#Hannibal Lecter x gn reader

[defectivevillain]

through gritted teeth

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader

reader's race & gender are ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors are used.

summary:

The man says he’s your husband.  He’s polite, charming, intelligent. He seems a little pretentious, but he appears to know you rather well and the thinly-veiled devotion in his eyes dispels most of your remaining doubts.  It certainly helps that the man is rather well-dressed—and attractive, a traitorous voice in the back of your mind whispers.  Unfortunately, you have no idea who he is. 

word count: 3.8k | ao3 version

You wake up to fluorescent lighting burning into your eyes, pulling tears down your cheeks as you blink stars from your vision. Your entire body aches with exhaustion and you can feel a headache brewing already. Groaning, you try to push yourself up to a sitting position. There’s an IV attached to your arm and, upon closer inspection, you seem to be in some sort of hospital room. White walls line the space, and there’s nothing much of note in your immediate vicinity. You blink a few more times past your absurdly dry eyes and continue inspecting the room, until your eyes catch on the chair to the right side of your bed. 

There’s a man sitting at your bedside with his eyes closed. He stirs within a few moments, as if he can sense you staring at him. Relief is written all over his face as he leans forward and clasps your hand with a small smile on his face. You can’t stop yourself from instinctively flinching at the contact and he notices, removing his hand at once. 

“Do you remember who I am?” He asks. His words are carefully constructed, strung together with eloquence and remnants of what sounds like an accent from a European country. You blink at him once, twice. It takes a moment for you to process the question, and another to contemplate the answer. The man doesn’t look familiar. Indeed, he looks like a stranger. 

When you tell him as much, a sad smile works its way onto his face. It seems he expected your answer. He begins to explain the circumstances surrounding your visit here, which you are immensely grateful for. You know next to nothing as you sit in this hospital bed, and, try as you might, you can’t remember anything save for your name. 

Apparently, you’ve suffered a serious head injury that left you with a spontaneous case of amnesia. Fortunately, your memories will likely return to you in due time. Somehow, these two revelations aren’t the most shocking of statements from the stranger. What the man reveals next shakes you to your core: he’s your husband. 

Upon closer examination, you find that the man is charming, polite… He’s rather attractive, too, with fine-combed hair and sparkling brown eyes with flecks of amber. His face looks as if it was sculpted by Michelangelo himself—sweeping lines, sharp edges, soft curves. The man is intelligent and [perhaps as a result] a little pretentious. From his attire, you can only assume that he makes a lot of money and has rather particular tastes. You could see someone like this going to the opera regularly. 

But there’s something else about this man—something lurking beneath the surface. You can’t puzzle out what it is. There’s something sinister concealed in those reddish-brown eyes, an unspoken violence in the man’s careful poise. And you think you catch him intently scrutinizing you—as if you’re under a microscope.  

You soon learn that the man’s name is Hannibal Lecter. He’s a psychiatrist who used to be a surgeon. He’s in his 40s. He has refined tastes—and even goes to the opera on occasion, yes. He is fascinating, intriguing beyond measure. He discusses heavily philosophical topics with ease. He is slippery, only giving you the information he wants to give you. He has a very controlled image. The dishes he cooks you are extravagant and lavish, with ingredients you’ve never even heard of. (The meat in them is always some sort of organ, and it turns your stomach every time.)

In the wake of your injury, you’re unsure of almost everything. But you know one thing for certain: Hannibal is not your husband. And you’re convinced that he’s dangerous. You don’t trust him—can’t trust his carefully crafted words, his home-cooked meals, his polite smiles. It’s all a farce. 

It would be all too easy to ask your next visitor about this well-dressed, enigmatic man. Unfortunately, you don’t get any other visitors. In fact, your next visitor is Hannibal again… And again. And again. It gets to the point where your nurse gives up on having him sign in when he visits. At first, she had been rather strict in enforcing the rules; she seems to have caught onto something that you still haven’t grasped, because she now collects herself with an entirely different—almost heightened—awareness. 

You’re having increasingly conflicting feelings, especially when you consider the fact that Hannibal hasn’t actually exhibited any behavior that justifies your wariness and suspicion. If anything, he’s been the perfect supporter—the perfect husband—throughout your recovery. You want to believe your gut sense, want to believe the whispers in the back of your mind that tell you to exercise caution. But, at the same time, who’s to say they can be believed? You still have almost no recollection of who you are. Why are you questioning the only person who has bothered to show up for you throughout your recovery? 

Days pass in the blink of an eye; before you know it, Hannibal is walking in one morning with the declaration that you’ve been officially discharged from the hospital. Despite your misgivings, you head to the bathroom to change into some normal clothes before putting on the pair of shoes near the door. Your heart is racing as Hannibal’s gaze refuses to leave your form. Why can’t your mind rest? Why can’t your thoughts be silent, for once? Why are you so damn suspicious of every minute kindness? 

The walk out of the hospital and through the parking lot is painfully silent. You can’t resist sneaking glances at Hannibal, waiting for his mask to crack and fall. It never does. He catches you looking and sends you a smile, which discourages you from looking again. You let your eyes roam about the shiny cars in the parking lot as the warm afternoon sunlight greets your skin. You missed the fresh air. 

“Where are you taking me?” You finally ask, as you continue to follow behind the man.

“Home,” Hannibal remarks. He pointedly does not say your home or even our home. Your heart is racing in your chest. His back is turned, leaving you to imagine the expression on his face.  

It isn’t until you’re secured in the front seat and Hannibal’s driving out of the parking lot that you summon the courage to utter the question that has been plaguing your mind. “Are you really my husband?”

“Hm?” It’s clear he heard you; he’s giving you a chance to retract the remark. You know you should take it, but… you want to know what’s going on. You need to find an answer for the seemingly irrational fear drumming in your chest and rushing in your ears. 

