myself."

A slow exhale left his nose, warm against my skin. "And I promise you, you won’t like my methods."

I swallowed hard, my heart hammering as I forced myself to stay still, to not react—to not let him see how his words tangled in my head, how they made it impossible to think, how I felt my core squeeze and my brain melt like I would sink to my knees right there before him..

Before I could even think of a response, Hannibal’s hand moved—firm and unyielding—as he wrapped his arm around my lower back. The grip was possessive, authoritative, as if I had no say in the matter. A small gasp escaped me, but he ignored it, effortlessly pulling me toward the entrance like I was nothing more than a disobedient child in need of correction.

"You will not question me again," he stated, his voice low and edged with warning.

The warmth of his hand against my spine sent a shiver through me, but I wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or something else entirely. His pace was steady, unrelenting, forcing me to match his stride whether I wanted to or not.

"You should be grateful I tolerate your defiance at all," he murmured, his grip tightening just slightly—a silent reminder of his control. "But I do not have limitless patience, little one. I expect obedience."

The door loomed ahead, and my stomach twisted as he led me inside, his presence swallowing me whole.

Hannibal guided me inside with a grip that was both firm and effortless, his hand pressing against the small of my back, dictating every step I took. The way he handled me—it was humiliating, like I was some wayward child too naive to make her own decisions.

The door shut behind us with a heavy finality, sealing me in with him. I swallowed hard, suddenly hyper-aware of the silence between us, of the heat radiating from his body so close to mine. I dared a glance up at him, but his expression was unreadable—cold, calculating.

"You will not put yourself in a situation like that again," he said, voice smooth but edged with unmistakable authority. "If you require a ride, you will call me. Do you understand?"

I hesitated, my pride flaring for just a second. "I—"

His fingers brushed under my chin, tilting my face up so I had no choice but to meet his gaze. My breath hitched. His touch was deceptively gentle, but the warning in his eyes made my pulse quicken.

"You will learn, little one," he murmured. "One way or another."

The weight of his words hung in the air, thick and suffocating, and I had no idea how to respond. All I knew was that, despite the cold that still clung to my skin, I suddenly felt much too warm.

I tried to ignore everything that had just happened, even as my body betrayed me—impossibly warm under his gaze, under the weight of his presence. I forced myself to straighten up, to steady my breath, to act as if my mind wasn’t spinning.

"Why did you need me here, sir?" I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.

Hannibal studied me for a moment, as if deciding whether to entertain my question or continue reveling in my unease. Then, with a slow, measured inhale, he released his grip on me, but the absence of his touch did nothing to ease the tension wrapping itself around my chest.

"There are matters to discuss," he said smoothly, turning away as if he hadn’t just imposed himself into every inch of my thoughts. "Work that requires your attention. I assumed you would be eager to prove your dedication."

There was something about the way he said it—how his voice lingered on the word assumed—that made me feel small. As if I had already disappointed him somehow. I bit the inside of my cheek, nodding quickly.

"Of course," I murmured. "I’m here now."

"Yes," he said, glancing back at me with something unreadable in his expression. "You are."

The fear of disappointing him weighed heavier than any instinct to push back. My throat tightened, my hands curled into fists in my lap, but I said nothing. What was the point? He had already decided how this would go.

Hannibal led me to his office without another word, his grip firm around my lower back, guiding me as if I were something fragile—or something that needed control. The warmth of his hand burned through my thin camisole, and I hated how my body reacted, heat rising to my face despite everything.

The office was dimly lit, the scent of leather and something richer—something undeniably him—filling the space. The door clicked shut behind us, and suddenly, the night felt even quieter.

"Sit," he said, his voice calm but leaving no room for argument.

I did as he asked, sinking into the chair across from his desk. My heart was still racing, my skin prickling with leftover adrenaline. I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to meet his eyes, to push past the way he looked at me like he was dissecting every inch of my being.

Then, after a long silence, he finally spoke.

"Tell me," his voice was smooth, deliberate, "was it the inconvenience that made you hesitate… or do you need reminding of who you answer to?"

His words settled over me like a heavy weight, pressing down on my chest, making it harder to breathe. Did I need reminding? The question twisted in my mind, shame curling in my stomach.

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. My fingers curled around the hem of my jacket, gripping the fabric like it was the only thing tethering me to reality. I hated how easily he could unravel me, how a single sentence from him could make me question myself.

"I—" My voice wavered, barely above a whisper. I looked down, unable to hold his gaze any longer. "No, sir…"

The words felt foreign on my tongue, like I was giving something away, something I wasn’t even sure I had. But the way he stared at me—like he already knew the answer, like he was simply waiting for me to accept it too—made it impossible to say anything else.

"Are you sure?" His voice was deceptively calm, but there was something dangerous beneath it, something that made my pulse stutter. "Because sometimes it feels like, with the way you talk to me, you need me to drill it through that thick skull of yours."

His words made me feel small and pathetic—did I really need reminding? The weight of his gaze pinned me in place, and I gripped the edges of my jacket, trying to steady myself. My breath felt uneven, my body impossibly warm despite the chill still clinging to my skin.

"I…" My voice barely made it past my lips, weak and uncertain. I knew better than to talk back, knew better than to challenge him, but somehow, I always seemed to push too far.

Hannibal watched me, his patience unnerving. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, one of his large hands grabbed the top of my head, leaning it back so I'd have to stare up at him

I swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in my throat as I looked up at him, my pride slipping through my fingers like sand. There was no point in trying to argue—he saw right through me, always did. Nothing I could say would ever shake him, so why even try?

"I’m sorry, sir," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper. "I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. My attitude was uncalled for, and I should have controlled myself better." I paused, forcing myself to take a steady breath, but it only made me feel smaller under his gaze. "It was just… it just so early, and I can't think clearly—but that’s not an excuse. I know that. I should do better."

I lowered my head, ashamed at how weak I sounded, how desperate I was to make things right. "I just… I want to help with whatever work you have now. Please, let me prove that I can be useful. I really appreciate this opportunity, sir. I mean it."

My hands fidgeted in my lap as I bit my lip, waiting—praying—that he would accept my apology. That he wouldn’t look at me with that same knowing disappointment that made my stomach twist.

Third person POV

Hannibal watched her carefully, taking in every trembling breath, every nervous flick of her fingers. She was just a sweet, misguided little thing—too naive to understand the weight of her own actions. Her outburst had been nothing more than exhaustion taking its toll, a momentary lapse in judgment. Nothing he couldn’t correct.

Her apology, however, was something else entirely. It was gratifying, almost endearing in its sincerity. She wasn’t just saying the words—she believed them. She truly thought she had overstepped, that she had something to make up for. And that was good. That was necessary. Because guidance, after all, was what she needed most. And he was more than willing to provide it.

"You recognize your mistake," he said, his voice smooth, measured. "That’s good. I expect you to learn from it."

He leaned forward slightly, watching how she shrank under his gaze, how easily she yielded. It was almost too easy.

His hand lifted, fingers grazing her cheek with a deliberate softness as he cupped her face, tilting it just enough to keep her eyes on him. “You’re a good girl,” he murmured, his tone smooth yet firm. “I know you can do better. Let’s not dwell on this any longer—let’s get to work.”

Y/N didn’t know why she felt the way she did—why the moment he looked at her like that, all her frustration, all her resistance just melted away. She had been upset, hadn’t she? She should still be upset. But instead, she found herself apologizing, her voice softer than she meant it to be, her resolve slipping through her fingers like sand.

