
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/881361.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/F
  Fandom:
      Hannibal_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Alana_Bloom/Abigail_Hobbs
  Character:
      Alana_Bloom, Abigail_Hobbs, Hannibal_Lecter, Will_Graham, Garrett_Jacob
      Hobbs
  Additional Tags:
      Abigail's_POV, One-Sided_Relationship, unrequited_feelings, Disturbing
      Themes, Sexual_Content, Sex_Dreams, Abigail_is_so_messed_up_in_the_head,
      the_poor_girl, What's_the_ship_name_for_this?, Alanagail?, Blobbs?, I
      like_Blobbs
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-07-13 Words: 3478
****** don't come too close, I'll eat your heart ******
by ThatGirlTheyKnow
Summary
     “There,” her father says, eyes finally trained on one spot on the
     opposite side of the room. A figure sits with her back to them, dark
     hair flowing down her back. The figure turns, as if feeling their
     gazes, and Abigail’s eyes meet Alana Bloom’s.
      
     ---
     “Abigail, are you okay? You haven’t looked me in the eyes all day.
     Did something happen?”
     "Just... just some pretty bad dreams."
Notes
     So this is one of those stories that comes to you and you can't get
     up, move, rest, do anything until it's out of your system. I don't
     even know where it came from... I just... wrote.
     And um, this is the first time I've written any sex scenes (even
     though I'm not even sure I'd count these are sex scenes) so... eep.
     In conclusion: I don't know what I'm doing.
     OH, and bold is Abigail's diary, and italics is a dream.
See the end of the work for more notes
Abigail thinks Alana Bloom is a very beautiful woman. When they first meet, she
can appreciate Dr Bloom’s blemish-free pale skin and dark hair, her soft lips
and kind eyes that looked at Abigail with sympathy but never pity. She can
appreciate Alana’s professional, confident elegance.
Abigail thinks Alana Bloom is a very kind woman. Dr Bloom treats her like an
adult and never patronises her, or looks down on her, or treats her like a
fragile flower. She treats Abigail with the exact amount of care that she
needs. Abigail appreciates that, too.
---
She’s sitting in a large, noisy cafe, nursing a cappuccino. She’s controlling
the shaking in her hands. Her father is sitting across from her, his own drink
left forgotten as he pretends not to stare around the room. His hands are
clenched into fists on the table. Abigail thinks she wants to cry.
“There,” her father says, eyes finally trained on one spot on the opposite side
of the room. A figure sits with her back to them, dark hair flowing down her
back. The figure turns, as if feeling their gazes, and Abigail’s eyes meet
Alana Bloom’s.
Abigail gasps, and Alana gives her a friendly smile.
“Now,” her father says. Abigail’s eyes snap back to him, wide and horrified. He
nods sharply to Alana, and Abigail lets out a small, tortured moan. She gets
up, and approaches Dr Bloom.
---
“How have your nightmares been going, Abigail? Has anything stood out to you?”
“Not really. Just my father, killing those girls.”
---
Abigail’s sessions with Alana Bloom become the highlight of her week, an escape
from the ever-staring nurses and the other patients who won’t even look at her.
She’s a cannibal and the daughter of a serial killer and nobody wants anything
to do with her.
Nobody except Dr Bloom, who brings her clothes and music to listen to and books
to read and seems to care about her notrotting away in here, forgotten.
“How are you being treated here, Abigail? I know you’re not happy, but are
there times when you’re content?”
“I’m treated like what I am; the daughter of a murderer. The other patients
don’t like to talk to me, let alone look me in the eye. Like they’ll catch
something from me, like I have some terrible disease. The nurses have to be
nice to me, but they’re afraid, too. They try to hide it, but they can’t. I can
see it. But aside from that, yes, there are times when I feel content.”
---
Alana Bloom is laid out naked on the bench in her father’s cabin. Her pale skin
is almost translucent in the moonlight that shines through the small window,
and she is breathtakingly beautiful with her dark hair fanned out around her
like a halo.
Her eyes go wide when Abigail approaches, hunting knife in hand. Abigail tries
to apologise with her eyes, and two sets of bright, clear blue lock on each
other as Abigail’s father comes up behind her and guides her hand.
Alana’s dark lips open with a soft plea of, “Please, Abigail,” but the girl can
do nothing as her knife breaks Alana’s skin, marks the smooth expanse of
flawless white with deep, deep red.
“I’m sorry,” Abigail tries to whisper, but her father hushes her.
“We’re going to honour her, Abigail. Every part of her. You don’t have to
apologise. This isn’t murder.”
Abigail cries as her hand cuts Alana Bloom open and the life-filled blood
gushes warm onto her hands.