“You say you’re my husband,” You repeat yourself, gaining a bit more confidence. “But I don’t think you are.” For an awful moment, there’s nothing but silence. The car zips along the road. You feel your hand trembling at your side—hopefully the only visible sign of your distress. You clench your shaking hand into a fist and try to remain calm. Panicking won’t do you any good. 

“Do you remember how we first met?” Hannibal asks instead. You stare at him in disbelief, surprised by how he completely ignores your accusation. There is an utter lack of emotion on his face. Seconds later, you remember his question and shake your head. “You’re an FBI agent,” Hannibal reveals. “I was called in to perform your psychiatric evaluation.”

Great. Just great. Out of all things, you had to be an FBI agent. The thought of forgetting your work—forgetting all the victims left to die in muddied puddles of crimson, forgetting all the killers with mocking smiles and cruelty written in the lines of their faces—is sincerely troubling.  

And Hannibal is a psychiatrist. That seems to fit—you can see him in a needlessly extravagant office, surrounded by books and expensive elegancies. You have to shake your head to get rid of the weirdly vivid imagery that your thoughts produce. “Are you… my psychiatrist, then?” You ask. 

“If you wish,” he replies with a mirthful smile. That answer doesn’t satisfy your curiosity—not in the slightest. 

“Were you my psychiatrist?” You press. You get the feeling that you need to be asking the right questions in order to get the answers you want. The man across from you is adept at picking apart people’s words, flipping them around and twisting their intended meaning. Your wording will be immensely important. 

“I was your psychiatrist, for a time,” Hannibal acquiesces. From that statement, you get the sense that he really was your psychiatrist, until something evidently happened. You ask him as much, but you seem to go too far, because he regards you with an amused glance. “You’re asking a lot of questions.”

“And you’re not giving me any answers,” you feel the need to respond. You have simultaneous suspicions that honesty is dangerous in front of Hannibal, and that he values honesty above sugar-coated words. Your eyebrows furrow. “You haven’t exactly been forthcoming with information.”

“Is that so?” Hannibal is providing more questions in lieu of answers. He’s definitely hiding something. Sensing that you won’t get anything more from him, you fall silent and settle for staring at him out of the corner of your eye. His gaze is locked on the road ahead.  Despite the time you’ve spent together, talking about your past, you still aren’t totally convinced that you’re married to Hannibal. Is there a way you could test him—test his knowledge of you? Surely there’s something you can ask him to determine if he truly knows you or not. 

It comes to you a moment later. “What’s my favorite color?” You ask, before you can think better of it. The man doesn’t react at first, instead staring straight ahead. Just before you can repeat the question, he answers. 

“I can’t imagine you have a favorite color,” Hannibal responds. “You once told me the very notion was foolish.”

Okay, he’s sort of correct there. But that was an easy question. You sort through the few memories you have, looking for something you can ask him. “What’s my middle name?” That’s an answer that you just barely know yourself—a memory came back to you a mere few minutes ago, of you and your childhood friend talking about middle names and nicknames and other unimportant things. 

Hannibal answers the question correctly again. The two of you must’ve been friends, at the very least. You continue to search your mind for something you can ask him. 

Five minutes and several questions later, you’re starting to doubt your own conviction. Hannibal answers every single question correctly, providing you with information you don’t remember but know deep-down to be true. It’s unnerving and disturbing to think that you could’ve forgotten this man so easily. He seems… utterly unforgettable, in every sense of the word. Furthermore, he’s your husband—perhaps you shouldn’t be doubting him so easily. 

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out, before you can quite contemplate your next words. Hannibal’s eyes are locked on the road, but you know he’s listening. “I don’t mean to doubt you, I just- I don’t know what to do. I don’t remember anything, obviously, and… I feel so lost.” You choke out, your throat burning. You bury your head in your hands for a selfish moment, hoping for some solace and clarity. 

“Don’t apologize, dear,” Hannibal says. You hate how the remark sends a shiver down your spine. Damn it, why can’t you just be comfortable? This man is practically a dream, so why are you trying to ruin it? Can’t you just accept that, sometimes, you deserve to have nice things?! Hannibal continues, unknowing of your internal dilemma. “You’re going through a lot right now. I’m just happy to be here with you.” 

You feel ashamed, knowing that you’ve been holding yourself back despite the fact that Hannibal has shown you nothing but compassion and affection. “I’m… happy you’re here, too,” you say. Guilt prickling in your chest, you impulsively reach out and clasp his free hand resting on the console. Somehow, this surprises your husband, because he stiffens for a second before reciprocating, gripping your hand reassuringly. 

“We will get through this,” he promises. You push aside your doubts and decide to believe him.

Maybe things really will be alright. Maybe, you’ll get your memories back sooner rather than later, and you’ll be able to look back on these moments—riddled with doubt, insecurity, wariness—and laugh. You take a deep breath and look out the window, watching the passing trees blur together. 

Your hand slips from Hannibal’s and you look at your nails, picking at your cuticles. Your hands are somewhat indicative of the life you led—the one you don’t remember living—with a few scars stretching down your wrist and climbing up your forearm. You look down at the healed wound and frown, trying to remember how you got the scar. 

Suddenly, you get a flicker of a memory. It’s faint and fast, but it’s a reminder of the past nonetheless. You squint ahead, trying to focus on keeping the flashback in your mind for long enough to dissect it. You remember… blood. A corpse, perhaps? Yes, a corpse. A woman’s corpse, hoisted and impaled on antlers. You remember… staring at that corpse for so long that you had to be physically led away from the scene, albeit with a gnawing feeling in your gut that something just wasn’t right. You remember… walking into an office, only to be met with Hannibal’s curious gaze. That must’ve been the first time you met the psychiatrist. You put a hand to your temple and try desperately to concentrate. 