Maybe it was the way he spoke, the quiet authority in his voice that made arguing feel pointless. Or maybe it was the way he looked at her, like he already knew what she was going to say before she said it. It made her feel small—but not in a way that made her want to fight back. It was something else, something heavier.

She wasn’t sure when it happened, but at some point, listening to him had started to feel natural. Right. Like she was to. Even if a part of her questioned it, even if she knew she hadn’t really done anything wrong, the need to please him overpowered everything else.

Hannibal had given her stacks of papers to sort through—documents that, in hindsight, didn’t seem to require her immediate attention. But she didn’t question it. She buried herself in the task, her tired eyes scanning page after page, filing, organizing, highlighting whatever he had instructed. The monotonous work kept her grounded, kept her from thinking too hard about why she was even here at this hour.

The clock ticked on, the world outside slowly shifting from deep night to the earliest whispers of dawn. By the time the hands neared seven, her body ached with exhaustion, her fingers stiff from hours of tedious work. She had started nodding off, her head dipping slightly before she forced herself awake again.

Then, the sharp ring of Hannibal’s phone cut through the silence. He answered it immediately, his posture straightening as his expression turned unreadable. Whatever was being said on the other end had his full attention. And just like that, the stillness in the room was gone, replaced by an unspoken tension.

She paused for just a moment at the sudden disturbance, glancing up to see Hannibal’s gaze shift toward the clock. Nearly 7:30… Had she really been working for five hours straight? A flicker of disbelief crossed her mind—what was she even doing? But before she could dwell on it, she forced herself to keep going, her hands moving on autopilot as she quietly tuned in, secretly listening to the low, measured tone of his voice on the phone.

As she pretended to focus on the papers in front of her, Hannibal’s voice remained steady, carrying a weight of concern that anyone would find appropriate given the situation.

"Where?" he asked, his tone grave. "Has the scene been secured?"

There was a pause as the person on the other end relayed more details—something about the body being found just outside the city, mutilated beyond recognition. Y/N swallowed, a chill running down her spine at the words, but something else made her pause.

Hannibal… smiled.

It was brief, barely there, but she saw it—the faintest curl of his lips before he smoothed his expression into something more appropriate.

Her stomach twisted.

Why… why would he smile at that?

Third person

Hannibal kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting lightly on the gear shift as the car glided down the dimly lit road. The steady rhythm of the rain against the windshield filled the silence between you, interrupted only by the soft hum of classical music playing in the background. He had picked the piece deliberately—something gentle, something that made the quiet feel less heavy.

He glanced over at you briefly. You were staring out the window, arms tucked close to your body, your fingers toying with the fabric of your sleeve. You hadn’t spoken much since getting in the car, and while Hannibal wasn’t one for idle chatter, he noticed the shift in your demeanor.

“You’re quiet,” he remarked, his voice smooth but carrying the weight of an unspoken question.

You hesitated before answering. “Just thinking.”

He hummed, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “About anything in particular?”

You shrugged, but he didn’t press. Instead, he let the quiet settle again, filling the space between you with something unspoken yet understood. He was patient. He knew, eventually, you’d say what was on your mind. And until then, he was content to let the ride continue just like this—calm, measured, and entirely under his control.

If she had been completely honest with him, she would have burst into tears right then and there, her breath hitching as sobs wracked her chest. “I totally messed up my first shot at meeting you!” she would have wailed, shaking her head in frustration, her nose running, hiccuping just like she did when she flew over her handlebars as a child. But she wouldn’t tell him any of that—no, that would be far too humiliating. She had already embarrassed herself enough tonight, enough to haunt her in the middle of the night for years to come.

Instead, she sat in her tears, staring out the window as the passing streetlights cast flickering shadows across her lap. Her jaw clenched, and she realized she had been chewing the inside of her cheek raw—only noticing when the sharp sting of broken skin met the metallic tang of blood on her tongue. She swallowed it down, pressing her lips together, willing herself to be still, to be composed.

The car was eerily quiet, save for the soft hum of the engine and the occasional, almost imperceptible glance she felt from him. He hadn’t spoken since they got in, and the weight of his silence pressed down on her more than any words ever could.

She pressed her lips together, the sharp sting of torn skin making her eyes sting with unshed frustration. The coppery taste of blood pooled on her tongue, thick and warm, and she swallowed hard, trying to ignore it. But it wouldn’t stop.

Instinctively, she lifted her sleeve and rubbed her mouth against the fabric, hoping to wipe away the evidence before he noticed. The moment her jacket touched her lips, a deeper pain flared, and she pulled back slightly—only to see the deep, wet stain blooming across the fabric. Blood. A lot of it. It smeared against the worn material, dark and vivid under the dim glow of the passing streetlights.

She inhaled sharply, pressing her sleeve harder against her mouth, trying to will it to stop. But the more she moved, the more it seemed to spread, the warmth seeping through, reminding her of her own pathetic lack of control. She kept her head turned away, her fingers clutching the fabric like a lifeline, hoping he wouldn’t see, hoping he wouldn’t say anything. But the weight of his gaze was unmistakable.

Third person (Hannibal)

Hannibal's gaze lingered on her for a moment before he spoke, his voice smooth yet edged with quiet disapproval.

"Must you insist on devouring yourself, my dear? There are far more refined ways to endure discomfort."

He watched as the crimson seeped into the fabric of her sleeve, the scent faint yet unmistakable. Coppery, warm—fresh. His eyes lingered on the curve of her mouth, where the wound still wept, painting her lips in a shade he found almost… delectable.

He imagined the taste, rich and metallic, the way it would linger on his tongue. How easily he could brush his thumb against her chin, collect the stray droplets, and bring them to his lips in an unspoken indulgence.

But he simply watched, his expression unreadable, hands resting calmly on the wheel

His fingers tightened ever so slightly around the steering wheel, a fleeting pulse of restraint. He could hear her shallow breaths, see the way her tongue flicked out instinctively, as if trying to rid herself of the taste—unaware of how it only deepened his fascination.

It would be so easy to reach over, to tilt her chin up and inspect the wound with a touch too gentle to be questioned. To press the pad of his thumb against her trembling lip, gathering the warmth of her blood before slipping it past his own.

The thought was intoxicating.

Instead, he exhaled slowly, controlled, his gaze flickering back to the road. "You should be more careful," he murmured, his voice smooth, but laced with something deeper, but you didn't understand.

The car ride remained steeped in silence, thick with unspoken words. When they finally pulled up to her dorm, the dim glow of the streetlights casting long shadows over the pavement, he stepped out first. Ever the gentleman.

She hesitated before following, her legs stiff from the tension coiled in her body. He was already at her side, a hand resting lightly against her back—not pushing, merely guiding.

At her door, she fumbled for her key, but he plucked it from her fingers with effortless ease, unlocking it for her. "Rest," he murmured, eyes lingering on the faint stain of blood still at the corner of her mouth. "And do try not to bite yourself again."

His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. Then, just like that, he was gone, leaving her standing in the doorway, heart pounding against her ribs.

10:00 PM

Later that night, tangled in her sheets, Y/N stared at the ceiling, her mind an endless reel of the evening’s events. Every glance, every word, every lingering silence replayed in excruciating detail. She turned onto her side, pressing her cheek against the pillow, but the restless energy in her bones refused to settle.

Then, her phone buzzed.

She hesitated before reaching for it, heart stuttering as she read the message glowing on the screen:

"I look forward to our next meeting, Mrs. Y/N. I hope you’re more prepared, because your first day will be Monday. I assure you, you’ll be ready."

