Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“That bitch is going to die.” Will stormed into Hannibal’s study, flinging his tablet at Hannibal’s desk. Hannibal, scribbling impossibly neat notes in the margin of an article, looked up in time to catch the tablet and set it carefully aside. He held up an imperious finger, and continued his writing.

Left standing silently in front of Hannibal’s desk, like a chasten child awaiting the principal, Will seethed. He marched over to Hannibal’s newest overpriced couch. He launched himself over the back, landing firmly on the cushions as the ancient frame groaned in protest. The plaintive wail from the couch finally drew Hannibal’s attention.

“Will, that settee survived the Glorious Revolution, will it survive you?”

“I’m hardly a Jacobite, so it’s got a chance.” Holding Hannibal’s gaze, he propped his worn boots on the antique velvet arm, listening to the wooden joints creek. Hannibal’s lip twitched. Will grinned in triumph. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“Our dear friend Frederick has been published in the American Journal of Psychiatry,” Hannibal finished writing and neatly closed the journal. “As expected, it’s poorly researched and filled with ridiculous assumptions as well as outright falsehoods, beginning with the photo of the author.” Hannibal stood and stretched, looking feline as he rolled his tight muscles loose. He strolled over to his precious settee.

“I imagine a current photo of Dr. Chilton might put some readers off,” offered Will. “Not everyone wants to read research compiled by a melted Ken Doll.” He smiled as Hannibal gently lifted his legs and sat, taking care to keep Will’s boots off of the ancient upholstery.

“I assure you, there is no actual research in the entire piece,” Hannibal sniffs. “I have no idea how he passed a peer review, as my rebuttal will outline.”

“I’m sure your piece will make him cry, if he still has tear ducts. Now, can we talk about my thing?”

Hannibal hummed, untying the laces of Will’s boots before neatly setting them on the floor. He dug his thumb into Will’s arch and smiled as the empath moaned softly. “You have my undivided attention.”

“Seen the latest issue of Tattle Crime?”

“My morning has been occupied refuting Frederick’s dubious writing. Is there another Murder Husbands exposé? What perversions has Ms. Lounds accused us of now?”

Will jerked his feet from Hannibal’s hands and moved to the desk to retrieve the tablet. He thrust it into Hannibal’s hands, taking pains to sit gently on the settee.

Tattle Crime’s homepage featured a giant banner reading “MURDER MOON” in lettering that seemed to drip blood. Beneath it: Click here to see the images too hot for the homepage!

“A murder moon? I assume you want to kill her for what she’s done to the English language? This font is horrible.”

Will snatches the tablet from Hannibal, pulls up a photo, and shoves it back.

The photo was clearly taken at a distance, but with a high resolution camera, the details were stunning. Will’s lower back was arched over the railing of a balcony, their hotel in St. Barth’s if Hannibal had to guess. His little mongoose had his head thrown back, mouth agape and eyes screwed shut. The muscles in his arms were pronounced as he desperately gripped the railing. Will’s calves were resting on Hannibal’s shoulders, the cannibal’s teeth sunk into the delicate flesh just above the ankle. Hannibal marveled over the advancements in cameras, he could see the drops sweat glistening off of their bodies, making them appear glow in the early morning light.

“I fucking told you balcony sex was a terrible idea.”

“Let’s not let one photograph-”

“Thirty-two. There are 32 pictures in that gallery.”

“Really?” Hannibal began swiping through the pictures, completely oblivious to Will’s rising ire. When he finished perusing, Hannibal looked up. “Do I always snarl like that?”

“Are you fucking kidding me? She followed us to St. Barth’s. She knows where we are!”

“My love, now is not the time for panic,” Hannibal raised a hand to soothingly stroke his husband’s arm, but his eyes remained on the tablet.

“Can you goddamn focus?” Will snatched the tablet out of Hannibal’s hand and turned it off. “Freddie Lounds knows where we are.”

“As I recall, that particular morning occurred in May, several thousand miles from our current location. It’s been months, darling, and neither Freddie nor Uncle Jack have come for a visit. It’s possible that she was contacted by a third-party looking to make some money.”

“This is the second time it’s happened! Remember the photos of us in Lucerne?”

“I believe we were clothed in those photos, were we not? Though your hand was down my pants.”

Will grabbed Hannibal’s chin. “Stop deliberately missing the point. I’m worried. If she can find us twice, how long will it take for Freddie to find us here?”