“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” Hannibal says, effectively throwing your focus. You blink and chance a glance at him. He’s still looking at the road, yet you can’t shake the perplexing conviction that he’s been watching you. What’s more, you can’t shake the feeling that his interjection was purposeful—that he meant to throw you off and break your concentration. 

“I- just remembered something,” you choke out, feeling a bolt of pain slide down your scalp to the back of your neck. You bring a hand to the nape of your neck and press, hissing as your fingers glide over sore muscles. “Something important.”

“Congratulations,” Hannibal hums, immune to your internal panic. You don’t know exactly what this man did, but he must’ve done something. Your subconscious is convinced that he is incredibly dangerous, and you feel inclined to trust your gut. 

Another flashback arrives, apropos of nothing. You remember sitting across from Hannibal in a finely-decorated room, lined with bookshelves and artifacts. You remember averting your eyes as you speak, desperate to avoid the roaring flames racing up your skin with every additional moment of prolonged eye contact. You remember… a twisted grin on Hannibal’s face. You remember… the intensity to his gaze as he studied you when he thought you weren’t looking. 

Unsettled, you shake your head and try to refocus on the passing scenery again. To your surprise, you think you recognize where you are. Hannibal must be taking you home. You take a deep breath. You just have to survive this car ride—then you can figure things out from there. You have all the time in the world to muse on the nature of your injury and the nature of your “husband,” once you’re safely contained within four walls. Right now, though, you need to be wary. You need to have your wits about you, you need to watch for any sudden movements, you need to be ready-

“We’re here,” Hannibal announces, promptly throwing your thought process to a halt. You blink and look ahead, only to find a nondescript home with beige siding and a somewhat weathered front door. Vaguely, you remember pulling your car into this driveway, remember unpacking boxes from your trunk. Yes, this is your house. Hannibal is much quicker on the uptake, as he gets out of the car and walks around the vehicle. You don’t realize that he’s opening the passenger door for you until you feel him staring at you expectantly. You thank him and get to your feet, a sudden bout of dizziness sending you wobbling. Hannibal is there in a moment, steadying you with a hand on your forearm. You pretend not to notice his hand on the small of your back as you walk up the path to the front porch. When you’re finally situated in front of the entrance, you realize that you have no idea where your keys could be. 

“Left pocket of your jacket,” Hannibal murmurs, as if reading your mind. You nearly choke on a breath. 

“Thanks,” you respond a bit breathlessly. When you finally manage to unlock the front door and swing it open, you turn back to face him. “Well, thank you for the ride.”

“Of course,” Hannibal responds easily. There’s a regretful smile rising on his face. Everything around you fades to obscurity. “I’m afraid this is goodbye.” That remark sounds strangely ominous. Your heart is in your throat. 

“Thank you for keeping me company,” you feel the need to say, regardless of your suspicions about the man. He was the only one to visit you. You don’t want to think about how you would feel if you spent your entire hospital visit without a single familiar face. “...Bye.” Suddenly, there’s a hand on your cheek. Hannibal’s hand cradles your jaw, his thumb gently roving along your skin. He regards you for a moment, his eyes sparkling, before kissing you on the cheek and leaving. You watch him return to his car and drive away, apprehension and adrenaline coursing through you. Somehow, you get the feeling that you’ll never see Hannibal again. 

Your doorbell rings about an hour later. You look through your peephole, only to find a somewhat intimidating man with his hands shoved in his pockets. You have to focus on quelling the foolish spike of hope that had risen in your chest when the doorbell rang, and the subsequent disappointment at the unfamiliar figure you found. You take a second glance at the stranger, only to find that he looks somewhat familiar. This vague familiarity convinces you to crack your front door open slightly and ask him, “Who are you?”

The man pulls something out of his pocket. “Jack Crawford, FBI,” he answers, showing you his identification card. You stare at him for another moment. “Your boss.” Crawford supplies, when you can’t seem to get the words out. After a few seconds of awkward silence, you decide to invite him inside. 

Before long, the two of you are settled in your living room. The tension that first appeared when you opened your front door has yet to fade. You’re not sure why this man has yet to crop up in your memories—he has a rather powerful aura of authority, not to mention the fact that he’s apparently your superior. You decide not to beat yourself up about it. Your memories will come back in due time; until then, you’ll make do with what little you have.

Crawford—Jack, he tells you to call him—clasps his hands over his knees and levels you with an unreadable gaze. “I need to ask you something,” Jack says, rifling through his other pocket and pulling out a folded piece of paper. He unfolds it slowly, before revealing it to you. “Do you remember this man? Hannibal Lecter?” Jack explains, immune to your growing dread. You feel sick to your stomach as your eyes flit across the black-and-white photograph of the same man who watched over you vigilantly as you recovered, who claimed to be your husband and kissed you on the cheek mere moments ago. “He’s the Chesapeake Ripper—the serial killer who has been evading capture.” 

“I-” You stammer, bringing a hand to your temple. Your headache from earlier is returning and your head is spinning from this sudden disclosure. You almost don’t want to believe Jack, but you get the feeling that he’d have no reason to lie to you. If anything, lying would just make his job harder. You take a shuddering breath in, trying to come to terms with the fact that you just narrowly escaped a serial killer’s grasp. 

“It’s alright,” Jack tries to reassure you, evidently sensing that you’re growing a bit panicked. 

“No, I-” You’re choking on the words. Recent memories are mixing with old, creating a convoluted and murky timeline of events. It’s hard to sort through everything, to find the truths hidden amongst the lies. You’re not sure how long it takes for you to collect your composure and organize your thoughts into a relatively coherent statement. “I saw him. He… visited me in the hospital. He drove me home.” 

“What?” Jack asks, utter disbelief written all over his face. You don’t remember your boss very well, but you get the feeling he isn’t usually so expressive. The look on his face would be comical, in a different situation. “What did he say to you?” He implores.