Her fingers tightened around the phone. His words—so composed, so deliberate—sent a slow shiver down her spine. It wasn’t a threat. No, it was something far more unsettling. A promise.

She fumbled with her phone, her small hands unsteady as she typed out a response, her tired, crinkled eyes struggling to stay open.

"Of course, sir. Thank you again for helping me today."

The message sent before she could overthink it, but the weight in her chest didn’t lift. Instead, it settled deeper. She let the phone slip from her grasp onto the sheets, staring at the faint glow of the screen until it dimmed into darkness.

Would he respond? Did he expect more?

Her thumb hovered over the screen, considering another message, something to soften the stiffness of her words. But no—anything more would feel like too much. She had already said enough. Or had she?

With a quiet sigh, she curled deeper into the covers, yet sleep felt impossibly far away.

–monday morning-

(first person- Y/n)

I woke up early, my nerves already buzzing like static in my chest. I stumbled into the shower, scrubbing at my skin as if I could wash away my anxiety. At one point, I might have lightly banged my head against the wall, muttering to myself, “Get it together.” Once out, I quickly reached for my anxiety meds, swallowing the small tablets with a gulp of water, trying to convince myself they’d kick in soon.

Getting dressed felt like a mission. Standing in front of the mirror, I buttoned up my black blouse, smoothing it down with shaky hands. The fabric felt snug but soft, hugging just enough to make me feel a little more confident. I adjusted the puffed sleeves, making sure they didn’t look weird on my shoulders.

Next was the skirt. I pulled on the high-waisted plaid piece, its deep burgundy and black pattern catching the light. It fell just below my knees, swishing lightly as I turned from side to side. I couldn’t resist a little spin, the kind that made me smile despite myself.

I sat on the edge of my bed to pull on my tights, carefully sliding them up over my legs. They were smooth and snug, a small comfort in my otherwise jittery state. Then came the shoes—classic black heels. I slipped them on, standing a little taller and clicking them softly on the floor, testing how they felt.

I finished with my hair, brushing and fixing it until it looked just right. Standing in front of the mirror again, I gave myself a small, encouraging smile. “You’ve got this,” I whispered. But my stomach churned anyway, excitement and nerves battling for control as I tried to convince myself I was ready.

I got to his office fifteen minutes early, heart pounding in my chest the whole way there. I’d left home ridiculously early, walking so fast that I’d nearly run in some stretches. At one point, I’d tripped on a crack in the sidewalk, stumbling forward and almost face-planting onto the pavement. My tights snagged in the process—a small tear just above my knee. I stopped for a second, groaning quietly to myself as I tried to smooth the ruined spot. For a moment, I thought about turning back to change, but I shook my head. No time. It’s fine, I told myself. It’s still a good day. I brushed off my skirt and kept going, determined to stay on track.

On the way, I passed a little coffee shop and impulsively ducked in. It felt like the right thing to do—to bring something. I ordered a black coffee for him, figuring it was the safest bet, and treated myself to a sweet iced coffee, my usual when I needed something to calm me down. Carrying the drink carrier in one hand and clutching my bag of books and papers with the other, I made the rest of the walk as carefully as I could. I wasn’t about to risk another mishap.

Now, I stood outside his office door, shifting my weight from foot to foot. My mind wouldn’t stop racing. What if bringing coffee was weird? Would he think it was too much? I stared down at the carrier in my hand, half wishing I could just disappear with it. The snag in my tights suddenly felt like it was glowing neon, and my bag felt like it was digging into my shoulder.

I glanced at the hallway clock. Fifteen minutes early. Perfect, but now I had nothing to do but wait. I sighed, smoothing down my skirt and fidgeting with my sleeve. My palms felt clammy as I adjusted the drink carrier again, the ice in my coffee making soft clinking noises. My nerves were buzzing, but under it all, there was a flicker of excitement. This was important, and I wanted to get it right. I took a deep breath, standing up straighter. I could do this.

Just as I was about to knock, the door suddenly opened, catching me off guard. My heart skipped a beat, and before I could stop myself, a bright smile spread across my face. “Oh! Hello, sir!” I chirped, my voice a little higher than usual from the rush of nerves. Even in my heels, I had to tilt my head up to meet his gaze, feeling both tiny and a little starstruck in his presence.

Hannibal's gaze swept over me, his expression unreadable yet calculated, as always. "Good morning, Miss Y/N," he said smoothly, his voice rich and deliberate. His eyes flickered briefly to the coffee I held before returning to my face. "I see you're already proving to be quite... prepared. Please, come in." He stepped aside, gesturing with a subtle motion of his hand, his calm demeanor only amplifying the fluttering in my chest.

“Of course, I'm very ready for today” I said back, holding the coffee in my hands, “I got this for you- to pay you back”

Hannibal’s eyes flicked to the cup of coffee you extended toward him, a subtle arch of his brow betraying his surprise. "You brought this for me?" he asked, his voice smooth, with an edge of curiosity. He took the cup from your hands, his fingers brushing against yours briefly.

He examined the cup for a moment, as though assessing the gesture itself before his gaze returned to you. "Thoughtful," he remarked softly, the faintest hint of approval coloring his tone. "Black, I assume? You remembered."

Taking a measured sip, he nodded slightly, his expression unreadable but composed. "A kind gesture," he said, his eyes lingering on you a moment longer than necessary. "Though I do hope you don’t make a habit of trying to charm your superiors." There was a flicker of amusement in his tone, but his gaze was as penetrating as ever.

I bit my toungue, how could he make me feel like such a fool?

“I understand”

Hannibal studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable, though the slight tilt of his head suggested amusement. He took another slow sip of his coffee before responding.

"Do you?" His voice was smooth, almost teasing, but there was something pointed beneath the surface. "Understanding requires more than simple agreement, Miss Y/n."

His gaze lingered, watching the way you pressed your lips together, the faintest tension in your posture betraying your embarrassment. He relished these small reactions, the unspoken signs of your internal struggle.

With a small, knowing smile, he turned, gesturing for you to follow. "Come inside. We wouldn't want your efforts to go to waste, now would we?"

And so the day dragged on—me trying my best to be kind, polite, and professional, while Hannibal effortlessly twisted my every word and action into something desperate, as if my sole purpose was to vie for his attention. No matter how carefully I spoke, how composed I tried to be, he found a way to unravel it, to make me question myself. At a certain point, I simply fell silent, too drained to push back, too tired of his remarks that chipped away at my confidence. It was as if he took quiet pleasure in dismantling my happiness, piece by piece.

-

Hannibal noticed my shift instantly. His sharp eyes flicked over me, taking in the way my shoulders slumped ever so slightly, the way my responses had grown quieter, more measured. A small, knowing smile played at his lips, as if he were savoring the moment.

"Ah," he murmured, his voice smooth, almost amused. "Have I exhausted you already?"

"No, sir," I replied smoothly, offering him a sweet smile. "I just believe what you have to say is far more important. I'd rather listen." My doe-like eyes met his, unwavering, feigning innocence as I masked the frustration simmering beneath the surface.

Hannibal’s gaze never wavered as he reached into his desk drawer, retrieving a neatly bound document. With practiced ease, he slid it across the polished wood toward me, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.

“This,” he said smoothly, tapping a single finger against the top page, “outlines the expectations of your internship—confidentiality, conduct, and, of course, discretion.” His voice was calm, measured, yet something in his tone made my stomach tighten.

I glanced down at the papers, my fingers hesitating before picking them up. The weight of it felt heavier than it should, the words on the first page blurring slightly as I tried to steady my nerves.

