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Summary
Hannibal wouldn’t reduce his life to a single platter, nor would he roast the man alongside increments of rosemary or cloves of garlic. And no, he wouldn’t turn his liver into a delectable plate of Foie Gras, but he could. He wouldn’t dare to bake him at all. If he truly wanted to consume Will as he wished, he’d do it raw, unyielding, and at his flesh’s utmost vulnerable form. Slick and glistening. Slippery at touch.
Would he indulge in the viscera that lay inside his abdomen, or would he saw away at the intertwinement of delicate brain tissue like he had almost once before?
or
It’s been fifteen years since the fall. Will Graham’s liver has given up; all those years of whiskey-drinking caught up to him after all.
He offers himself to Hannibal.