Hannibal Lecter | unjustified hopes

Quietly admiring your appearance, your mannerisms, and your habits, Lecter would, several times during a lesson, sweep you with a look as if, each time he did so, he was carving a version of you in his mind, making it more and more ideal, gently influencing you throughout your studies. Despite his less-than-romantic appreciation for you, Hannibal would often catch himself with a thought racing through his refined, theatrical consciousness: how the sunbeams from the office window would beautifully and tenderly caress your cheeks, as if to tell him once more that you were the one person, more suited to him than anyone had ever been. And when the sun was in a more playful mood, its rays would highlight your thighs, gliding higher and higher toward your skirt throughout the lesson... God, how difficult it was to endure this trial when, in reality, you were merely a human, exhausted by years of controlling everything, while his trousers tugged insistently backward, a reminder of the barrier of professional relations between you. The sweat tracing down his temple seemed to try to soothe him, to calm him, but it was far too unbearable. In such moments, all that filled Lecter's mind were pleas directed at himself, begging to get through this hellishly long lesson at least decently, if not brilliantly, as he usually did. Another part of his mind seethed with something else entirely. It was filled with a million images of how Hannibal could kiss you, what he could grasp to squeeze, to heighten your sensations, to pull you closer against his pistoning movements, which he would try to restrain at first, just as he did with everything else. Everything must be kept under control. Everything he could hold in his hands. Everything except this sexual body and brilliant mind, which nature itself and, it seemed, fate were pointing him towards.

Lately, everything had been piling up on you. From problems with your parents to problems with your studies. You tried. You tried desperately to stay afloat, to keep in your hands everything that needed stability, but in trying to maintain balance at any cost, your "hands" had grown too weak. Everything spiraled out of control, forcing you to finally let go and let things drift, to go with the flow, because you had absolutely no strength left. You just wanted to do whatever came to mind, whatever would make you happy, even if only for a moment.

You missed several days, didn't show up for classes, which meant Lecter couldn't delight in your angelic appearance, couldn't soothe himself with the gleam of light on your delicate curves. His own state began to deteriorate. He became more irritable, more critical, finding no solace in the empty spot at the desk where his personal slice of heaven should have been.

When you finally returned to your seat, behaving with a newfound carelessness born from exhaustion, Hannibal was stunned the moment you committed something terrible. At least in his eyes, it cracked your angelic facade. Taking inspiration from your instigators, your classmates, you slipped a vile drawing into Lecter's desk drawer, depicting him in the starring role. For a few seconds, a sharp pain seized his heart, then gave way to the suffocating heat of a sense of betrayal from you. Realizing that you would not soothe him today with your radiant presence, he let out a snarl. Hannibal held up the drawing, nearly tearing the thick paper with his fingers in a standard grip. He was furious, snarling, shouting, and then he approached you, breathing heavily, and growled quietly in your ear.

• To my office. Immediately after class.

It didn't sound like a request or a threat intended as a future admonition; no, it was a perfectly clear command, directed specifically at you.

Arriving at Lecter's office trembling, you heard a clear, slightly detached snarl, born of rage.

• To me.

He snarls, taking off his glasses and sighing, as if you aren't a student, but a disobedient dog that failed to execute a necessary command in practice.

• Tell me, what the hell was that? You... Do you have any idea what you've done?

Of course, you couldn't fully grasp the magnitude of the tragedy that only Hannibal had witnessed. He pointed imperiously at his desk. When you approached it, he went to the office door and locked it. Just as you were about to ask him what this meant, your heart uneasy from the situation, Lecter cut you off.

• Silence.

He said, slightly calmer, slipping the key into his pocket before returning, walking past the desk, and partially opening just one curtain—the one through which the beautiful sunbeams would later caress your back, as he so loved. Lecter gently helped you bend over the desk and pressed his chest against your back, first tenderly wrapping his arms around your thighs, then squeezing them until it was painful, and exhaled softly into your ear, calming himself.

• Shh. Consider this the same prank you pulled on me, without even thinking it might hurt me, in response to which, I think it's only fair that I won't worry about causing you a bit more discomfort than I ever wanted. I... I never wanted to cause you real pain, but this... You know, it's as if you destroyed the long days of work I put into shaping you. And I... I'm not letting go of this project, I'm not giving up.

Hannibal sighed again, but this time with much more feeling in the exhale. At least, that's how it felt. As if he had relinquished some control.

• Never mind. Just know that none of this is devoid of certain feelings.

Of course, Lecter wouldn't have so quickly admitted that you had knocked him off balance and almost forced him to utter words of love aloud. His tongue pricked with the saccharine tinge of a potential confession, along with the tenderness enveloping his senses, tempting him to confess, but still, years of composure couldn't simply disappear, giving him more time to think, delaying that admission. An admission of more humanity than Hannibal believed he possessed.

• Your legs, your back, your neck, your cheeks...

It seemed he wanted to snarl, but something inside him made the quiet snarl transition into a vulnerable moan.

• Please...

His hands squeezed your thighs harder, hard enough to leave bruises and crescent-shaped nail marks, and his teeth sank into the curve of your neck, warmed by the sunbeams from the window. From beneath his inner vulnerability, a boiling, flowing lava of anger at your "ingratitude" towards him began to emerge. One of Lecter's hands slid between his hips and your buttocks to squeeze one of them, while his other hand stealthily crept towards the sensitive, already warm spot between your legs.

• Mine...

Even though the fingers covering your crotch were stroking it very gently, his strong palm came down sharply on your buttock. The sound of the slap echoed through the office, along with the soft rustle of his strict suit and the friction of your clothing against his desk.