“You’ll find everything in order,” he continued, watching me carefully. “Standard procedure, though I do suggest reading it thoroughly before signing.”

I swallowed, forcing a nod as I scanned the elegant, precise wording. Every clause felt… binding. Absolute. As if, once my name graced the dotted line, there would be no turning back.

Hannibal leaned back in his chair, hands folded neatly in his lap, his eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “Take your time,” he murmured. “I wouldn’t want you to agree to something you aren’t prepared for.”

His words were gentle, but the implication beneath them made my pulse quicken. Was this just formality? Or was this his way of ensuring I knew exactly what I was walking into?

I flicked through the pages, my eyes skimming over the dense text filled with elaborate phrasing and legal jargon. The weight of his gaze pressed against me, unyielding, as I pretended to absorb the meaning behind the carefully chosen words. But really, what choice did I have?

Gripping the pen, I signed my name in smooth, hurried strokes, the ink drying far too quickly for me to take it back. I set the pen down with a soft click, exhaling as I slid the document back toward him.

Hannibal took it without a word, his fingers brushing over my signature in a way that sent a chill up my spine. His lips curled ever so slightly, the barest hint of approval flickering across his expression.

"That was rather swift," he mused, folding the papers neatly. "I do hope you’re confident in your decision, Miss Y/N."

I swallowed, my smile unwavering. "Of course, sir."

But somehow, I had the sinking feeling that I had just signed away more than I realized.

Third person (Hannibal)

Hannibal watched as her delicate fingers traced over the pages, her eyes flickering across the dense text with feigned comprehension. She was nervous—he could see it in the way she chewed the inside of her cheek, the way her grip on the pen wavered just slightly before she pressed the tip to the paper. But she signed nonetheless.

So eager. So trusting.

A slow, satisfied smile ghosted over his lips as he retrieved the contract, his fingers brushing over the fresh ink of her name. She had signed away more than just an internship. The pages before him bound her in ways she had yet to understand. Clauses of confidentiality, restrictions on personal conduct, unspoken expectations woven between the lines—she was his now, whether she realized it or not.

Her naiveness amused him. She had rushed, eager to please, to prove herself worthy of his time and attention. He wondered if she even considered the consequences, if she felt the web tightening around her.

Leaning back in his chair, he regarded her with quiet amusement, his fingers tapping lightly against the crisp edges of the document.

"That was rather swift," he murmured, watching for any sign of hesitation.

She only smiled, bright and unassuming. "Of course, sir."

Hannibal tilted his head, studying her as one might a piece of art—an unfinished work, waiting to be shaped, refined.

Yes. She was his now. And soon, she would come to understand exactly what that meant.

She barely looked at the pages, just a quick flick through the dense text before signing her name with an almost eager stroke of the pen. Hannibal watched, his expression unreadable, though his amusement simmered just beneath the surface. No hesitation, no second-guessing. Just blind trust—or perhaps desperation to please.

She had no idea what she’d just agreed to.

Buried beneath the formalities and legal babble were carefully placed clauses—ones that granted him authority over her role, over her time, over her in ways she wouldn’t realize until it was far too late. She hadn’t questioned the phrasing, hadn’t paused at the implications. A single signature, and she had placed herself neatly under his control.

He took the papers back smoothly, sliding them into his folder with a quiet rustle, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary. Then, he looked at her, eyes glinting with something unreadable.

"That was rather quick," he remarked, voice light, almost teasing. "Are you always so trusting, or is it just me?"

He leaned back slightly, watching her closely. She wouldn’t realize it now. Not yet. But eventually, the weight of what she’d done would sink in. And when it did, he would be there to witness every moment of understanding dawn in those wide, unsuspecting eyes.

A/N: I KNOW this is like filler, but I need set up for my story 💔 don't take me as some whore who writes porn no plot,,,,, it's just all i read 😢

Third person POV

The rhythmic sound of footsteps echoed softly against the pavement, a steady cadence that filled the quiet space between them. Hannibal walked with effortless grace, his posture straight, movements smooth, exuding an air of control that seemed utterly unshakable. Beside him, Y/N struggled to match his measured pace, her breath uneven, fingers fidgeting slightly at her sides as she fought the urge to run away. She was trying—desperately—to appear composed, her facade was delicate though as any small disruptor could make her a stumbling mess. But the heat creeping up her neck, she was bound to be seen.

Oh god. This was bad.

"So… you know a good coffee shop around here?" Y/n asked, her voice carrying a forced lightness, an attempt to fill the thick silence stretching between them. Her steps were uneven, a clear contrast to Hannibal’s smooth, unhurried pace. She hated silence—always had. It left too much room for overthinking, for uncertainty to creep in, and right now, the quiet felt deafening.

Hannibal’s gaze flickered toward her, a slow, deliberate motion, as if considering not just her words but the nervous energy laced beneath them. His lips curled ever so slightly, the ghost of a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"There is one," he said smoothly, his voice rich and measured. "A quaint place, tucked away from the usual bustle. It’s quiet, intimate—perfect for thoughtful conversation." He paused, his gaze lingering on her for just a moment longer than necessary. "I imagine you’d prefer somewhere… less silent, however."

His words, though spoken gently, carried an undeniable weight, a knowingness that sent a quiet shiver down Y/n’s spine. He had noticed her discomfort—of course, he had. Hannibal Lecter noticed everything.

“N-No, sir— it’s fine. The silence is fine,” she stammered, though even she didn’t believe it. Her breath curled in the crisp late-fall air, dissipating just as quickly as her feigned composure. Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve, a nervous habit she wished she could suppress. The cool Maryland breeze bit at her cheeks, painting them a soft shade of red, though she wasn’t sure if it was the weather or the way he was watching her—so intently, so knowingly.

Hannibal hummed, his pace unchanging, his presence looming beside her with an unsettling ease. “If you insist,” he murmured, his voice smooth, unreadable. “We’re nearly there.”

The words should have been a comfort. Instead, they only made her pulse stutter. The path stretched before them, damp leaves crunching underfoot, but the walk itself blurred, time slipping like water through her fingers.

Before she fully registered it, they were standing outside the café, warm light spilling from within, the hum of conversation and clinking cups breaking the eerie quiet that had accompanied them. The air was no less cold, but at least here, surrounded by others, she could pretend that the weight of his gaze wasn’t still on her.

First person POV (Y/n)

He stepped ahead of me, moving with that same effortless grace, his hand reaching for the door without hesitation. The gesture was polite—expected, even—but as I passed beneath his arm, dipping my head with a quiet “thank you,” I felt it.

His eyes.

A slow, deliberate gaze raking over me, dissecting me like a specimen beneath a scalpel. I swallowed hard, the air suddenly too thick in my lungs. There was something unsettling in the way he looked down at me, something just beyond my comprehension—cool, unreadable, yet… indulging. As if he enjoyed the vantage point, relished the way I had to step past him, small and uncertain. His expression remained perfectly composed, yet his eyes—slightly hooded, sharp as a blade’s edge—held something darker. Something patient.

Like a wolf watching a lamb stumble too close.

Heat prickled at the back of my neck. No, no—what was I thinking? He’s your mentor, for God’s sake, Y/N! I mentally scolded myself, my hands curling into fists at my sides. I read too much into things. I always did. This was serious—no time for stupid, ridiculous fantasies.

And yet, as I stepped fully inside, my back to him, I still felt it. That weight pressing between my shoulder blades.

I wait for him almost obediently as he steps up beside me, his presence both commanding and intimate. I glance up at him with a soft smile, though my stomach knots with unease. Why do I feel nervous?