“He said a lot of things… Nothing very important.” You try to recall what you can, but your memories are quickly slipping through your fingertips in granules of sparkling sand. You press a hand to your temple, your headache growing worse as you try to recall what happened. “I tried asking him questions about me, to throw him off, but he knew all the answers.” 

Somehow, Jack doesn’t seem surprised by the notion. “You two were… close, before,” your boss evidently settles for saying. There’s a certain suspicion in his voice, as if he suspects you may have been more than “close” with Hannibal. You’re feeling too discombobulated to rise to the bait or bother calling him out on the obvious verbal trap. 

“He said ‘goodbye,’” you continue, eyebrows furrowing. Somehow, you get the sense that Hannibal isn’t the type to utter goodbyes. Moreover, a goodbye ushers in a sense of finality, as if you will truly never see him again. You pinch the bridge of your nose, pretending that your exchange with him on your doorstep isn’t replaying in your mind. He kissed me on the cheek, you don’t say to Jack. He said he was my husband. He watched over me in the hospital when no one else did. And it may have been fake, all of it… But that gleam of affection in his eyes didn’t look manufactured—it looked genuine.  

Jack looks troubled and somewhat restless. “You’re lucky you made it out alive.” He states. You don’t think you can quite believe his words. For whatever reason, Hannibal Lecter—the Chesapeake Ripper—is interested in you. Whether sick fascination or cloying obsession, you have to face the facts:  luck had nothing to do with it. The Ripper kept you alive because, inexplicably, he wants you alive. 

And that unnerves you. 

hannibal taglist, cause i think y'all would be down with reading this since it's also hannibal: @its-ares @tobbotobbs @xrisdoesntexist @gr1mmac3 @tiredstarcerberuslamb @yourlocalratwriter @kingkoku @kahuunknown @atlas-king1 @pendragon-writes @slipknotcentury @cryinersaved @the-ultimate-librarian @starre-eyes @pendragon-writes @peterparkeeperer @gayschlatt69 @flow33didontsmoke @mrgatotortuga @house-of-1000-corpses-fan

#defectivevillain #hannibal x reader #Hannibal Lecter x reader #hannibal #hannibal nbc #hannibal lecter #Hannibal Lecter x gn reader #hannibal x gn reader #Hannibal Lecter x male reader #Hannibal Lecter x transmasc reader #male reader #transmasc reader #gn reader #ok I think that's enough

[vampiiu]

Hannibal x S/O Who had a Nightmare

What to expect: GN! Reader, mention of nightmares and trauma, very short one-shot

---------

You had never shared a bed with Hannibal until now. He respects your privacy, so he allows you to sleep in a separate room. However, tonight you were anxious from a nightmare.

Reader creeps into Hannibal's room only to find him still awake and reading a book. What are you doing out of bed, mielasis?” he asks as he places his glasses on his nightstand.

"I couldn't sleep," you say as you climb in bed beside him. You lay your head on his chest and speak barely above a whisper, "I was... Having a nightmare."

"Yes, everyone has nightmares," he says. "Even I still have them from time to time."

"You do?"

He takes a breath and looks at you.

"Bad dreams often stem from trauma, for example what happened to my parents."

"Oh.. I'm sorry."

"No need to be sorry, all's done now. Would you like to tell me what your nightmare was about?"

You shook your head. You'd never want to burden Hannibal with your stupid 'bad dreams'... You aren't a kid.

He seems to have read your mind as he reassures you.

"Y/N, you're never a bother. You never will be. You're aware of this, correct?"

He looks past your eyes and into your soul, now it's time for you to reassure him.

"Of course." You respond as tears swell up in your eyes again.

The faint smell of wildflower fills your nose as he positions his arm over your shoulders.

His warmth comforts you and you both, almost immediately, drift off to sleep.

-

sorry the format is so weird. i'm on a different device and this was kinda rushed 😭

#i havent written in forever #sorry if it sucked <3 #nbc hannibal #sotl hannibal #silence of the lambs #hannibal #hannibal lecter #hannibal lecter x reader #sotl hannibal x reader #nbc hannibal x reader #hannibal lecter x male reader #hannibal lecter x gn reader #gender neutral

[gemstone-roses]

Hannibal:

Christmas fic request.

Summary: when all of your friends abandon you when you’re sick over the holidays, Hannibal steps in.

Warnings: 18 plus only please, hurt/comfort, being sick, fever.

A:N- hi I hope you like it, sorry it’s so short 🥹

Hope you feel better soon, give us a shout if you need anything.

You read over the message that’s posted in your group chat, thumbs up from everyone else in the group in agreement.

Your head pounds at the light from your phone. Dizziness clouds your vision as you try to clear your head.

You’d booked off a few days over Christmas at work, told jack not to call unless things were literally in flames, you had plans with your friends, long awaited plans. And then you woke up a day before, an awful ache throughout your body. And while they were kind at first, they switched their phones off as soon as they arrived at the retreat.

And now of course you did need something.

Probably a doctor, definitely some company other than a tub of Vicks and tissues. You scroll to the chat with Hannibal and send him a quick message, before curling up and relaxing into the darkness clouding your vision.

The pounding in your head sounds a lot like your front door being hammered, you stir slowly, an awful cough rips through you as you sit, confused as the noise is definitely coming from your door, before being confronted with Hannibal coming through the door.

“Erm, hi?” You croak, breathless

He looks slightly relieved, and then immediately concerned again, coming over to kneel in front of you on the couch.

“Are you alright?” He speaks softly, hand coming to rest on your forehead as he takes in your state.

“M fine, just a bit of a cold” you assure him but he frowns, grasping your hand in his his long fingers rest on your pulse point on your wrist.

“Your pulse is racing my love, you’re not fine” both his hands come to cup either side your face.

“have you eaten?” Concern laces his words as he asks.

