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Summary
He does not know which Will he will get today. Sweet, or cruel. Quiet or sharp-tongued. Brooding, maybe, with eyes dark like lakewater. He wants them all. Wants the moods, the silences, the strange little angers that rise and vanish like heat off pavement. Whoever he is today, Hannibal waits. And the stomach, that hollow vessel, waits with him. Full of food. Full of desire. Full of secrecy. Full of him.
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Hannibal Lecter is pathetic <3