“What are you going to get?” I ask, my voice quieter than intended.

He barely looks at the menu. “Nothing too particular—just black coffee. This place has an astounding roast.” His voice is silk, effortless.

I nod, considering his words, my fingers tightening slightly around the strap of my bag. His choice is simple, methodical. Of course, it is. There’s no indulgence, no hesitation. Just certainty.

“And you?” He turns to me, the weight of his gaze unsettling, pressing into me like a velvet-lined cage.

I part my lips but hesitate. A sinking feeling settles in my stomach. Oh, God.

“I—” I exhale sharply, my voice dropping. “I forgot my wallet. It’s fine, really. I was just hoping to talk anyway.” I force a small laugh, but it feels thin, brittle. My stomach twists. Why does this feel humiliating?

HANNIBAL’S POV (Third-Person)

She flounders, her words tumbling out in an attempt to reassure herself, to save face. The way she stammers, the way her lips part in that fleeting moment of panic—it stirs something in him, something dark and possessive.

She hates this. Hates feeling unprepared, vulnerable. But God, does it suit her.

A slow, indulgent stretch of his neck relieves a fraction of the tension coiling in his body, but not enough. Never enough.

Hannibal watches her for a moment longer than necessary before allowing himself the smallest of smiles. Then, in one smooth motion, he drapes an arm around her shoulders and presses her forward, guiding her toward the counter. The shift in control is deliberate. Intimate.

“No,” he murmurs, voice velvet-soft yet unwavering. “Now, I insist—you’ll pick whatever your little heart desires.” His fingers apply just the faintest pressure against her shoulder, enough to feel the warmth of her body beneath his touch. “Don’t trouble yourself with paying.”

She stiffens. Just for a second. He knows she hates this. Being taken care of. Being indebted. He sees it in the flicker of her hesitation, the way her mouth opens, struggling for a polite refusal she knows won’t work.

“Black coffee, please.” Her voice is just shy of steady, a nervous smile flickering across her lips as she speaks to the barista.

Hannibal watches, utterly amused. So obedient.

“Atta girl,” he murmurs, so low it barely exists between them. But she hears it. Of course, she does. And when her skin betrays her—blooming red at the nape of her neck, creeping up to her cheeks—he knows it got under her skin.

Delicious.

With an almost lazy elegance, he presses a hand against the small of her back, guiding her away from the counter. Steering her. She moves where he wants her to, whether she realizes it or not.

He leads her to a small, dimly lit table near the back of the café, nestled away from the rest of the patrons. Private. Controlled. It’s perfect. He waits for her to sit before lowering himself into the chair across from her, exhaling as if this is all rather troublesome.

Then, he leans forward, clasping his hands together atop the table, eyes never leaving her.

“So,” he muses, tilting his head, his voice laced with mock curiosity, patronizing in a way that makes her feel impossibly small. “You wandered all the way here, without a means to pay, hoping, what—someone would take pity on you?”

His lips twitch as he watches her squirm, delighting in the way her fingers curl slightly against the table’s surface, the way her shoulders stiffen just enough to betray her.

He hums, shaking his head in exaggerated disappointment. Tsk, tsk.

“Now, that’s very irresponsible of you.” His voice is smooth, warm even, like one might scold a child who forgot their lunch. “What if I hadn’t been here, hmm? Would you have batted your lashes at the barista, hoping for a free cup out of the kindness of their heart?”

He lets the words hang between them, stretching the moment just long enough before leaning back, finally breaking eye contact to remove his gloves with slow, deliberate movements.

“Well,” he sighs, a mockery of indulgence, “I suppose it’s lucky for you that I am here, isn’t it?”

His words hit her like a freight train, the weight of them settling in her chest before she could even think to defend herself. Heat rushed to her cheeks—mortifying, all-consuming. A laugh bubbled up before she could stop it, high and breathless, the kind born of sheer fight-or-flight.

Oh, she’s flustered. How delightful.

She covered her face with both hands, shaking her head as if she could physically shake off the humiliation. Foolish girl.

“Sir!” she gasped, the title tumbling out before she could swallow it back. Even better. “I would do no such thing—I would have just walked home! I could have sworn I brought my money, I—” she sucked in a breath, exhaling sharply. “I’m very sorry.”

She was scrambling, trying to save face, but the damage was already done. He had her. And she knew it.

Still, despite her flustered stammering, her smile hadn’t wavered, soft and uncertain, but there. She wanted him to forgive her. To be gentle. To make it better.

The coffee arrived with a quiet clink of porcelain, the barista setting their cups down with a polite nod before stepping away. The scent curled between them, warm and rich, but Hannibal barely acknowledged it. His attention remained on her.

She hesitated for a moment, fingers wrapping around the cup as if the heat might steady her. Hannibal lifted his own with practiced ease, taking a slow, measured sip before lowering it back to its saucer.

“I must admit,” he said, voice smooth, deliberate, “I was surprised to run into you today. And yet, here you are—wandering the park in the cold, with no money and, I presume, no plan.” His lips quirked at the edges. “Is absentmindedness a habit of yours, or merely an unfortunate coincidence?”

She fidgeted, shifting under his gaze, but instead of answering, she reached for the sugar. Then the creamer.

He watched, vaguely entertained, as she drowned the coffee in sweetness—spoonful after spoonful of sugar, followed by an almost obscene amount of cream. The dark liquid turned pale, swirling into something unrecognizable from what it once was.

Hannibal exhaled softly through his nose, shaking his head just enough for her to notice.

“Ah,” he mused, watching her stir the concoction with quiet amusement. “So you don’t actually like coffee.”

Her head shot up from her coffee, eyes wide before she softened, letting out a small, warm laugh.

"I didn’t have a plan—but I think you just caught me on a bad day, sir," she said lightly, as if his words had gone right over her head. She smiled, easy and genuine. "I’m usually the most prepared person I know. I guess I just woke up on the wrong side of the bed today."

She lowered her gaze, stirring her coffee with the small cardboard straw, watching the cream swirl into the dark liquid.

At his lingering silence, she glanced up again, brows furrowing slightly. "What do you mean I don’t like coffee? I love coffee."

Hannibal let the corner of his mouth twitch, setting his cup down with slow precision before gesturing toward hers.

"Do you?" he mused, eyes flicking to the now syrup-colored concoction she had made. "Because from what I’ve observed, you seem more interested in consuming liquid sugar."

She huffed, rolling her eyes as she took a small sip, as if to prove a point. But before she could protest, he tilted his head, watching her with the kind of amusement that always made her stomach flip.

"Tell me," he drawled, eyes twinkling with mischief, mock concern lacing his voice, "are you not allowed to have sugar at home?"

She giggled, shaking her head as if he had just made a ridiculous joke. "What? No!" she laughed, lifting her cup for a sip. "I’m allowed to have sugar, thank you very much. I just—" she paused, grinning. "I like my coffee to taste good."

Hannibal hummed, watching her over the rim of his cup as he took another slow sip. Amused. Indulgent.

"Ah," he said, setting his cup down with deliberate ease. "So, you prefer your indulgences masked, then? Cloaked in something softer, sweeter?"

She blinked at him, not quite sure whether he was teasing or making some grander statement. Before she could respond, he shifted the conversation entirely, as if he had already grown bored of the subject.

"Speaking of preferences," he continued smoothly, lacing his fingers together on the table, "I’ve been meaning to discuss your upcoming internship with me."

Her spine straightened instinctively, the casual warmth in her face flickering into something more alert, focused.

Hannibal smiled. Good. He had her attention.