“Not hungry, just tired” you mumble, closing your eyes once more.

“No darling I need you to stay awake a bit longer for me okay?” he soothes, stroking your face.

“We’ve got to get that fever down my love” he produces a bottle and a box of cold medicine and unscrews the cap for you.

“Here” he says softly, you sniffle as you take them, his hand rests lightly on top of yours.

“You don’t need to stay, I’ll be okay” you say, feeling awful you’ve interrupted his Christmas plans.

“Don’t be ridiculous, I came to take care of you, now, how does soup sound”. you wrinkle your nose at that, and he chuckles slightly.

“No soup then, I’ll make you something different, you rest” he says softly.

You curl up on the couch, Hannibal waits until you’ve found a comfortable position before placing your blanket over you.

“Thankyou” you mumble, burying your face in the cushion as he caresses your face smiling softly.

#hannibal x reader #hannibal lecter imagine #Hannibal imagine #Hannibal x gn reader #hannibal fanfiction #Hannibal fanfic

[tac-the-unseen]

Gifts the slashers would enjoy

Fluff

Minor updates for formatting

Micheal Myers:

•Arts and crafts supplies

-He's enjoyed making Paper Mache masks most of his life. It's very likely that he enjoys other forms of art as well, but couldn't express that in the ward for fear it would be taken away.

-Dr. Loomis sucks

-Giving him art supplies now, would end up in him making his art in secret. He feels embarrassed to like such a simple thing. That shame is intensified if you ask to see it. He'll end up leaving it out so you can see it without directly showing it to you

•Candy Corn, circus peanuts, and Crunch bar.

-Are they his favorite? No. But they bring back good memories, and for Michael, that's enough.

-would spend a good chunk of time snaking on the sweets while you spend time with him

-Can be bribed into a lot of shenanigans with candy

•Homemade meal

-He rarely had anyone make him dinner. His mom being a ‘working’ woman ment that he had to fend for himself come dinnertime.

-Knowing that you wanted to, and found time to make him dinner make him feel that icky (Nice), bubbly feeling in the center of his chest

-minor Headcannon: first time this happened Micheal thought he was having a heart attack.

Billy loomis & Stu macher:

•Horror movie merchandise

-Their collectors. If you manage to get your hands on something they don't have, they'll give you anything you want in return.

-will trip over themselves trying to replay you

-Stu would actually kiss the ground you walk on if you ask

•Jewelry

-They both appreciate necklaces, bracelets, and RINGS

-Stu is a gold guy, Billy is a sliver guy.

-They’re like crows. Anything shiny will end up in their pockets. Imagine Stu showing off his rings like a newly proposed to woman. Fawning over the design and/or jewels.

•knives/knife sharpener

-They collect knives of different quality and look

-they better ones they use to hunt. The best ones and the weaker ones are put on display like trophies.

-No matter the quality you get, it's the fact it came from you but they care about

Thomas Hewitt:

•Flowers

-Thomas is a sucker for old ‘traditional’ romantic actions

-Seeing you hold up hand-picked flowers makes his heart gush. He thinks you look so precious, wanting to make him happy.

-sometimes he'll catch you, out of a window, picking flowers just so you can give it to him. He'll never tell you, and will always act surprised when you present the bouquet.

•Bones

-its simple and an abundant resource at the house. There's always bones somewhere, and Thomas knows how to use the bones

-They’re good for making repairs, as tools, and as decorations

-You 10000% have a bone bracelet that Thomas made for you when you guys started to get more serious

•Desserts

-Thomas won't admit it, but he has a sweet tooth. Why do you think Luda mae spends so much time baking?

-While a good pie is enough to send this man to his knees, any other baked good will do.

-He likes cherries and strawberries, but because of how expensive they are he doesn't tell anybody that it's his favorite. He doesn't want anybody ‘wasting’ money or resources on him.

Bubba Sawyer:

•Flowers

-Bubba loves flowers. Any kind of flowers is enough for him to let out squeals of happiness. He loves seeing them around the farm, and plants them around the house when he has spare time.

-So when you go to town and come back with a bouquet of flowers just for him, nearly crushed you with hugs.

-Keeps them alive for as long as possible then perseveres them in notebooks and in salt

•Quilting supplies

-Bubba is really good at handling leather. Those human skin masks are hard to make, and human leather is so incredibly delicate.

-On top of that, he is a family man. He want to make things that help his family. So he makes blankets!

-its a fine craft and perfect in enhancing his skills.

•Good old quality time

-He loves spending his time with you! If he could spend all day with you, he would.

-So sitting down and cuddling means that absolute world to him. He cherishes his time with you and it what he looks forward to everyday. It's why he wakes up in the morning. It's why he tries hard everyday. He wants to spend every day starting and ending with you!

Bo Sinclair:

•Tools

-If your in the workshop often enough, you'll know what ends replacing.

-Bo is as stubborn as stubborn comes, so he won't get new tools until they physically can't do their job anymore.

-If you get him new tools he will begrudgingly take them, but after an hour or two he'll find you just so he can thank you ‘properly’.

•Cigarettes

-The boy smokes

-Don’t know what else to tell you

-Will kiss you when you give it to him though

•Kids Toys

-Sounds weird, but having his childhood taken away from him leaves him wanting to fill up the gaps.

-when looking through a victim's car you found a two handed water ring-toss toy. when you showed Bo He just rolled his eyes and kept working on his Truck. You started playing with it when at the shop, even leaving it there on a few occasions. Every time you left it there, He would take it and sneak into the back room of the shop to play with it.

-it brought him immense joy. One day he forgot to put it back, and when you asked about it he berated you for losing your things and expecting him to keep track of your belongings. He never told you, and would rather die than admit it.

Vincent Sinclair:

•Art/craft supplies

-Its a given, really

-He very rarely get new art supplies (if you don't count corpses) so it’s nice to get replacements.