Hannibal wrapped his arms around Will, cradling him into his chest.

“We could always reconsider the move to Dubrovnik.” Hannibal pressed soft kisses behind Will’s ear. “There will be plenty of boat motors to play with at the seaport. Croatia’s extradition policies would give us a little breathing room. The dogs would love it, I’m sure.”

“I suppose it’s better than waiting for Freddie to pop up in our bedroom.” Will melts into Hannibal’s embrace, angling his neck so the cannibal can trail kisses to his shoulder. “I don’t want to lose this. She’s getting really close, Hannibal.”

“Darling boy, we will not be separated again. I promise you, not even the considerable reach of Freddie Lounds will change that.” Will turned in Hannibal’s arms and wiggled until he was straddling the good doctor. The settee creaked piteously, but Hannibal didn’t seem to mind the furniture abuse.

“I still want Freddie dead. She basically made us porn stars.” Hannibal returned his attentions to Will’s neck, sliding his hands into the back of Will’s jeans.

“I hardly think a few salacious images are going to ruin our reputations at this point.”

“One of the commenters called you Hung-ibal.” Will grumbled. He could feel Hannibal’s mouth stretch into a smile against his shoulder.

“How crude.” Will shoved himself back, glaring. Hannibal’s eyes were dancing. Will smacked him solidly on the chest.

“Oh shut up, it was just a good angle.”

Hannibal’s smile widened. “Was it? I’ll make note.”

“You’re impossible when you’re like this, you know that?”

“What’s to be done about that?” Will gasped as Hannibal lifted him up, heading for their bedroom.

To: [email protected]
Subject: Vacation Planning

Dear Ms. Lounds,

While I understand that keeping a low-profile is paramount in your brand of journalism, I was rather disappointed with the content of your latest article. I believe we agreed that I would be photographed from the left, did we not? The next time I spot a photographer in a non-agreed upon position, you will be receiving his liver instead of your precious photos.

I am sorry to report that my darling boy did not enjoy the content of our article as much as I did. In spite of the fact that he is quite photogenic, he’s rather upset with you at the moment, Ms. Lounds. I will re-direct him to a more worthy canvas, but I would suggest you refrain from writing about us for a few months.

Sincerely,

HL

To: [email protected]
Subject: RE: Vacation Planning

You certainly married a delicate little flower didn’t you? Does this mean the photos in St. Croix are off? Let me know before I send Davis down there. I can hold the photos for a few months like I did this time if you think that will make a difference.

As per our usual agreement, I’ve attached a zip file with the high resolution images. I also included the re-touched photos we used on the website. You’re right, it wasn’t quite your angle, was it? At least for your face.

Feel free to buy a t-shirt from the Tattle Crime store, I’ll even spot you 40% off (discount code: MrdrHubs). You’ll be happy to know the Hung-ibal Lecter t-shirt is almost sold out. I’ll keep one on hold for you. Are you still a large?

~Freddie

BTW, Crawford came by today. He screamed at me so long he turned purple. You might want to change emails again, just to be safe.

Chapter Text

“That goddamn bitch! Hannibal!” The cannibal stayed in bed with his book. His husband would find him soon enough, once he stopped slamming doors and cursing. When Will finally burst into the room, a flurry yipping fur balls dancing around his feet, Hannibal looked up.

“Did you need something?”

Will glared at him, clutching his tablet in a white-knuckle grip.

“Don’t worry, Will. Freddie doesn’t know where we are, Will. She just got lucky those other times, Will.” Hannibal noted that Will’s impression of him had improved drastically over the years. “Well she must shit fucking horseshoes, because she did it again!”

“May I point out, that if you find her so distasteful, you should perhaps not send her money?” Hannibal raised a pointed stare to his husband’s chest.

Will looked down at his t-shirt, “Team Hung-ibal” scrawled across his chest in flowing 70s-style script.

“Oh come on, how could I not support my husband in his burgeoning porn career?”

“Our career, dear heart.”

Will glared and tossed Hannibal the tablet, causing several of the dogs to take off in hopes of fetching it. Boomer, their St. Bernard mix, dared to flop his massive paws on the bed next to Hannibal’s book, but quickly retreated when he caught the doctor’s icy stare.

“Please tell me you wiped the beast’s paws off before letting him back into the house.” Hannibal picked at the satin weave of this sheets, inspecting.