---
Abigail writes and draws in her journal most of the time, filling up the pages’
lines with thoughts and sketches and stories. It’s supposed to be a therapy
tool but she doesn’t know if it’s working, or if she’s using it properly. She
writes about her group sessions and how much she hates them, and she writes
about her walks in the garden and how she never feels truly alone, always being
watched over by some invisible eyes that are tracking her every move. She
writes about Hannibal and Will’s visits, what she sees in the men (an unstable,
awkward man who sees too much of people and is paying the price for it and a
shadowed enigma who keeps so many secrets and only allows select parts of his
true self to show at strategic times) (a man who cares for out of misguided
responsibility and a man who cares for her out of something else). She writes
about her visits with Freddie Lounds and her burning desire to have her story
told properly. How she wants to shout her innocence from the rooftops and
scream it in the streets. How she wants her secret to be kept a secret.
Mostly, though, she writes about Alana Bloom. Abigail writes about their
conversations on movies and books and music and about the stories Alana has to
tell about her own young life. She writes about when they laugh together and
when they walk together in companionable silence. How the woman, seeing
Abigail’s need for normalcy, steps out of her professionalism and becomes a
friend.
---
“I have made arrangements to cook for you again,” Hannibal says one visit. “I
know how much you liked it last time.”
Abigail has vague flashbacks to a gourmet meal and mushrooms and family.
“Who’s coming?”
“Whoever you want to come.”
“Can we invite Will? And... Alana Bloom? I like them.”
“If you wish.”
---
Tonight I went to Hannibal Lecter’s house again for dinner (though this time
there was a distinctive lack of mushrooms) and it was a well-received break
from the bland food they serve here and the nurses pressuring you to finish
your meal so nobody has to diagnose you with an eating disorder.
Hannibal was his usual self, calm and reassuring and radiating that air that
you can trust him, though I don’t know how misleading that air is. He has kept
my secret, and he does care about me, on some level, I guess.
Will seemed out of it. I’m worried he’s going downhill, that his profiling job
is getting to him more than he wants to admit. Alana’s worried about him, too,
you can see by the glances she sends his way. Hannibal is worried but also
curious, I think. Curious about what’s happening to Will. It makes me uneasy.
Alana was there, of course, on my request, in a gorgeous dark red dress that
made her look like a demoness when she was in the shadows. She looked
beautiful, but the image was all wrong. Her eyes are too compassionate, her
mouth too worried, her smile too caring, for her to be a creature of Hell. She
would look more suited in a creamy-gold gown with a pair of bright, white,
unfurled wings behind her. Protecting the innocent and smiting down the evil in
her righteousness.
A guardian angel and a warrior of Heaven all in one.
---
Abigail is sick. Her mind feels disconnected and her skin is sweaty and hot and
cold. There’s a bin beside her bed that she has vomited in no less than three
times now. She drifts in and out of consciousness and is not sure what’s a
dream and what’s real.
A warm hand smooths back a few stray strands of hair out of her face and a
gentle voice murmurs to her. Abigail turns her head blearily and Alana Bloom is
sitting beside her bed. Her other hand is gripping Abigail’s. It’s warm and
reassuring and soft.
“Abigail, are you with me? You’re sick.”
Abigail has enough energy to smile widely and let out a contented sigh. “I’m
fine,” she hears herself whisper, and drifts back to the hazy, fevered dreams
that are pale skin and dark hair and loving words that transition into bruised
skin and knotted hair and words dripping with disgust. And oozing, red blood.
---
She wakes up again and Alana Bloom is sleeping beside her bed, slumped forwards
in her chair.
---
The next time Abigail has a moment of lucidity, Alana is reading to her in low,
calming tones that rock her back to sleep and into a dream that isn’t a
nightmare.
---
“Thanks for sitting with me when I was sick. I remember seeing you there a lot.
You didn’t have to. You have better things to do than sit by your patient’s
bedside. You’re not a medical doctor.”
“Abigail, it was no trouble. I wanted to. You’re not just my patient, you know.
I care about you as a friend, too.”
“I care about you, too, Dr Bloom.”
---
She’s walking the gardens with Will, and they’re discussing things that aren’t
therapy and serial killers. He doesn’t pry into her mental state and she
doesn’t pry into his. It works. They’re laughing together, a rare sound from
them both that combines to give an almost musical effect.
They sit down on a bench. Hannibal and Alana are somewhere around here,
probably off discussing psychiatry or Will or Abigail or all three.
“You really like Alana, don’t you?” Will asks suddenly, then blushes. “Sorry, I
just... noticed how you smiled when she walked into your room. I’m glad you’re
comfortable with her, that she’s a friend to you.”
Abigail smiles awkwardly. “She’s been very good to me. I don’t think I’ll ever
begin to be able to thank her enough, to show her how much what she’s done for
me means to me.”
Will is looking at her and she avoids his gaze. He uses his abilities to see
into serial killer’s minds, but she knows he can see into the mind of anybody
if he truly wants to.