-Will take anything you give him, honestly

•Books

-Vincent isn't always making art. Sometimes art can get boring for him, or he hits a rough patch and doesn't know where to go from there.

-A book can easily help, Whether it's just something else to do or it helps him overcome his art block. He will oftentimes get up from his work space and find another spot to sit down and read.

-He loves it when you read to him. It's nice to just listen to something while you work.

•Hoodies

-with his combination of body issues and wanting to be cozy, A hoodie seems to be the best option.

-Even though it is hot in Louisiana, The cool basement and even cooler nights need a little warmth.

-loves the feeling of the softer cloth and with it being a present, makes it all the better.

Lester Sinclair:

•Lip balm

-Lester has a hard time with hygiene. No one ever really taught him how to take care of himself.

-So when you notice Lester had chapped lips and gave him some lip balm something in his brain short circuited. The fact that YOU want to help him, makes his heart swell.

-keeps it in his pocket and constantly reapplies it

•Car freshener

-Even with him blind to the smell of death, the hot Louisiana sun will intensify the foul smell 10 fold. You knew it was bad when you could smell the truck before you could see or hear it.

-You ran out of town and bought several packs of air fresheners for his truck. You told him that you do love him, just not the smell that lingers when he gets home from work. Lester doesn't want to make you gag every time he gets into bed with you.

-He likes the Strawberry, sugar cookie, and fresh linens scent best

•Dinner

-He’s not the ‘I better come home to a hot plate of dinner' kind of guy, but he really appreciates it when he does. Even though Bo is a semi-good cook, anything after years of having it will get boring.

-Having you cook for him (and most likely his brothers) is a nice change of pace.

-Will eat anything you cook. Whether it's ‘good’ or ‘bad’ he will happily eat it all.

Billy Lenz:

•Being read too

-Isn’t a physical present but he loves your voice. He wants to read but has A) a hard time focusing and B) has a hard time reading in general

-Having you read to him calms him down and gets him settled enough to sit still and/or do an activity smoothly

-Reading to him 100% makes him fall asleep in the end. And boy does this insomniac need it

•Crochet equipment

-After learning how to Crochet he can't stop. He runs through String like a mad man. He has made you 6 sweaters and increasing in quality over time

-Will give you a list of all the colors he wants and will wait patiently on your bed for you to come back.

-Gets ridiculous excited when he's given new supplies. Will be your lap dog for weeks after

•String lights

-Doesn't have to be Christmas themed, he just really likes the lights. Like a moth drawn to flames.

-likes to fall asleep with them on, it's like Billy’s own big night light.

-Has gotten too close to them and accidentally ripped them down. He tried to hide them so he didn't get in trouble, and actually cried when you found out.

Brahms Heelshire:

•Clothes

-You wondered why his clothes were so ill-fitting for a long time before you realized, that's his dad's old clothes.

-coming to that realization you manage to figure out his proper size and (after some minor fighting) when out to get him a much needed upgrade. When you came home he was waiting by the door, waiting for you. Giving him his new clothes was like telling him you would never leave again, he was ecstatic. He ripped the bags out of your arms and ran into his room so he could try them on

-He fell in love with the sweaters you got him, with a nice couple pairs of khakis. It wasn't much of a transition from his old clothes but that's just what he likes.

•Movies/Movie night

-The only movies he's seen are from his childhood, and he can barely remember them. His parents didn't think movies were healthy for a growing boy, so they only allowed him books to pass the time

-When you proposed a movie night he had a couple questions and even a bit of hesitation. “What if they melt my brain?” He asked with genuine concern. After you posed another question back “Why wouldn't they have melted my brain yet?” Did he trust you.

-You started with childhood classics before getting into the more ‘adult’ stuff. He loved every minute of it

•Picnics

-While Brahms isn't a fan of going outside, the garden is the only exception. You wanted him to go outside because orange juice can only do so much for a vitamin D deficiency.

-He said the only way he would go outside was if you had a Picnic and put his sunscreen on. Making sandwiches with chips and then lathering him in 80 SPF he went outside in a tank top layered with a crocheted vest and shorts, had him outside fairly quickly

-Now he wants a picnic every summer

Hannibal Lecter:

•Wine

-After dating for a while you started to notice where Hannibal got his expensive foods and wines

-you also noticed what he actually liked and what he was just experimenting with. While fruity and floral flavors were always favored, herbs and Nutty wines were much lower on his list.

-With that in mind you got a Cherry lavender wine from Greece. When you gave it to him he was actually shocked you were paying attention to his preferences. He told you most people just buy cheap wine and expect him not to notice.

-The wine you picked out now has a permit spot saved on his wine shelf.

•Paper bouquet

-Paper made into the shape of different flowers all wrapped up in another paper tying it all together. It's cute, classy (though he would never display it openly), and will never wilt!

-He had told you about the complexity of life using flowers as an example and how they wilt. So you decided to make flowers that can't wilt to not only sass him but to give him something

-He put them in a paper vase he made (in only what you can assume was) in his free time.

•Friendship bracelets

-What was originally a gag gift turned out to be one of his favorite gifts.

-You thought there was no way in hell THE Hannibal Lecter would wear cheap bright string woven together, but you were wrong.

-You had made some friendship bracelets out of old string you found in some old stuffed away box and laughed at the idea of Hannibal finding it in his desk drawer. So you did just that, just to come to the shocking realization that during a meeting with the F.B.I he was wearing it, hidden under his sleeve. You had a very hard time containing your laughter that night.

Will Graham:

•Quality time with you!

-Life has always been stressful for Will. So some alone time with you is always a great gift.

-No need for fancy dinners, events, or holidays. Just sitting down to watch whatever pops up on the T.V screen is enough for him.

-Bonus points if the pack joins in for a cuddle session!