“Yes Hannibal, god forbid we have a repeat of the fart-tell incident.” Hannibal let his mouth droop in horror.

“Fauteuil,” Hannibal corrected in a pained voice. “The chair is called a fauteuil, or it was until Boomer decided to leave muddy paws all over the silk damask. Now it’s rubbish.”

“Who buys a chair that somebody can’t sit in?”

“Someone who does not view dogs as people?” Will opened his mouth, then closed it, absently patting Boomer, who was regarding Hannibal from behind Will’s legs.

“Once again your prissy predilections have led us off track. Can we focus on TattleCrime right now? And maybe on how many times I can stab Freddie before she dies?” Hannibal raised an unimpressed eyebrow, but picked up the tablet.

TattleCrime.com was festooned with an odd beach theme. Cartoon palm trees, sand, and ocean bordered the blog. Written in the bloody banner font that Hannibal was learning to despise was “Murder Husbands Go Hawaiian". Beneath it, Hung-ibal Lecter gets lei-ed in Maui.

“Ms. Lounds is getting lazy with her puns, I see.” Will flopped on the bed next to Hannibal, careful to toe off his muddy boots before swinging his feet onto the crisp sheets.

“Yes, that’s the problem here.” Hannibal raised his arm in invitation. Will huffed, but snuggled into Hannibal’s side.

The first photo was practically innocent. Hannibal and Will were laying prostrate by the pool in their rental home, gloriously nude. The tropical greenery surrounding them gave the pool the illusion of a private lagoon. Hannibal was leaning over Will, arranging a lei of purple and white plumeria in the empath’s curls. Hannibal remembered telling Will he looked like Kanaloa, emerging from his sea palace to lure unsuspecting men back to the underworld. The image had brought a feral smile to his beloved mongoose’s face.

“This is quite beautiful, Will. Perhaps we should have it printed.” Hannibal leaned down and pressed a kiss to Will’s forehead. The empath’s eyes softened for a moment, before he shook his head.

“Yeah, it’s a real Hallmark moment. Do you remember what happened next? Because if you don’t, Freddie’s made a flipbook.”

Hannibal swiped through the images. The gallery captured Will crawling up Hannibal’s legs, pausing to lick at the doctor’s hardening cock, before settling in to straddle his husband. The rest of the gallery featured Will riding Hannibal with abandon, one hand planted firmly on the doctor’s fuzzy chest, the other carded into his own curls. Flipping through the gallery, one could actually see Will’s gasps and shouts, his mouth bobbing open and closed even has his eyes screwed shut. When Hannibal was finally able to draw his attention away from the Adonis sitting astride him in the photo, he looked down at his rumpled husband, every bit as beautiful as the naked sex god in the gallery.

He pressed more kisses into Will’s hair, feeling him relax into Hannibal’s side.

“It seems my snarling during coitus is involuntary.”

“That’s your only comment on this?”

“I also find it amazing that the lei remained on your head the whole time.”

“I fucking hate you sometimes.”

“That’s a shame,” Hannibal said. “But you seem to like me quite a bit here. And here. Also here.”

“If you don’t stop swiping, I’m going to break your finger.” Will made a grab for the tablet, but Hannibal easily evaded him, holding the device at arms’ length as he scrolled to the bottom of the article.

“It seems your lei made quite the impression on Freddie’s readership.” Will sighed, burying his head in Hannibal’s side. His next words were muffled. “I’m sorry, Will, I didn’t catch that.”

Will lifted his head, face flushed.

“They’re calling it a flower crown,” he moaned.

“You do look quite regal. I may have to acquire some plumeria,” Hannibal ignored the vicious pinch to his side, and continued reading. “Hung-ibal Lecter and his princely Graham Cracker? You know, I often criticize Ms. Lounds’ dubious prose, but that’s a lovely turn of phrase, don’t you think?”

Hannibal’s face was the picture of innocent inquiry. Will stared at him in horror. Hannibal’s lip twitched, causing Will to make an indignant noise. The doctor easily deflected Will’s first blow as the empath attacked him, slapping at his chest and arms.

“I’m not sure who I want dead more: you or Freddie.”

“Why am I the target of your ire? Especially when we have photographic evidence that I bring you such joy.” Hannibal let Will playfully pound at his chest as he set the tablet aside. The slapping blows didn’t deter him from shifting his love onto his lap.

“If you would stop with the outdoor sex, then maybe Freddie would lose interest and stop making us international porn stars!”