And there are things in her head about Alana Bloom she would rather keep
hidden.
---
Alana Bloom’s lips are as soft as they look, warm and gentle against Abigail’s.
Abigail presses against them with hungry enthusiasm. A tongue brushes along
Abigail’s lips and the girl opens her mouth instantly to let it in. Their
tongues intertwine and they taste each other and moan. Their bodies press up
against each other and don’t leave even an inch of space between them, each
soaking up the heat and contact the other offers. Alana’s hands are on
Abigail’s hip and the back of her neck, but they both move to slide down her
arms, grip her waist and wrap around it. Abigail gasps when Alana’s leg is
shoved between her own.
“Abigail, you’re going to hurt me,” Alana is moaning, her hands moving again to
unbutton Abigail’s shirt. Her words contrast with the desire in her voice as
she speaks. “You’re dangerous, a murderer and a killer.” Alana takes off
Abigail’s shirt and her own and starts working on Abigail’s jeans. “You helped
your father kill those girls. You could have told someone. You could have told
the police. But you didn’t, did you? Did you like looking into their eyes,
those girls who looked just like you, and knowing they were going to die? Did
you kill some of them yourself?” Alana pulls down Abigail’s jeans and runs her
hands from the girl’s neck, between her breasts, down her stomach, to her
panties. She cups Abigail’s heat, and the lust is seeping out of her voice,
being replaced by anger. “Did you carve them open,” Alana asks, shoving her
hand past the flimsy fabric and putting two fingers inside Abigail, who moans
and clenches around them. Salty tears run down her cheeks and hit her lips.
Alana is furious, and her other hand, now wrapped around Abigail’s waist,
squeezes painfully hard. “Andeat their hearts?”
---
“Abigail, are you okay? You haven’t looked me in the eyes all day. Did
something happen?”
“No.”
“Really? Are you sure? Are you ill again?”
“No, I’m not sick. Just... just some pretty bad dreams. Don’t worry, Dr Bloom.”
---
I think I may be falling in love with Alana Bloom. No, not falling in love, but
I have affection for her. Isn’t that cruel? I have affection for my
psychiatrist, a woman about fifteen years older than me, who, no matter how
much of a friendship we have, will always see me as a thing that is broken, and
needs to be healed. It’s sick. I’m sick.
 Sick little Abigail Hobbs, hiding behind a mask of sweet innocence. Her soul
is not as bright as you think. It’s tainted and oozing with sickness.
I wonder if I should tell her she’s wrong about me and my father. I wonder how
she would react if I told her that I was the bait, that I befriended those
girls on my father’s orders and found out about them. That I knew each of their
names, where they lived and what they liked doing. I wonder how Alana Bloom
would react if she knew that for each of those girls my father butchered and
fed to my family, I had learned about their hobbies and interests and talked
with them about music and movies and boys they liked. One of them had a long-
term boyfriend who she was going to marry one day. One of them wanted to write
screenplays in Hollywood. Another was in the process of writing her first
novel, something she had been dreaming about as a little girl.
Instead of calling the police when my father’s back was turned, I lured each
and every one of them to their deaths and tore apart their lives and dreams and
hopes and futures with a few friendly conversation starters and innocent
questions.
I wonder what would happen if I told Alana Bloom all of that. What would happen
if I showed her this journal and she saw my soul for what it is?
Would she be horrified and tell Jack Crawford, or would she cling to her denial
and naive hope for my innocence.
I think, one day, Alana Bloom is going to see me for everything I am. One day I
am going to rip open my chest and show her my soul, the tattered, devilish
thing it is, and confess to her my sins.
---
“Dr Bloom, why are you always so nice to me? I don’t understand. Why did you
give me a chance when nobody else wanted to?”
“Because I don’t see a suspect when I look at you, Abigail. At first, I saw a
victim, but I know now you’reso much more than that. You’re a bright, beautiful
girl who had the world at her feet but the actions of her father pulled that
out from under her. I’m giving you a chance, and I’m nice to you, because
that’s all I can give you. Sometimes, I’m overcome because I wish I could give
you a normal life, and happiness, and friends and a bright future, but I can’t.
It kills me, Abigail.”
---
Alana is straddling Abigail, holding her down with one hand on her shoulder
while her other hand pinches and rubs her nipple, sending shockwaves of arousal
to Abigail’s core. They’re both naked, and Alana grinds her hips down to make
them both moan at the tease of friction. Abigail is soaking wet and Alana is so
close, and she wants the woman to take her and consume her.
“Please,” Abigail gasps, wanting more and more and everything, but is silenced
but Alana’s hand leaving her breast and clamping over her mouth. Abigail’s
words are muffled while Alana strokes her thumb against the girl’s cheek.