•Handwritten letter(s)

-Having a man with a different then most emotional attachment style is hard. Will might not always what to be physically touched or poked at. Sometimes he doesn't even want to talk (Common coping mechanism for Autistic people)!

-But even when he gets like this, it's still nice to get some reassurance. You started writing him little notes around the house a while ago and slowly you noticed Will’s mood improving significantly.

-He found it very sweet that you were taking the time to meet him on a level he was comfortable with. The two of you don't speak about it often but the notes persist.

•New fishing gear

-anything fishing related is always an appreciated

-New lears, poles, vests, hooks, bait even. Anything even if he already has it, he will take it happily

-He’ll take you fishing with his new gear you got him and will happily teach you if you don't know how to fish

The Lost Boys:

•Jewelry

-All four vamps love jewelry of any kind

-All of them have earrings, bracelets, and necklaces so why not give them Something they can say they got from their S/O!

-David and Marko prefer bracelets, David’s gloves wouldn't mesh well with rings, and he thinks a necklace might make him seem less intimidating. Marko would chew on a necklace and worse could get caught during a fight. Rings would be damaged either due to said fighting and/or his painting. Bracelets are that perfect in-between!

-Dwayne and Paul like Rings for different reasons. For Dwayne Rings have that ‘marriage’ aspect to them. Not to say rings mean marriage, but historically speaking…it's like putting your claim on him and he's thriving for that.

-Paul likes rings to fidget with. He already has rings he uses as ways to occupy his hands when something or someone isn't. Will 100% show off his ring you gave him to the others.

•Gift boxes

-The boxes full of pictures, candy, and other meaningful things

-They all go feral over those boxes, especially the first ever box. It was filled with your own little doodles, candy you know they like, mini bottles of whiskey, and a note telling them about how much you care about them and where to meet you for the night.

-if you plan to do this more often make sure each boy gets to keep something or they WILL fight over it.

•ScrapBooks

-Memories bunch up and fade when you're a vampire. They can't always remember the little things, so having a book of all those memories they can look back at is great idea!

-You even found a creative way to include them in pictures! They can't be seen in photos, but they're shadows can! You take pictures under street lamps and make silly poses. You have a picture of Paul dramatically falling into Marko's arms while Dwayne and David kiss either side of your face.

-All those silly pictures combined with your and Marko’s creativity ends up in some fun, colorful, memories

Thanks for reading <3

(You know I write a fuck ton when It started glitching out. Like it would freeze while I was formatting it correctly 😭)

#the lost boys x reader #michael myers #billy loomis #stu macher #thomas hewitt #bubba sawyer #bo sinclair #vincent sinclair #lester sinclair #billy lenz #brahms heelshire #nbc hannibal #hannibal lecter #will graham #the lost boys #dwayne the lost boys #david the lost boys #paul the lost boys #marko the lost boys #gn reader #fluff #slashers

[hannibals-favourite-meal]

Hold My Life In Your Hands

Hannibal Lecter x GN!plus size reader

Hannibal has hurt hundreds of people with his hands but he could never hurt you, and yet you want him to

Warnings: smut, choking, allusions to Hannibal’s murders, rough sex, biting, marking kink, aftercare

WC: 1.4k

Minors DNI

Hannibal’s hands were a thing of beauty; tools for both destruction and creation. They were soft, the hands of a man who moisturised daily but callouses on the palm, built up from years of burns and working with knives. His fingers were long and thick, much like another part of his anatomy.

He knew how to use his hands well, he was a surgeon after all. He wore no rings, no jewelry that would hinder his work. He would wear a ring one day, that he promised you, but for now, his hands were as bare as his soul to you. 

His hands guided you— a palm at the small of your back during dinner parties, your fingers intertwined during a midnight walk, gripping your plump thigh as he drove you around in his expensive car. 

His hands controlled you— buried within you, stroking your sex, telling you that you couldn’t fall over the edge just yet, a firm hold on your wrists, pinning them helplessly above your head while he thrust into you.

But there was one thing he could never do with his hands, and that was to hurt you. He would not leave bruises or bites, he would never risk marring your perfect skin or risking your life. It was something he was insistent on, yet you could see the gleam in his eye, the darkness swirling within the golden amber that told you everything you needed to know.

He wanted to mark you, paint your skin with splotchy purple and yellow, to show the world that you were his entirely for all eternity. 

“My darling, you’re doing so well for me.” His voice was level in your ear, controlled and much like he normally sounded. But you were the polar opposite. You were crumbling beneath him, strung out and shivering, consumed with pleasure.

And yet, it wasn’t enough, you needed more. You needed his rage, his anger, his darkness. “More.” You croaked, desperately clutching at his muscular back. He had your hips tilted up at the perfect angle to hit the small bundle of nerves deep within you that made you see stars.

“Tell me how my love.” He crooned, laying delicate kisses to the side of your head. Wet squelches echoed through the room, in time with Hannibal’s powerful thrusts. Your stomach twisted with pleasure. You burned for him, a fire only he could stoke.

You could not speak, your brain turning to mush with a particularly hard strike to your core. Instead, you did the only thing you could. Your fingers curled around his right wrist which had been planted firmly by your head.

He leaned back, just enough to allow you to do what you wished with his body. A pathetic whine escaped your lips at the loss of his naked skin against your torso but it did not deter your determination. His hold on the silk pillow beneath you went easy as you pulled it closer to you.

You could see his composure crumbling the closer his touch got to your overheated skin. His facade was falling away, like a porcelain mask, chip by chip. His weight shifted to his left side, providing a new angle at which to strike you. He knocked the breath from your lungs, replacing it with his essences, his smell, his taste.

Your insides twisted like you were almost at the top of the rollercoaster, waiting for the drop. But the edge was getting further and further away, you needed one last little push.