“I did not initiate this particular tryst!” Hannibal defended, tapping a long finger against the logo on Will’s t-shirt. “Which the pictures clearly demonstrate.”

“You called me a sea god! What was I supposed to do?” Will was smiling, in spite of himself.

“Say ‘Thank you’?” Hannibal offered.

“What do you think I was doing?” Will sputtered, exasperated. He felt himself shaking and glanced down at Hannibal, who was silently quaking with laughter. Will tried to move away from his annoying husband, but was caught by a strong arm.

“Yuck it up, Hung-ibal, but until you serve me Freddie kabobs, the only place we’re having sex is here, under the covers, with the lights out.”

Hannibal dropped his arm from Will and stilled. The empath stared at his husband, slightly worried by the eerie immobility. Suddenly Hannibal’s hand shot out, hitting the lamp on the nightstand. In one swift move, he grabbed Will and threw him to the mattress, jumping on top of the shocked empath and pulling the covers over them.

“Deal,” Hannibal whispered, kissing the laugh from Will’s lips.

To: [email protected]
Subject: Luau Invitation

Dear Ms. Lounds,

I am thrilled to report that your paper’s photography has improved immensely. Was it Davis that I spotted in the tree? I do so enjoy his work. I would appreciate it if you would send him to all subsequent shoots.

I hope that our article helped with the flagging sales of the Hung-ibal and murder husbands merchandise, as I do believe we will have to wait quite some time for the next publicity opportunity. Though I found the photos stunning, my little Graham Cracker, as you call him, is still a bit shy. He has put off any vacation plans for the foreseeable future. He has also announced that he wants your head on a pike, but I believe I’ve convinced him that is an unwise course of action.

I do, however, have some reservations about the quality of our merchandise. I wish you would refrain from selling Hung-ibal thongs in the future, they’re quite vulgar. Also, please consider proofing your Murder Husbands’ Do It Over Dinner apron, as there should be no apostrophe in that phrase.

In spite of some questionable products, I would like to reserve a Graham Cracker shirt, size large. Will really does look lovely in that crown, doesn’t he?

Sincerely,
HL

To: [email protected]
Subject: RE: Luau Invitation

You know what, Dr. Feelgood? I’m going to argue that public sex acts in front of a camera are just as vulgar as an innocent little thong.

If you ever want to give up the cannibalism thing, you should consider marketing. I’ve got to know: Did you put the flowers in his hair for Davis? Or was that just one of your fancy aesthetics? Either way I could kiss you, those flowers are a sensation. And much easier to put on a t-shirt than your famous, uh, attributes.

Right now, both the Hung-ibal and Graham Cracker shirts are on backorder, I can’t seem to keep up with demand. Don’t worry, I’ve already got a Graham Cracker shirt ready to ship to you. Same P.O. Box?

As usual, I’ve attached a zip file with the high-res images. I even included a gif that one of the commenters made. It’s hypnotic.

If your precious little Graham Cracker is crumbling, we can take a break for a while, but I warn you, anything longer than a year is seriously endangering your name recognition. At least kill some people to keep yourselves in the news, OK?

Crawford came in screaming again, so far he’s got squat, but he keeps threatening to subpoena my servers. More worryingly, my boss has been talking about a potential buyout. The buyers want to remain private, but the whole thing reeks of Verger money. I’m setting up a separate email for us from now on. You may want to take the necessary precautions.

~Freddie

I’ll let Davis know you liked his work. And that you probably won’t eat him.

Chapter Text

“I’ve been thinking about Freddie Lounds.” Hannibal looked up from Will’s thigh, where he was softly sucking purple marks on the delicate flesh.

“Will, I realize that we have an unconventional relationship, but there are certain visuals I don’t wish to entertain while I’m a hair’s breadth from your cock.”

Will adjusted his legs on the bed so he could meet Hannibal’s eyes over his hard dick.

“I’m sorry, it’s just…this -" He made a vague gesture, "has been bothering me.”

“I’m trying to do something about that presently.” Hannibal arched an eyebrow, and ran a finger lightly up Will’s length. Will shivered, but rolled his eyes.

“Christ, timeout, ok?”

Hannibal sat up, taking the covers with him. Will smiled as Hannibal arranged himself into Dr. Lecter, carefully draping the Egyptian cotton around his waist and schooling his expression into neutral. He brought his hand up and began meticulously arranging his hair.