“No, Abigail,” Alana says. “No speaking. All your words are lies.” Alana moves
her other hand to between her own thighs, and Abigail whimpers as the woman
starts pleasuring herself. “Your words are lies and poison and manipulation.
Why must you do this to me, Abigail?” Alana growls and her fingers pump into
herself fast and deep. “Don’t you respect me, Abigail? Don’t you love me?”
Alana comes with a sighs, and falls so most of her weight is on Abigail. Their
sweaty skin rubs together and their legs intertwine. They roll so they’re both
lying on their sides, looking at each other. Alana holds Abigail’s hands
between they in an iron grip, like they’re praying. Abigail wants to kiss Alana
so badly, but the woman won’t let her.
“Abigail,” she says imploringly. “You’re amonster. You don’t deserve me.”
---
“Would you be averse to talking about your feelings for Alana Bloom?”
Abigail’s head snaps to look at Hannibal, who is currently driving her to his
home so he can cook for her and Will. She’s looking forward to the meal.
“What?”
Noticing her panicked expression, Hannibal’s lips twitch up into a comforting
smile. “I assure you, I do not mean to pry, but I wondered if you would care to
have somebody to talk to about how you are feeling. Keeping things to oneself
can be... hard, at times.”
Abigail shakes her head. “I don’t... There’s nothing to talk about, really.”
“Really?” He sounds almost amused.
“Really.” She nods firmly, more to herself than to him. Her eyes are trained on
the road ahead. She ignors Hannibal’s sideways, knowing glances.
---
I’ve been listening to a lot of music lately, and reading a lot of poetry. I’ve
been trying to find a connection to another person in words. I’ve been trying
to find somebody, somewhere, who has at some time lived on this earth, who has
recorded something I am familiar with within rhyme and rhythm.
I haven’t had much luck.
Maybe I can ask Alana if she knows any good poets or artists.
---
“The mYsTeRy which binds me STILL:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumntint ofgold,
From the lightning_in_the_sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the THUNDER and the STORM,
And the cloudthat took the form
(When the rest ofHeaven was blue)
Of a demon_in_my_view.””
- Edgar Allan Fucking Poe
---
“Dr Bloom, did you know you’re actually the most important person in my life?”
“I am? Thank you. And why do you think that is?”
“A lot of reasons. I don’t think it’s terrible appropriate, though. You’re my
psychiatrist, and I feel as though you’re my best friend.”
“It may be inappropriate... but I don’t mind. Honestly.”
---
Alana Bloom, did you know I had a dream last night where you bent me over and
finger fucked me from behind while whispering terrible, terrible things in my
ear?  I think that says something about how I see myself compared to you.
I don’t even deserve these dreams, and I feel sick and ashamed when I wake up
with wetness between my thighs, panting and gasping and wishing you were in my
bed with me even.
Sick little Abigail Hobbs.
If only they knew what you thought about at alone at night in the darkness of
your room.
---
“Help me,” Abigail gasps. Alana is on top of her, rubbing her through her
panties, knees planted firmly on either side of the girl’s thighs. “Help me be
worthy. I’m not worthy of you.” Abigail is crying; deep, full sobs that wrack
her entire body. In her hand, which is thrown to the side, is her hunting
knife. She flexes her fingers around it.
“Help me,” Abigail gasps as Alana mouths at her neck and breasts and teases her
with light kisses. She’s gentle this time. Why is she gentle? Abigail doesn’t
deserve the respect she is being given.
“I am evil,” Abigail moans when two fingers slide into her. She clenches around
them and bucks her hips in a vain attempt to get more friction. Her arm moves
on its own accord and she runs the hunting knife along Alana’s lips, half-
closed eye-lids, cheekbones. She leaves a small, thin trail of blood droplets
in her wake. She moves the knife down to Alana’s neck, marks her lover in
swirls and patterns of red. She trails the knife along Alana’s collarbone and
down to her breasts, between then, down her stomach, to the apex of her
thighs...
And suddenly she draws back starts carving her way to Alana’s heart.
The woman does not stop her ministrations, not as the knife slices her open and
not as her blood pours onto Abigail like a baptism. Abigail flips them over and
carves and saws and cuts until she is pulling the warm, bloody, beating organs
out of Alana’s chest.
“Abigail,” Alana says in a gasp. “What’s wrong with you?”
Abigail shakes her head, she doesn’t know, and raises Alana’s beautiful heart
to her lips to kiss it.
She takes a bite, and savours the sweetness of the flesh and the warmth of the
blood.
Alana continues to fuck her while Abigail eats her heart, and on the last bite,
Abigail comes.
She hands Alana the previously discarded knife.
“Now,” she whispers. “You take mine.”
===============================================================================
 
End Notes
     The poem Abigail butchers is "Alone" by Edgar Allan Poe.
     I'm sorry if this was terrible.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
