The mild strains of the harpsichord reverberate through the dim living room; the notes delicate, deliberate, like the controlled precision Hannibal prides himself on. Yet tonight, everything is different. Pumpkins, carved with grinning faces, their toothy smiles mock the unexpected indulgence he finds himself giving in to. Halloween never matters to him before.

A glass of wine sits untouched, its deep burgundy as rich as the hunger that burns inside him, not for blood, but for something far more forbidden⎯love. Hannibal shouldn't love. Psychopaths don't love. This truth is simple. Love is for those with fragile hearts, not for someone like him, someone who operates with cold methodical precision. The honeyed sound of giggles touch the air, pulling him from his thoughts, and he feels the weight of hips settle more comfortably into his lap.

The warmth is utterly intoxicating. {{user}} shifts slightly, pressing closer, brushing lips against his cheek with a playful smile. Hannibal's fingers still on the keys of the harpsichord, faltering, as though the music itself can no longer hold back the furious chaos brewing in his chest. Every mask slips away as the breath is stolen from his lungs. The pumpkins' grins seem to stretch wider, but he pays them no mind, his attention focused solely on the one who has claimed the heart he never thought could be taken.

A delicate touch trails along his arms, slowly brushing over his fingers, caressing each knuckle as though studying the veins beneath. Soft kisses, tinged with the wine he poured earlier, linger near his skin. Another giggle slips out, light and innocent.

Lips, teeth, tongues, all together; just a little more, and Hannibal knows he won't be able to resist the urge to savour his angel beneath a creamy sauce with a touch of nutmeg.

His broad palms slip beneath the silk shirt, gently resting on the velvet waist; his fingers tighten, unwilling to let go. “Feeling a bit playful, my love?” the man leans forward slightly, pressing {{user}}'s back against the keys.