Work Text:
“Ethics become aesthetics.”
Dr. Hannibal Lecter (Hannibal S03E01, "Primavera")
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Hannibal accepts a glass of champagne from one of the servers and pauses in one corner of the room, eyes expertly surveying his surroundings. The get-together has been in full swing for at least an hour; small groups have formed and drinks have been served. The light din of polite conversation echoes in Hannibal’s ears as he takes a sip of his champagne. There are guards stationed at each entrance and exit but Hannibal knows security will be lax tonight. It’s only a social gathering, after all, and no one of particular import is in attendance.
His gaze settles on a figure at the far side of the room: his prey, Dr. Roman Fell, who is rather dynamically conversing with a few attendees.
“You’re late.”
A smirk tugs on Hannibal’s lips. He glances at Heather as she sidles up next to him, nursing her own flute of champagne.
“I had to take care of Bedelia’s accommodations for the night,” he says.
“And where is dear Dr. Du Maurier?”
“Elsewhere and none the wiser. You needn’t worry about her now.”
“I don’t know why you had to bring her along, Hannibal. She doesn’t trust you, so I can’t trust her.” A little huff escapes her, which Hannibal silently delights in. “It doesn’t help that she’s always trying to psychoanalyze me. I only like it when you do it.”
“I do find joy in trying to understand incomprehensible things.” Ducking his head slightly, he murmurs into her ear, “And you, incomprehensible darling – you look good enough to eat.”
And she does. Her little black velvet dress hugs her waistline and ends a few inches above her knees. Her shoulders are bare save for two thin straps holding the material up, and it would be perfectly decent, considering, if the back of it didn’t dip so low that Hannibal could see the dimples at the base of her spine. He places his fingers there, tracing small circles onto her skin.
She raises an eyebrow at him. “You wouldn’t.”
He chuckles and pulls his hand away. “I’m only teasing, of course.”
She hums, turning away from him so she can scrutinize Fell. But out of the corner of her eye, she notices something else.
“You have an admirer,” she says under her breath.
Surreptitiously, Hannibal cranes his neck as he drinks from his flute. Anyone else would think that he is merely scanning the room in search for an acquaintance or a friend. Heather is right, though; standing by the bar is a man with salt and pepper hair and eyes that seem far too interested in Hannibal and his escort.
The man smiles at Hannibal, approaches and introduces himself as Anthony Dimmond.
“Boris Jakov,” Hannibal replies.
“I’d offer a hand but…”
Hannibal’s eyes barely flicker to the two flutes currently in Dimmond’s care. “It’s a double-fisted kind of bash.”
“And this lovely sprite is?” Dimmond directs his attention to Heather. She doesn’t miss the way his eyes stray to her chest.
Resisting the urge to glare, she smiles and bows her head good-naturedly. “Imogen Clark. I’m a good friend of Boris’.”
“More than friends, from what I saw.”
Heather’s eyes widen slightly. Rude, she muses, glancing at Hannibal and smirking when she sees the glint of murderous intent in his eyes. “Do stop your tongue from wagging, Mr. Dimmond,” she chides. “Boris is married. I’m friends with his wife.”
“Oh, well then I must apologize. And please, do call me Anthony. ‘Mr. Dimmond’ makes me feel so old,” Dimmond says. “Do you know Roman well?”
Heather looks at Hannibal, feigning hesitation when in reality, she isn’t sure what she should say; they hadn’t discussed Boris Jakov and Imogen Clark’s relationship with Roman Fell. Hannibal sends her a vaguely chastising look just as Dimmond picks up the conversation again, eyes sparkling.
“The both of you were staring at him with thinly veiled disdain, a look I know all too well,” he says. “I was his TA at Cambridge. He was insufferable even then.”
He downs his second flute of champagne in one go and passes his empty glasses to a nearby server.
“Have you read his books?” he asks, pulling out a worn novel from within his jacket. Heather isn’t able to quell her glower then; it’s gone by the time Dimmond’s eyes shift from Hannibal back to her. “They’re terrible. You know they’re terrible. You’re just too polite to say. Blink if you agree.”
He stares expectantly at Hannibal, so Hannibal blinks.
