Warnings: Mentions of cannibalism (canon-typical)
Gif source: Hannibal
Imagine being one of Hannibal’s patients and he discovers your secret, that you killed and cannibalized someone. It haunts you and that’s why you are seeing a therapist but instead of helping you, he encourages you to embrace that side of yourself which leads to a romance and “partners in crime” relationship between the two of you.
——— Request for @twounbeatablebeaters ———
It was dangerous to talk about the true reason you were seeing him, but at this point you didn’t care about the possibility of Dr. Lector’s mandatory reporting, or the idea that you would be locked away for your heinous crime. You had been run ragged by the haunting guilt, the constant dread and disgust at yourself that lingered around each and every corner. Not even your weekly therapy visits could help anymore. You had isolated yourself, and only seemed to be getting worse.
So when Dr. Lecter pressed you, asking you in a gentle, pressing tone, “What is it that you cannot tell me?” you found that you could not keep yourself from the admission. The weeks of seeing him, of his words whittling away at your resolve to take your sins to the grave, they wore on you, until you had no more strength to keep it from him.
“I…” you breathe a slow, shuddering breath, not meeting his eye as you focus intensely on a bookcase on the wall behind him, “I hurt someone… I killed them and— I couldn’t control it. I can’t explain it. I had this urge— I had to eat them,” strangely, there’s a sort of relief that washes through you at having finally confessed to another person the events of that night, months ago. Your voice quiets somewhat as you admit, more to yourself than to Dr. Lecter, “I enjoyed it, too.”
Silence permeates his office, the sound of your own heart pounding harshly in your ears as your eyes slip to meet his own nervously. What were you going to do now? You told him the truth.
More importantly, what would he do?
Whatever you had predicted— a look of disgust, or maybe fear, perhaps a threat to call the police sent in your direction— was not what you found upon further observation of the psychiatrist sitting coldly with one leg crossed along the other, as calm as if you had told him you enjoyed the weather, rather than the fact you had consumed another human being. Dr. Lecter, leans on his armrest, tilting his head as he watches you, looking for something you suppose, though you can only guess what. Was he looking for the flicker of a lie? Or perhaps gauging the immediate danger you were to him?
You cannot stand the silence a moment longer, forcing through clenched teeth with a tone of annoyance, “Aren’t you supposed to report me, now? Call the cops or whatever else? Tell me I’m insane or that what I did was morally wrong?”
“Do you want me to do those things?” Dr. Lecter levels you with, and for a moment you think he finds your agitation amusing.
You roll the question on your tongue, deciding if you really did want him to do what he should, legally, do, before you give him your answer, “Not really.”
A soft smile slips onto his lips, but it was anything from friendly. It was unnerving, sending a pang of adrenaline through you as you realize he was, quite literally, sizing you up. Deciding what to do with you in a way that was only filled with ulterior motives.
Just like that, the look is gone, once again hidden behind his typically unreadable friendliness that urged one to confess all their secrets to him.
“Then, I will not,” Dr. Lecter decides, leaning back in his chair, as if to continue your therapy session. “Would you like to tell me more about that night?”