Hannibal watched the way she straightened, the way the playful ease in her expression shifted into something more attentive. Good.

“I know this wasn’t supposed to be our first meeting,” he began, voice smooth, almost conversational. “And of course, we can always revisit for a more professional discussion.” He tilted his head slightly, observing her with quiet amusement. “But you seem to be enjoying yourself, so I see no harm in giving you a brief introduction.”

He took a slow sip of his coffee, using the moment to study her. The way her hands curled around the cup, the soft furrow of her brow as she listened—so eager, so willing.

How utterly tempting.

His mind wandered, unbidden, to something far less professional. The thought of bending her over this very table, of pressing her into the cool surface while she gasped his name—it was almost distracting. Almost.

The faintest twitch of his jaw was the only sign of his restraint before he continued as if nothing had shifted in his mind.

“You will be assisting me with case studies, research, and—when appropriate—observing patient interactions. Your responsibilities will require a certain level of discretion, as well as an ability to handle uncomfortable subjects with poise.” His gaze flickered, watching for the subtle shifts in her expression. “I trust that won’t be an issue?”

She nodded quickly, almost too eager, and something dark and satisfied curled in his chest.

Eager. Willing. Unaware. How lovely.

“Good,” he murmured. “In return, you’ll have the opportunity to learn in a way most interns do not. You will see things from a perspective that textbooks simply cannot provide.” He leaned back slightly, watching her over the rim of his cup.

-

The sky had faded into a dusky gray by the time they stepped out of the café, the crisp Maryland air sending a small shiver down her spine. She hugged her arms around herself, her warm buzz from the conversation now shifting into something else—hesitation.

Hannibal, of course, noticed.

He stood beside her, perfectly composed, his coat pristine, his presence unshaken by the cold. She envied that. He glanced at her, expectant, waiting for her to speak first.

“Well,” she started, shifting slightly on her feet, “I should probably get going…”

He remained silent, a brow lifting ever so slightly.

She let out a small, nervous laugh, looking away as if embarrassed by what she had to admit. “It’s just—my dorm is kind of… far.” She winced, as if that might soften the confession.

Hannibal hummed, clasping his hands behind his back. “How far?”

She hesitated, toeing the ground. “Like… a forty-minute walk?”

He blinked, clearly unimpressed.

“I mean—” she rushed to explain, “I don’t mind! I walk all the time, it’s just a little late, and I didn’t exactly—” She cut herself off, feeling ridiculous. She hadn’t planned for this. She hadn’t planned for him.

Hannibal exhaled, the sound measured, patient—almost amused.

“Hmm,” he mused. “So, not only do you neglect to bring your wallet, but you also fail to consider how you’d get home.” He clicked his tongue. Mock disappointment. “And here I thought you were the most prepared person you knew.”

Her face burned. “I usually am! I told you, this was just—a bad day.”

Hannibal tilted his head, considering her, before finally gesturing toward the curb. “Come. I’ll drive you.”

Her lips parted, caught between relief and a sudden, new nervousness.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to—”

His gaze flicked back to her, sharper now.

“Come.”

First person POV (Y/n)

“Come.”

The single word left no room for argument. No warmth, no patience—just a quiet command that settled deep in my chest, making my breath catch.

I nodded quickly, falling into step beside him, though I felt ridiculously small doing so. Embarrassment prickled at my skin, a creeping, uncomfortable heat. I must have looked utterly helpless, trailing after him like some lost lamb.

My fingers fumbled for my phone, more for something to do than anything else. The screen lit up—6:30 PM. The sky had already darkened, the crisp evening air sinking into my bones.

I swallowed, shifting my weight as I glanced up at him. “Thank you so much, sir—I, um—” My voice wavered slightly, and I cleared my throat, forcing a weak laugh. “I don’t even think I’d know how to get back on my own. It’s getting dark so fast.”

I hated how nervous I sounded—small, uncertain. But Hannibal didn’t respond right away. He simply looked down at me, unreadable, before turning his gaze back ahead.

And still, I followed.

The silence stretched between us, thick and unbroken.

My own footsteps felt too loud against the pavement, my breath hitching slightly in the cool night air. Hannibal walked with effortless grace beside me, his presence calm, controlled—completely unaffected by my nervous energy.

I swallowed hard, clutching my phone in my hands just to keep them from fidgeting. My mind scrambled for something to say, something to fill the heavy quiet pressing between us.

“So, um—” I started, forcing a small laugh, trying to sound lighthearted, but before I could even finish the thought—

“Do you make a habit of being this careless?”

His voice cut through me like a blade—low, smooth, yet undeniably condescending. I tensed, my mouth snapping shut, my stomach twisting at the sudden shift in the air.

I blinked up at him, caught between embarrassment and the strange, suffocating weight of his attention.

“I—” My voice wavered. I forced a small, breathless laugh, though it did little to steady me. “I wouldn’t say that, I just—”

Hannibal hummed, tilting his head slightly as if studying me, his expression unreadable. Unimpressed.

“You don’t think ahead,” he stated, not as a question, but a fact. “You leave without your wallet. You wander without considering how to return. And yet, you seem surprised when it leads to trouble.”

I swallowed hard, my face burning.

“I—I usually do think ahead,” I tried again, but my words felt weak. “It was just—”

“A bad day,” he finished for me, voice smooth, knowing. “Yes, you’ve already said.”

I exhaled sharply, shifting under his gaze. I wasn’t sure if I was frustrated or just humiliated, but either way, I didn’t know how to respond.

Hannibal, of course, had no such problem.

His lips curled slightly, something mocking, indulgent in the way he regarded me.

“Then let us hope,” he said, voice rich with amusement, “that tomorrow, you wake up on the right side of the bed.”

I needed to make sure to be more prepared next time

After what felt like endless hours of writing and submitting, writing and submitting, I finally received an email back from one of the many psychiatrists I’d been desperately trying to reach for my mandatory internship—Dr.Lecter, A prestigious man with many colorful reviews, which had drawn me to contact him.

From: H***********@gmail.com

To: Y/[email protected]

Subject: Internship for Johns Hopkins University

Dear Y/N,

I’ve had the pleasure of reviewing your application and personal portfolio, and I must say—your dedication and talent are impossible to overlook. It’s clear you take your work seriously, and intelligence like yours is always refreshing to encounter. I have no doubt that you would be the perfect young lady for me to mentor

do get in touch at your earliest convenience, and please, use my personal number (***) ***-****

Best,

Doctor Lecter

My heart pounded out of my chest, my eyes scanning his words again and again as warmth flooded my face. Oh god—had I really sent all that? How had I forgotten? Yes—I had sent all of it, in a tired, near-lucid state, exhausted from working so hard. My words had grown almost desperate by the last emails, pleading for validation.

But really? My whole life story? A deep dive into why I chose psychiatry—endless run-ons about trauma and my relentless hope for a better world?

And—oh no—the pictures. Me in scrubs, grinning way too hard, double thumbs-up in front of a cadaver during one of my early tech programs. Or me, beaming like an overexcited tourist beside historical documents, looking ridiculously proud.

Yet, all of that faded as my eyes caught on one thing—his phone number.

I screamed like a teenage girl, shooting up from my seat as I sprinted to grab my phone, my hands shaking as I typed in his number—only to pause.

What do I even say?!

I groaned, throwing myself back onto my bed.

Third person (Hannibal's) P.O.V

Hannibal had been waiting. Days bled into each other, an endless cycle of monotony—listening to insipid patients whine about their problems, assisting in crime cases that barely challenged him, returning home to indulge in his more refined appetites. Even killing had lost its thrill. Nothing ever truly stirred him.