“What would you like to talk about, Will?”

“Are you seriously going to try to psychoanalyze me while sporting a hard-on?”

“Having failed at fellatio, I see no other recourse.”

Will laughed and sat up.

“As I recall, your psychiatric techniques leave something to be desired too.”

“I had a stellar success rate with my patients,” Hannibal sniffed, drawing himself up a bit.

“I’m not sure it counts if you eat your failures.” Will yanked on the covers, pulling Hannibal closer. The cannibal crawled up his body, arranging them until Will was leaning against his chest. He locked his arms around Will, rubbing in small soothing circles and propping his head against Will’s shoulder.

“Tell me, Will, what has interrupted our evening?”

“There’s something wrong with Freddie Lounds.” Hannibal let loose a derisive snort, the puff of breath ruffling the curls below Will’s ear. “No, I mean it. The stories on us don’t make any sense.”

“Her command of the written word is tenuous at best. And her puns show no art or flare.”

“Your standards for puns are higher than most, love.” Will shook his head. “Did you ever read her stories? She reports our spottings like they’re breaking news.”

“I imagine that helps keep readers interested.”

“Maybe. But why publish old photos as new? If she acknowledged they were old, she could speculate about our current location in piece after piece. Why isn’t she doing that? She feeds off that type of sensationalism.”

Hannibal pressed a kiss into Will’s neck.

“I think you may be giving Ms. Lounds a bit too much credit.”

“Am I? She is consistently misidentifying where we are even though she clearly has a source who knows our movements. They’ve tracked us three times.”

Will’s eyes go wide.

“It’s almost like she’s doing us a favor. She regularly redirects the FBI, and in exchange she gets to publish murder porn for the drooling masses.”

Hannibal’s hold on Will tightened by a fraction. The empath turned to look his husband in the eye.

“But that’s crazy, right?”

Hannibal hummed, pressing soft kisses into Will’s shoulder.

“Hannibal? That would be crazy, wouldn’t it?” Will turned and grabbed Hannibal’s face tightly with his hands, forcing the good doctor to stop his affectionate assault and meet his eyes. Something flashed in the maroon depths and Will’s mouth dropped open.

“It would be totally crazy, unless you’re a big-dicked narcissist who gets off on the idea of forcing Jack Crawford to study pictures of you fucking his former protégé while leading the FBI on a wild goose chase.”

Will closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He tried to remember all the reasons he no longer wanted to kill Hannibal. At the moment, he could only come up with makes amazing eggs benedict, bathes the dogs once a week, and has depraved mind and a long tongue.

“In my defense,” Hannibal murmured softly. Will cracked an eye to regard his husband. “I have been declared insane.”

“Oh, you motherfucker,” Will slapped Hannibal hard, leaving an angry red hand print in the middle of his chest. “I have spent hours agonizing over how that bitch kept finding us. On whether Jack was going to burst through the door and take you from me.”

“I told you I would not let that happen.”

“But failed to mention you were art directing Freddie’s Murder Husband Penthouse spreads!” Will struck Hannibal’s chest again. The dogs, alerted by raised voices and dull slapping noises, pawed at the door and whined.

“I did not imagine you would approve of my plan.”

“The brilliant Dr. Lecter couldn’t think of a way to misdirect Jack that didn’t involve flashing my bits to the entire readership of TattleCrime?”

“They’re quite lovely bits.” Hannibal smiled and leaned forward to kiss Will’s shoulder, but the empath caught the cannibal’s face in a punishing grip.

“I’m glad you like my bits, Hannibal, I really am.” Will glared. “Because your memories of those bits will have to keep you company for the foreseeable future.” He released Hannibal’s face and gave him a shove.

“Will, I know this has been distressing.”

“No, distressing was when I came home and found out you had purchased another settee that cost more than our fucking house.” Will corrected. “This isn’t distressing, it’s fucking infuriating.”

“I was merely trying-”

“I don’t fucking care right now.” Will laughs, a bitter noise in the quiet room “You know the really fucked up part? I’m not even that mad. This isn’t even in the top five for Worst Shit Ever Done to Me by Hannibal Lecter countdown. I’m not bleeding, no one I love is dying in front of me. When you think about it, I really should thank you for conjuring up a grand plan that didn’t involve a linoleum knife and you murmuring creepy poetic nonsense about streams in my ear.”

“Will, please.”

Will rips the sheets away from Hannibal and shoves him again.

