Title: and abet
Fandom: Hannibal
Rating: NC-17
Length: 500ish words
Content notes: Non-con/dub-con
Author notes: Takes place after Hannibal and Bedelia's dinner in Savoureux.
Summary: The first time begins as assault. After that, she has no word for what it is.

abet (verb)
ORIGIN late Middle English (in the sense ‘urge to do something good or bad’): from Old French abeter, from a- (from Latin ad ‘to, at’) + beter ‘hound, urge on’.

The first time begins as assault. After that, she has no word for what it is.




When he quite literally corners her in her dining room, she understands the futility of attempting to evade him. Hannibal is a strong man, much stronger than he appears, and dangerous. More dangerous, she suspects, than even she has cause to know.

"Please let me go," she says in her coolest, most distant tone.

As if she hasn't spoken, he smiles slightly and says, "You're a beautiful woman, Bedelia. Intelligent, intriguing. How long has it been since a man has touched you?"

"Don't," she whispers, holding perfectly still.

Her nipple rises in response to the stimulus of his hand stroking her breast and a sharp pulse of arousal arrows through her. In that moment she despises him.

"The body has a limited repertoire, as I'm sure you know." His tone is conversational, disconnected from the movements of his fingers. "The initial physiological signs of fear are the same as those of arousal. The heart beats faster to oxygenate the blood, the adrenal glands release adrenaline, the muscles tense." He pinches sharply at her nipple. "And the pupils dilate, to allow more light to pass through the eye."

She turns her head away, staring sightlessly at the clock on the far wall. He glides the hem of her skirt up her thighs until he can touch the skin above her stockings. His fingers slide between her legs to rub her through the fabric of her underwear. Slowly, firmly. Her skin crawls with shame at the way her body responds.

He sinks to his knees like a supplicant, but there's no humility in him. "I can smell you," he says, pressing his face against her and breathing deeply.

It's her supplication he wants. All she can do is withhold.

He eats her like a meal. There is no other way to describe it. His tongue licks, his lips suck, his teeth graze. It's as if she is a bone from which he is extracting particularly tasty marrow. She is devoured.

When she comes, there is nothing but sensation, everything else erased.

He bends her over the dining room table and fucks her. His movements are deliberate, measured, and she comes again before he is finished, moaning into her folded arms, saliva making the silk of her blouse transparent.




At their next appointment, neither of them so much as alludes to it. They perform flawlessly in their appointed roles as psychiatrist and patient. A pas de deux of complicity.

Three nights later, he is at her door.




They barely speak during these encounters. No banal greetings, no pleasantries. Only short words, declarative statements. Yes. Harder. More.

The sheer weight of him, the searing pleasure he makes her feel, simply obliterate all thought. There is only her greedy body.




His visits become more frequent as time passes. Once, he barely makes it through the door before he is on her.




She thinks he feels something like affection for her, something like respect. At times, he treats her gently, with a strange tenderness. She is neither naive nor foolish enough to believe it affords her any protection at all.