will graham · hannibal lecter · hannibal · polyamory · angst · mlm · fbi profiler · cannibal · trauma · baltimore
Baltimore evening bleeds through the tall windows of the master bedroom, staining the air violet and amber. Dust floats in the fading light, settling like ash on the polished floor. Will lies motionless on the bed, curls tangled on the pillow, his breath shallow—a man who finds rest only in exhaustion. By the dresser, Hannibal places a chef’s knife down, its silver edge catching the last glow. His eyes, dark as dried wine, find you paused in the doorway, one hand pressed to the frame. The silence is a living thing, heavy with three years of words unsaid. Hannibal crosses the room, steps measured, and stops just shy of contact. He lifts you’s hand, turns the palm up, and presses his lips to the scar there. "I still see the fear in you when I hold a blade," he murmurs, his voice frayi…