“Get out.” Fear flickered in Hannibal’s eyes, for a fraction of a second Will felt guilty.

“Will.” Hannibal’s voice sounded calm, but it was higher and a little tight.

“Nope, until further notice, you’re living on one of your fancy settees. I hope they’re as comfortable as they look.”

Hannibal nodded, visibly relaxing now that he understood the scope of his banishment. Rising from the bed, he slipped silk pajamas over his hips. He reached over to grab his pillow, but Will stayed his hand.

“No you don’t, that pillow is Boomer's now.” Hannibal gave Will a confused look. Will walked to their bedroom door, flinging it open and letting loose a shrill whistle. Paws thundered across the hardwood.

“I’m going to be sleeping with a better class of critter for a while.” He walks back to the bed and slaps the mattress firmly. Boomer, their St. Bernard mix is the first to bound up, his claws snagging the sheets as he kneads the covers into an acceptable nest. Francis, their shepherd mix is next, slowly circling the bed, looking for an ideal landing spot. Finally, Mindy, their corgi yips plaintively at Will’s feet. He smiles and lifts her up.

Hannibal recoiled in horror at the violation of his beautiful linens. He looked up at Will with beseeching eyes and opened his mouth. Will cut him off.

“You are allowed exactly five phrases until further notice: Good morning, Goodnight, I’m sorry, I’m a piece of shit... and I love you. Any deviations from this script will result in me feeding something you love to the dogs.”

“I love you, Will.”

“You also love that goddamn harpsichord. Can you imagine what Boomer would do to the wooden inlay if I spread peanut butter on the legs?”

Hannibal blanched.

“Now, you’ve been a very bad cannibal, go and think about what you’ve done.”

“Will, I regret that I caused you anxiety.”

“That’s nice. I regret that 8 million TattleCrime readers know I’m circumcised and call me Graham Cracker.” Will lofts a hand to the door. “Go, before I decide Boomer is your new bed buddy.”

Hannibal looked forlornly at the bed he’d lovingly picked out. Mindy and Francis were settled on the plush mattress, quietly curled with their backs touching. Boomer sat by Will, a thick line of drool slowly sinking from his jowls to the sheets.

“Goodnight, Will.” Hannibal turned away before he had to watch Boomer’s effusive drool land on his beautiful sheets.

“’Night, Hung-ibal, pleasant dreams.”

Will watched Hannibal slink out of the room before he launched himself into bed. Boomer woofed excitedly. Will grabbed Hannibal’s pillow, using it to wipe the copious drool from Boomer’s jowls.

“You have to take a firm hand with psychopathic narcissists,” Will explained to the St. Bernard. “If you don’t, you end up bare-assed on the homepage of a tabloid.”

"Woof.” Boomer nuzzled Will’s hand with a soft bark.

“Don’t worry, Daddy’s not leaving us, buddy.” Will scratched at the dog’s massive head. “But he needs to learn to consult me before he puts on a peepshow for the internet.”

Boomer panted, more drool leaking from his impressive mouth. Will watched the saliva puddle on the pillow Hannibal spent 2 hours selecting at the store. He smiled.

“Hey Boomer, are you chilly? Let’s put on one of Daddy’s cashmere sweaters on you so you don’t catch a cold.” Will whistled as he headed for Hannibal’s closet. He’d have to be careful picking out clothes for the dogs, he’d hate for them to clash.

To: [email protected]
Subject: Renegotiation

Hello Freddie,

The only reason you’re still breathing is because you now, for maybe the first time in your worthless life, serve a purpose.

My husband, as you may know, is a bit of a sentimentalist. He thinks a file filled with dirty pictures is payment enough for leading Jack around by the nose. Since he clearly has a head for aesthetics and not for business, you’ll be dealing with me from now on.

First, we’re going to need a cut. And don’t bullshit me with numbers, I’ve done some investigating and I have a pretty good idea of how much we’re worth to you. We’re going to need 60% of all merchandise sales and 20% of the ad revenue. I’ll send you account details.

Second, I will now be in charge of coordinating all Murder Husband Sightings. We can negotiate as to photo content. I’m not opposed to a little show, but I’m a pricier whore than Hannibal, and you’ll have to pay to play.

Finally, if I ever see the words “Graham Cracker” in one of your articles again, I’ll feed you your own kidneys.

Don’t you dare go crying to Hannibal. I promise you Freddie, he cares more about my happiness than your continued existence.