“See?” Grinning, Dimmond moves closer to Heather, close enough that his shoulder brushes against hers. “That doesn’t stop him from squatting over his keyboard and depositing a fresh one every six to eight months. It takes me six to eight months to write one line.”
Some sort of noise must have escaped Heather without her meaning it to, because then Hannibal and Dimmond are staring at her with raised eyebrows – the former more out of amusement if the slight lilt on his mouth is anything to go by.
“Do you write, Imogen?” Dimmond inquires.
Heather thinks fast. Hannibal hadn’t said anything against sharing her past occupation.
“No, thankfully,” she says. “I paint.”
“Oh? Any exhibits in the near future? Perhaps I can drop by sometime.”
“I’m actually on a bit of a break right now. Searching for inspiration and all that.”
“Shame.” His disappointment sounds genuine. “Any kind of art is difficult, isn’t it? For Roman, though, it’s easier to slide into academia and dissect the work of others than it is to stand by his own words.”
Hannibal tilts his head in consideration. “One can appreciate another’s words without dissecting them,” he says. “Though, on occasion, dissection is the only thing that will do.”
Heather bites back a smile, recalling that Hannibal used to study to be a surgeon. Dimmond, of course, remains completely in the dark. He keeps talking and Heather chimes in from time to time; otherwise she is all too happy to let Hannibal take the reins.
When Dimmond finally leaves, Heather glares at the back of his head and takes a long pull from her champagne.
“Well done,” Hannibal says. “But your poker face could use some work.”
“Sorry,” Heather says. “It’s just that he seemed more interested in my breasts than anything else I had to say.”
“His time will come, I assure you.” He pauses. “Although, I can’t say I blame him.”
Heather blinks up at him and then grins. “Business first, Doctor Lecter.”
He makes a little humming noise from the back of his throat before abruptly leaning away from her. “Speaking of business.”
She follows his gaze and sees that Fell has disappeared into the coat room.
“Let’s go.”
Hannibal leads her out of the building and to where his bike is parked. He gives her his jacket before straddling the seat. Heather smiles, standing by the wall and appreciatively eyeing the taut muscles in Hannibal’s back as he leans forward on his motorcycle.
Fell exits the building not long afterwards.
“Bonsoir,” Hannibal greets him. Fell replies with a dismissive gesture and Heather doesn’t bother to hide the predatory grin that edges up her mouth.
Wordlessly, Hannibal starts the engine and makes space for her on the seat. She wraps her arms around his midsection and places her cheek on the base of his spine. The engine purrs deliciously between her legs – coupled with the anticipation of what she and Hannibal are about to do, she would be lying if she said that she isn’t already faintly aroused.
They follow Dr. Fell to his house in a vaguely suburban area. It is well past midnight and there are no passing cars to be seen. The lights in the neighboring houses are all off.
When Fell arrives, a crease appears between his eyebrows upon seeing Hannibal and Heather there.
“Bonsoir,” he says: a vain attempt at politeness. His voice lilts higher at the end, giving away his confusion.
“Bonsoir,” Heather replies, flashing her sultriest smile.
She only has to bat her eyelashes and finger her necklace, effectively drawing his gaze to her chest, in order to convince him that she is worthy of entertaining. He is slightly reluctant to invite Hannibal inside, but Heather assures him that Hannibal is as big of a fanatic as she is.
Hannibal makes quick work of Fell as soon as the door closes behind them. He holds up the liver and raises an eyebrow. “Hungry?”
“Famished,” she replies. “I’ll get the wine.”
When she returns, Hannibal is hard at work in the kitchen. She doesn’t know where Fell’s body is but she doesn’t bother to search. Instead, she puts a classical record on and pours two glasses of wine for her and Hannibal. She nurses hers as she leans against the kitchen isle, admiring Hannibal’s lithe grace and wondering about what the night will bring.
As he is plating the dish, Heather creeps toward him from behind and plants a kiss on his shoulder, announcing her presence.
“Hello,” he says. She hears the smile in his voice.
Before she can say anything in reply, they hear the front door open and close and lights being switched on in the main hall. Heather rises onto her toes and murmurs innocently into Hannibal’s ear, “Please?”
“She’s all yours.”