Until your email.

God, the desperation dripped from every word, a quiet, pleading sort of need that sent a slow, curling heat through him. You had laid yourself bare, unaware of what exactly you had just invited into your life. Your tragic little story, the way you carried yourself—so unassuming, so small. So easy.

Just picturing you in his office, lingering in his space, speaking to him with those wide, trusting eyes—his jaw locked, his fingers twitching with restraint.

Staring at the pictures you had attached, Hannibal felt his length twitch, his breath slowing as his free hand drifted—almost absentmindedly—palming himself through the fine fabric of his dress pants. God.

The way your lips curled, the way your smile beamed so effortlessly, so full of warmth—it was intoxicating. A stark contrast to the cold, calculated existence he thrived in. You radiated light, soft and unguarded, utterly unaware of the predator fixated on you.

His throat tightened.

Such an innocent little thing, standing there in your scrubs, so proud, so eager. So trusting. You belonged to a world of laughter and hope, while he—he was carved from shadow and silence, his smile only ever genuine when he was peeling flesh from bone.

And yet, here he was, jaw clenched, breath heavy, wanting.

Needing.

He exhaled sharply, fingers pressing harder against the growing strain beneath his waistband.

Oh, sweet girl… you have no idea what you’ve done.

Ding!

The sharp chime shattered the heavy silence, jolting him from his trance. His phone clattered against the desk, but his eyes were already locked onto the screen. He knew who it was. Of course, he did.

Hannibal was a meticulous man. A careful man. And yet, you had made it so easy for him. Every little detail of your life, carelessly scattered across the internet—your school, your favorite cafés, even the places you liked to study. He knew where you had been before you even told him. He had all of you at his fingertips.

And now, your number. Displayed so innocently on his screen.

"Hello Doctor Lecter! This is Y/n :),I got your acceptance email-"

The preview cut off, but he didn’t need to see the rest to know exactly how you would sound—bubbly, eager, grateful. A stark contrast to the dark amusement curling in his chest.

Still, he unlocked the phone, fingers rolling over the screen, expression unreadable as he took in the rest of your message.

and I just can’t express how grateful I am you responded! It’s even better since I’m attending the same school you did! I would love to set up a time for us to chat in person—I hope I’m not being too informal—if I am, please tell me! Thank you so much for your time!

Such sweetness. Such hope. He could practically hear the nervous excitement laced in your words, see the way your hands might have trembled as you typed, wondering if you were saying too much, if you sounded proper enough for him.

He exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening, his fingers pressing into the screen just a little harder than necessary.

You had no idea what you had just invited into your world.

He began typing.

I’m pleased to hear from you so soon. Why don’t we meet somewhere comfortable? Perhaps a coffee shop—there’s a lovely one, [your favorite coffee shop], that I hear is quite popular. It seems like the perfect setting for our first conversation. Let me know when you’re available, and I’ll gladly adjust my schedule.

And please, don’t worry about being too informal. I much prefer sincerity. I look forward to meeting you, properly.

With that, he sent the message, his thumb hovering over the screen for just a second longer than necessary before finally setting the phone down. It slid across his desk with a soft thud, the only sound in the stillness of his office.

Hannibal exhaled slowly, a drawn-out sigh that did little to temper the hunger curling inside him.

You had been on his mind long before your message arrived, but now? Now, you were real. Tangible. Just a text away.

And soon, within reach.

Rolling his shoulders, he adjusted his cuffs with careful precision, though it did little to distract from the heat simmering beneath his skin. His jaw tightened. He needed a walk. Fresh air. A moment to compose himself before his thoughts spiraled into something indulgent.

His lips curled slightly as he stepped away from his desk, anticipation thrumming in his veins.

You had no idea what you had just done.

But you would.

YOUR POV

Ding!

I was too nervous to look at his message right away. My fingers hovered over my phone, heart hammering so loudly it drowned out all rational thought. When I finally mustered the courage to open it, my face went hot instantly.

He mentioned my favorite café.

Had he been there before? Was he that local? Had I somehow missed him in the crowd? My stomach twisted at the thought—equal parts exhilaration and unease. It wasn’t strange for someone to know about it; it was a well-loved spot, after all. But the way he said it, so casually yet deliberately, made my skin prickle.

I let out a small, breathless giggle, my lips pressing together as I read over his words again. I needed to calm down. Breathe, Y/N. Act normal. But I wasn’t normal. Not right now. I was too warm, too jittery, too caught up in the weight of his attention.

A walk. I needed a walk.

Without responding, I shoved my phone into my pocket and grabbed my jacket off the hook by the door. My scarf—a soft, muted rainbow of colors—was next, the familiar knit worn and comforting against my fingers.

"I know it gets cold out there Y/nn! You're taking this scarf with you- it's my dying wish!"

I could still hear my mother’s voice, warm with fond exasperation, as she fussed over me before I left for college. The memory made me smile.

I wrapped the scarf snugly around my neck, letting the soft wool shield me from the crisp autumn air seeping in through the doorframe. My outfit was hardly practical for the weather, but I had always dressed like this—formally, neatly, a habit ingrained into me since childhood. A plaid skirt, fitted but flaring just above my knees, swayed as I moved. Tights helped ward off the chill, but only just. My dark grey moccasins were polished and proper, and beneath my heavy coat, I wore a delicate white button-up. The heart embroidery around the collar was my mother’s handiwork—stitched with care, meant to remind me of home.

Despite the structured appearance, I was anything but composed. Anyone who truly knew me would recognize the contrast between my polished exterior and the nervous, sweet-natured girl underneath.

I stepped outside into the cold, the late autumn air nipping at my nose and cheeks, turning them pink within seconds. The streets were quiet, save for the occasional rustling of leaves tumbling along the pavement.

-

The walk stretched on longer than I had planned. What started as a way to clear my head turned into an aimless journey, my feet carrying me farther and farther from my starting point. By the time I thought to check the time, my phone screen flashed 4:07 PM.

Four hours. Four hours.

I had wandered nearly halfway across the city, lost in my thoughts, replaying that message over and over in my head like a song I couldn’t turn off. The crisp autumn air had settled deep in my bones, my fingers stiff despite being tucked into my coat pockets. My legs ached, but I wasn’t ready to go home just yet.

That was when I noticed it—the quiet hum of a near-empty park, tucked away from the city’s usual noise. Golden leaves fluttered from the branches above, painting the pavement in warm hues. It was peaceful here, the kind of place where no one would bother me, where I could sit for just a moment and-

That was when I noticed him.

A figure moving toward me, his steps slow, measured, deliberate.

At first, I didn’t think much of it. Just another passerby enjoying the evening air, someone else drawn to the quiet solitude of the park. But something about the way he walked made my breath catch—a smooth, unhurried grace, like a man who never rushed for anything.

My brows furrowed as I squinted. Damn it, I forgot my glasses.

I could make out the tall, well-built frame beneath a long, dark coat, the way his shoulders sat perfectly squared, the way his hands—gloved—rested easily at his sides, as if he carried nothing but time and patience.

A strange feeling stirred in my chest, a quiet knowing before my brain even caught up.

Then, as he stepped into the golden glow of the late afternoon sun, everything clicked into place.

The sharp, unmistakable features. The neatly combed dark hair. The slight tilt of his head, like he had already recognized me long before I had recognized him.

Dr. Lecter.

Oh God.

My stomach flipped so violently I thought I might actually double over. What was he doing here? Had he seen me before I saw him? Was he here because of me, or was this just some freakishly timed coincidence?