Rot in hell,

Will

To: [email protected]
Subject: RE: Renegotiation

I always said you were the scary one.

We need to talk frankly, Graham. I’m nearly positive that the new silent money behind TattleCrime’s fancy new website comes from the Vergers. So how about we come to a compromise: I’ll give you 60% of the merchandise sales, but the ad revenue stays where it is. In return, I’ll keep your location confidential, even from my editors.

As far as the photos go, I’m going to need some more soon. At least a few shots of the two of you together, but if you want to remind the readers why they buy the merchandise, I suggest at least a little light groping. Maybe a hand-job. Also, I assume the photographer Hannibal likes is still ok to send to shoots? Tell me now Graham, because I don't need him eaten.

I look forward to a profitable relationship.

~Freddie

Since I’m not allowed to talk to Dr. Toothy anymore, please tell Hannibal I tried the new restaurant on Fleet Street he kept asking about, he’s not missing much.

To: [email protected]
Subject: Vacation Planning

Greetings Ms. Lounds,

I am becoming annoyed that my last three emails have gone unanswered. You’re being quite rude Ms. Lounds. What’s to be done about that?

Sincerely,

HL

Chapter Text

Ben Jones was about 70% sure he wasn’t going to die. He quietly fiddled with the f-Stop on his camera, trying not to make eye contact with the two cannibals pacing in front of him. The things he does for Freddie fucking Lounds and a fat retainer.

“Why the fuck can’t he just go downstairs and point the camera up? Suddenly you’re too good for balcony sex?” Will gestured to Jones, who tried to make himself smaller on the overstuffed blue sofa.

When Will had grabbed him in the lobby and dragged him upstairs, Jones had known for sure he was going to die. So when the empath deposited him on the sofa and asked for his professional opinion about the setting and angles of the next TattleCrime Murder Husbands shoot, Jones found himself at a loss. Freddie had told him to show up, point the camera at the balcony of Honeymoon Suite. She hadn’t mentioned anything about refereeing a spat between the most notorious serial killers on the planet.

“I have repeatedly told you that the Adriatic angle will not work. I prefer to be shot from the left.”

“You know what the left side of your face looks like? THE RIGHT SIDE OF YOUR FACE. You don’t have a bad angle, you goddamn fop!”

Hannibal Lecter, top of the FBI’s Most Wanted List, took a seat next to Jones smoothing the blue satin next to him. He sniffs at Will who continues to stomp, muttering about ‘prissy little cannibals’. Taking a moment to adjust the black robe around his legs, Hannibal lifted a silver platter toward the photographer, offering him a chocolate covered strawberry.

“Mr. Jones, may I offer you a treat?”

“Y-yes. No. Um, are…are they strawberries? Like strawberry strawberries?” Jones feels his throat constrict when he meets the warm maroon eyes. Hannibal furrows his eyebrows.

“Yes?”

Still pacing in large arcs through the suite’s living room, Will snorts.

“He’s trying to ask you if they’re people.” Jones feels his pulse in his ears, he envisions a maid coming upon his rended body in a luxury suite in Montenegro. Understanding lifts Hannibal’s brow.

“I assure you, these were procured from room service,” Hannibal purrs, “and they do not share my recipes.”

Hannibal’s free hand touched Jones’ knee, a gesture of reassurance that does little to lower the photographer’s drumming heart. For lack of a better response, Jones grabbed a strawberry and crammed it into his mouth, panic whiting-out the corners of his vision.

“Oh Jesus, Hannibal, leave him alone.” Will has settled on the other side of Jones, slapping Hannibal’s hand off the younger man’s knee. Jones wondered if the sofa or the room had shrunk.

“Jones? Jones.” Will shook the man’s shoulder gently, grabbing his attention. “Can you help me out here? Will you tell this shrinking violet that his dick looks just as good from every side?”

Jones opened his mouth. A finger drew across Jones’ lip. He followed the movement, watching with huge eyes as Hannibal sucked it into his mouth.

“Oh for the love of Christ, will you knock that off,” Will rolled his eyes resumed pacing, pausing to slap the back of Hannibal’s head. The cannibal narrowed his eyes and casually smoothed his hair back into place.

“Merely removing some chocolate from Mr. Jones’ lip. I’d hate for him to look foolish when he took his leave.”

“You know, shit like that is why Davis is gone.”