She captures Hannibal’s earlobe between her teeth and gives it a teasing pull, skittering away before he can reprimand her for it.
Lydia Fell is fit and taller than Heather by a few inches, but Heather has always enjoyed brawling more than she cares to admit. She also has the element of surprise. The two of them scuffle in the foyer for a few minutes, Heather making sure that the other woman never gets the opportunity to pull on Heather’s hair. At the end, Heather smashes Roman Fell’s decanter of scotch to the ground and slits Lydia’s throat with one of the glass shards.
Hannibal finds her kneeling beside the pool of Lydia Fell’s blood, head tilted slightly. She is eyeing her reflection. He watches as she dips her forefinger into the blood red pool and spreads the warm liquid all over her lips.
“You’ve ruined your dress,” he remarks.
“Aren’t you going to tell me I look better out of it?”
“You already know it. Come, dinner is getting cold.” He turns away.
More than a little put-out, Heather follows him into the dining room. She is about to sit down when Hannibal calls for her to stop. Confused, she looks at him.
“Careful not to get any blood on the seat,” he says.
She knows he is only being careful; if the police find a bloody imprint of her backside on a dining room chair then they might trace it back to Hannibal’s preferences towards meat, therefore putting their identities in jeopardy. Still, she can’t help the little frisson of pleasure that crawls up her spine once an idea pops into her head – something naughty, but something she knows he will appreciate.
Smiling slyly, she pushes the straps of her dress off her shoulders and allows the smooth material to drop to the floor, leaving her in nothing but her underwear.
Her chest heaves in anticipation and Hannibal’s eyes darken at the sight. She seats herself at the table and takes a bite of his cooking, never taking her eyes off him. After a moment, he sits down as well. They eat in tense, electrifying silence.
She’s barely finished with her meal before he suddenly pushes his chair back and strides up to her. There is a gleam in his eye. He forces her out of her chair and onto the floor.
“W-What are you doing?” she says, afraid of him for a moment.
Her fear dissipates as soon as he pulls her underwear off. “Dessert,” he growls. “I’ve been able to smell you even before we got here. Tell me, was it the purr of the engine, or was your mind providing you all sorts of delicious images of what we were going to do with the Fells?”
“Both.” Her whimpers are drawn out into a moan when he shoves his fingers up her cunt, his thumb rubbing relentlessly against her clit, building her orgasm hard and fast.
When she comes, Hannibal throws her legs over his shoulders and drinks at the juices trickling out of her. He buries his face into her folds and inhales her, eating her out like a man starved. There is none of his usual teasing, no delicacy. Heather suspects it is because of the built-up adrenalin from the night; she can’t bring herself to care.
He makes her come with his mouth twice. By the time he sheathes himself within her, she is boneless and crying tears of ecstasy. Everything is so sensitive and Hannibal knows, even as he pounds into her with all his hidden strength. He pulls down the cup of her bra and draws her nipple into his mouth. She claws at his back.
“Again,” he grunts. “Come for me. Again.”
A pained look settles across her face. She shakes her head. “Don’t know if I c-can.”
Hannibal bares his teeth and grabs the backs of her knees. He presses her legs together, outstretched, and leans against her – nearly folding her in half but he is deeper than before, and in his pushing in and out of her, his cock drags against that one spot inside of her that makes her see stars.
She gasps, suddenly feeling the need to relieve herself. “H-Hannibal.”
He doesn’t stop. If anything, he pistons into her harder, grinding his hips upwards every time. There is a knowing look on his face and the set of his mouth suggests that he’s waiting for something.
The pressure inside her builds into something more intense than she’s ever felt before, keeps on building until she can only scream. Her vision dims.
When she regains awareness, Hannibal is smirking down at her. The warmth inside of her suggests that he’s finished, but there is a significant amount of wetness beneath her that makes her frown in confusion.
Hannibal pinpoints the moment it dawns on her, and his smile widens. That smile solely reserved for her. He leans down and kisses her nose, her cheek, her temple. “You never cease to surprise me.”
She laughs breathlessly and kisses his neck. “At least I know you’ll never get tired of me.”
He hums. “Perish the thought, Heather. You’ve followed me all this way. I could never get tired of you.”
She believes him.