My brain scrambled for an appropriate reaction—anything other than standing there like an idiot, heart hammering in my throat.

My cheeks burned before I could stop them, heat creeping up my neck, traitorous and undeniable. I must look ridiculous right now—flushed, wide-eyed, completely caught off guard.

But there was no turning back. He was already close enough that ignoring him would be rude. Unprofessional.

So, I did the only thing I could think of.

I forced my stiff fingers to move, lifting a hand in a small, hesitant wave.

And then—I smiled. Nervous, flustered, but hopefully not as painfully obvious as I felt.

"H-Hi, Doctor!" I blurted out, my voice coming out softer than I intended, almost breathless.

I forced a smile, though I could feel the heat rising to my cheeks. My big, wide eyes locked onto him, searching his face for any sign of reaction.

A second passed.

Then another.

My stomach twisted, dread creeping in. Did I mess up? Did I sound stupid? The silence stretched just long enough to make my pulse stutter.

"I-It’s Y/N—" I started, my voice unsteady, but before I could finish, he cut me off.

"I know it’s you, sweetheart."

My breath hitched.

His voice was smooth, effortlessly composed, dripping with confidence in a way that made my skin tingle. He looked down at me with an amused sort of curiosity, his gaze steady, unwavering—like he was taking his time, drinking in every little reaction, every tiny shift in my expression.

"How funny is it," he continued, his lips curving slightly, "that I should run into you here—right after we had just spoken?"

I swallowed hard. My stomach flipped again, my nerves unraveling by the second.

He was so calm. So composed. And here I was, standing there like a nervous wreck, my thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind.

Whatever little confidence I had managed to build up crumbled beneath the weight of his presence. My body felt too warm despite the crisp autumn air, and I could hear the rush of my own pulse in my ears. Still, I forced myself to nod, hoping it looked casual—hoping he couldn’t tell just how flustered I was.

"It’s t-totally crazy!" I rushed out, my voice a little too high, a little too eager. I winced at myself, clearing my throat and trying again, desperate to sound normal. "I-I mean, I wasn’t even paying attention to where I was going. I must’ve wandered too far—I couldn’t even tell you where I am right now if I’m being honest."

I let out a nervous laugh, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear, willing my hands to stop fidgeting. My cheeks burned, and I prayed it looked like nothing more than the bite of the cold air rather than the sheer excitement buzzing beneath my skin.

I had imagined meeting him—dreamed of it even. But now that he was standing in front of me, watching me with that unreadable gaze, I felt like my legs might give out beneath me.

"I'm really sorry you had to meet me like this," I blurted, my voice smaller than I intended. My fingers fidgeted with the hem of my jacket sleeves, twisting the fabric as I dared to glance up at him. His eyes—sharp, knowing—made my stomach flip. God, why did he have to look at me like that?

"I promise I would have been more presentable— and- l-less shocked—I'm very sorry," I squeaked, heat rushing to my face as I dropped my gaze again, mortified by how utterly flustered I was.

A deep hum left him, measured and deliberate. "There is no need for an apology, hon," Hannibal said smoothly, the richness of his voice wrapping around me like silk. "You present yourself in a manner most... revealing."

He tilted his head, gaze unwavering, studying me as though he were unraveling something unseen. "There is an honesty in moments like these. A rare and unguarded glimpse into one's truest nature."

My breath caught in my throat. What—what did he mean by that?

I tried to piece it together, but the warmth in his eyes, the weight of his words, left me grasping at nothing.

I nodded at his words, dumbly, still trying to process the way he spoke, the way his voice felt like silk wrapping around my thoughts. But then, like a slap to the face, realization struck.

Oh no.

He definitely saw that I had read his message but never responded.

My stomach twisted as I stepped closer, suddenly feeling the need to explain myself, to fix whatever impression that might’ve given. "I—I meant to text back!" The words left me in a rush, my hands gripping the hem of my sleeves anxiously. "I just got too excited—" I stopped abruptly, my breath catching as my face burned. Too excited? Oh god. That sounded ridiculous. Desperate.

"I mean—" I scrambled to recover, shaking my head quickly. "Not excited—well, I mean, yes, excited, but not in a weird way! Just… I thought I should wait until I wasn’t so—so—" I let out a nervous laugh, utterly failing to dig myself out of the hole I was sinking into.

Hannibal tilted his head ever so slightly, watching me with that same unreadable expression, his lips curving just enough to make my stomach twist even further.

"There’s no need to fluster yourself on my account," he said, his voice smooth, deliberate. "Some things are best expressed in their rawest form, unfiltered… unguarded."

I swallowed hard, my mind racing, trying to decipher his words. Was he talking about my message—or something else entirely?"I—I completely agree!" I rushed out, still trying to steady myself, my heart hammering against my ribs. "But—still—I mean, we should set up a time. Whenever you’d like, of course."

I offered a small, nervous smile, shifting slightly on my feet, hoping I sounded even the slightest bit composed.

Third person (Hannibal's) pov

Hannibal watched you with quiet amusement, his sharp eyes taking in every flustered movement, every nervous breath. You were trying so hard to sound composed, but the way your words tumbled out—rushed, uncertain—betrayed you.

"I—I completely agree!" you blurted, your voice carrying that same delightful eagerness from your emails. "But—still—I mean, we should set up a time. Whenever you’d like, of course."

You shifted on your feet, offering a small, nervous smile, as if willing yourself to appear more put together. How endearing. You had no idea how much you were giving away. Hannibal let the moment stretch just a second longer than necessary, letting you stew in the weight of his gaze before finally offering a slow, knowing smile.

"How about now, then?" Hannibal’s voice was smooth, effortlessly calm. "It seems the only thing occupying you at this moment is our conversation. I don’t mind in the slightest."

He watched as you blinked, clearly caught off guard. Your fingers twitched at your sides, your lips parting slightly as if scrambling for a response. You hadn’t expected that—hadn’t considered that he might take control of the moment so easily, turning your nervous rambling into something entirely inescapable.

Of course, he knew you wouldn’t say no. You had been so eager, so desperate for this opportunity, your emails practically dripping with the need to prove yourself. The way you sought validation was almost endearing—so open, so unaware of just how much you had already given away.

And now, standing before him, you couldn’t hide it. The excitement in your eyes, the nervous energy humming beneath your skin. You were trying so hard to play it cool, but he could see it all—the way your breath hitched, the way you hesitated for just a second too long.

He let the silence stretch, just enough to make you squirm, his face giving no hints to how he felt.

"Oh! Of course! Now is perfect!" she blurts out, nodding far too quickly, her voice pitching higher than she probably intended. She grips the hem of her coat, wringing the fabric between her fingers, as if the motion might tether her to reality—might stop her from unraveling beneath her own nervous energy.

How utterly transparent.

I say nothing for a moment, only watching, taking in the way she fidgets, the way her pulse flutters just beneath the delicate skin of her throat. She is trying so very hard to maintain composure, but she is failing spectacularly.

She doesn’t realize how much she gives away. How easily every flicker of emotion plays across her face. It is almost endearing—the way she fights against her excitement, attempting to suppress it, as if I cannot already see through her.

And yet, there is something else beneath the surface. Something softer, untouched by the weight of the world’s cruelty. A rare thing, fragile and sweet.

My lips curl slightly.

She swallows hard, her breath quickening, the silence stretching just long enough for uncertainty to creep in. I can almost feel the way her mind races, second-guessing herself, wondering if she has said too much or too little.

Finally, I incline my head in a slow, deliberate motion.

"Perfect," I murmur, watching as her breath hitched