Hannibal formed a moue of distaste and popped another strawberry into his mouth. Jones looked at both of them in quiet panic, wondering just what had happened to his predecessor. Will raised his hands quickly in supplication.

“He asked to be reassigned. We didn’t eat him! We’ve never eaten a photographer.”

At this, Hannibal tilted his head, a slight amused curl to his lip.

“Well, we’ve never eaten one of Freddie’s photographers.” Jones’ grip on his camera tightened. Will waved his hands in the air, trying to clear the air of this conversation.

“Look, the point is, you’re fine. You are absolutely fine and not in any way on a menu. Just ignore him, he’s a dirty old man.”

“I object to being called old,” Hannibal said, casting a smile toward Jones. The photographer tried desperately to recall a prayer, any plead to whomever controlled the universe that he make it through the next 72 hours. Just long enough to get back to Baltimore and choke Freddie.

“I swear to god, a bunch of weirdos start calling you Hung-ibal online –”

“Fannibals, Will. They call themselves fannibals.”

“It will be a cold day in hell before I say that word,” Will raked a hand through his curls. “It’s bad enough I’m helping them encourage your delusions of porn stardom. I never thought I’d miss your cannibal puns.”

“And yet you object to me picking Mr. Jones’ brain.”

Will sighed, looking to heaven for strength.

“You married, Jones?”

It takes the photographer a moment to understand he’s expected to answer.

“No.” His voice squeaked out the syllable.

“Here’s some free advice: Be really sure about the person you marry. Because you will have to live with the lame shit that comes out of their mouth for the rest of your life.”

Hannibal launched off the couch, pinning Will to the suite’s wet bar. Jones dropped his camera and yelped. If Hannibal the Cannibal ate Will, Jones was not going to get his retainer.

“As I recall, you had very few complaints about my mouth last night,” Hannibal rumbled, biting into Will’s neck. The empath gasped. Jones edged toward the door. If timed it right, he might be able to get out of the room before Hannibal finished killing Will.

“Well last night, it wasn’t just flapping uselessly” Will challenged, yanking at Hannibal’s robe.

Oh. He wasn’t about to witness a murder.

So this was what Freddie meant by volatile but profitable.

He watched as the killers wrestled with clothing, panting and the clicking of teeth the only sounds left in the room. Soon, Hannibal had thrown Will onto the bar and begun devouring the empath’s exposed flesh. The word ‘devour’ echoed in Jones’ mind, sending a shiver through him.

Jones wondered if they remembered he was in the room, but decided it didn’t matter. He picked up his camera and adjusted for the low light.

At the first click from the camera, Hannibal’s head popped up from Will’s dick.

“My left side, Mr. Jones. I will not ask again.” Hannibal bowed back to his task. Will laughed. Looking at Jones he shrugged slightly before Hannibal’s clever mouth left him incapable of anything but gasping and involuntary movement.

To: [email protected]
Subject: Recent Session

Greetings Ms. Lounds,

I hope this finds you well. Did you get the flowers I sent you? I know Uncle Jack has a habit of taking things that don’t belong to him.

Though I was distraught that Mr. Davis no longer wished to work with us, I must report that Mr. Jones may well be a worthy replacement. Although he rather rudely refused a drink after the shoot, Will believes that it was just nerves. I eagerly await the fruit of our collaboration, he took direction well.

As always, I will expect you to hold the photos for three months, but Will demands that our payment be in the usual account by the end of the week.

Sincerely,

HL

To: [email protected]
Subject: RE: Recent Session

Hannibal, I’ve asked you not to send me things. Especially organs shaped like flowers. It’s not funny. I will never get the stain off my good cape.

In related news, my home office is now a crime scene and Crawford is probably riffling through my panty drawer as we speak. I know you were upset that Davis quit, but this nonsense is just childish. Tell Will I’m taking my dry cleaning and hotel bill out of your damn cut.

I haven’t heard from Jones yet, but I’m glad the shoot went well. I trust that your email means he’s alive and in possession of all his limbs? I keep telling you to let Will deal with the lens guys, your personality is a little overbearing at times. Not a criticism, just an observation – do not send me another organ bouquet.

I will, as always, hold the pictures for as long as you want. Can’t wait to start editing. I hope Jones shot you from the left, we both know how creepy you can look otherwise.

~Freddie

To: [email protected]
Subject: FUCK YOU

Freddie,

I quit. Here are the photos. I want my check in a week.

-Jones