It happened too quickly for Hannibal to react, a simple tug against his wrist, and suddenly his huge hand was on your throat. His fingers unconsciously curled around the gentle curve of your windpipe, feeling the erratic beat of your pulse.

That one touch was enough to push the cart forward, the nose balancing precariously in the air as you waited for the fall. He tried to pull away, not trusting in himself. 

“My life is yours” You managed to say between gasps, forcing his fingers to tighten around the delicate skin of your neck. Even in the dim lighting of your shared bedroom, you could clearly see how his eyes darkened.

He loomed over you. He shifted before you, no longer your caring, devoted partner, but a vicious panther, waiting for the right moment to strike. Hannibal was dangerous and you wanted to be consumed by it.

“Very well.” He snarled and your breath was ripped from you. A firm hand clamped on your wide hip, squeezing to the point of pain, just as his other pressed down, pinning you to the mattress. “You’re mine.”

It was violent, the way he used you. Shoving you up the bed with each thrust, the top of your head brushing the ornate bed frame as the rest of your body was held still. Oxygen filled your lungs in short bursts, just enough to keep you conscious but too little for you to catch your breath. He felt huge like this, his cock splitting you open even more than usual as you felt each and every vein and twitch inside of you.

Your limbs shook, muscles tensing at the precipice of your end. Your body was both freezing and on fire, black spots dotting your vision but he did not relent. “Please.” Only a whisper of the word could slip past your kiss-bitten lips with the last of the air in your lungs.

Hannibal dipped forward, his nose brushing along the length of your collarbone, inhaling the sweetness of your natural perfume—your sweat, your arousal. Then he bit down, hard. His teeth carved into your flesh, not enough to cut, but enough to hurt, to brand.

They travelled across your chest, burning himself into your skin. The pleasure mounted, like bricks stacking in a wall.

His grip got firmer and he gave one last punch inside you, shattering the brittle foundation of your orgasm. Your eyes rolled back and your tongue lolled from your mouth in a vain attempt to draw more breath.

Just as the blackness tinged the edge of your vision and the rush of hormones tapered off, Hannibal released your throat, letting air rush back into you. “Hanni!” You called, another wave of pleasure washing over you.

His chest vibrated with a feral growl, your walls clamping around him like a vice. He ripped himself from you, the hand that had held your fragile life, took his wet length and began pumping furiously. You reached for him and he did not hesitate to hold you, your fingers intertwining as his own end approached.

“Mine.” Was all he said before his back bowed forward and he finished on your plump stomach. His cum was hot against your already overheated skin and yet, you shivered. He was always careful not to mar you in any way, even staining you with his seed was too much. But now, you felt marked, owned entirely by him.

Hannibal shuddered, sweat dripping from his brow, his silvery hair out of place. He looked wild and finally free. “Wow.” Was all you could say with your raspy voice. And as suddenly as the beast appeared, it retreated back into its cage, to await his next meal.

“You did so well for me my darling.” He cooed, cupping your full cheek. He tilted your head to the side to lay a loving kiss to your cheek. 

He slipped away, gracefully moving through the room. You stayed on the bed, melting into the damp sheets. You knew better than to follow him, a firm suggestion on his part from the beginning of your sexual relationship to stay in place and let him take care of your needs. 

He returned shortly, a wet cloth in one hand, a cold glass of water with a slice of cucumber in the other which were promptly placed on the dark oak table beside the bed. With gentle guidance, he helped you to sit up against the pillows and then gave you the glass.

As you began to take careful sips, he used the cloth to wipe away the grime left behind by your coupling. “So beautiful.” He reassured.

Soon, the water was gone and you were clean. The sheets were drawn back and the pillows arranged. Hannibal took his rightful spot in the center of the bed and you in his arms. His hands held you close as exhaustion took over and you peacefully slipped into sleep.

“Thank you.” He murmured into your hair as he followed behind you.

Yes, Hannibal’s hands were beautiful.

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[kettlemouse13]

Smitten

Will Graham x Reader

In the midst of finding a motive for the latest murder, Will’s friend has a eureka moment, prompting an unexpected yet very welcomed reaction from the man.

This is inspired by a tiktok I saw of two dogs—I won’t specify as it’ll spoil what I’ve written—and thought I’d make it into a fluffy moment.

Warning: The following contains hunts to mental illness and graphic topics such as murder, gore and body horror.

Reader’s discretion is advised.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Stress was high.

And the scene before the trio was less than savoury.

Strung up by hooks, a corpse hung, arms held up via stakes that were plunged deep into the carcass’ ribcage. Within their outstretched palms, laid their heart.

The mere sight, let alone smell twisted your stomach and made you queasy. You gazed at it anxiously from over your fist, fingernails brushing over your lips as a way to cope, the sensation grounding. Your other hand fiddling with your keys.

“Do you have an idea for a possible motive?”

Hannibal’s voice rang through your brain fog, bringing you back down to reality. At the psychiatrist’s question, your head turned to Will’s direction, a careful yet curious expression on your face.

“I think…” He paused, brows furrowing and eyes narrowed in concentration. But he never finished his sentence, a blockade keeping him from accessing his own thoughts. His hands balled into fists at his side, no doubt from overstimulation whilst he chewed his lip in frustration.

Your eyes returned to the corpse, this time, calculation filling your mind space. Perhaps you could make it easier for Will, find a motive so he could rest his wired nerves.

“Will, you need to think hard about this-”

“I’m trying, okay?” Will’s voice was sharp, quickly cutting off any opportunity for Hannibal to pressure him further.

Sympathy flexed your face, forming into a short wince on his behalf, leaning over to gently place a comforting hand on his bicep as your eyes trailed over any visible detail on the lifeless face infront of you—

Their eyes are missing…

Your head tilts at this revelation, taking a small step forward fingers turning the metal keys over in your hands. The Chesapeake Ripper did take trophies, but this time, the eyes being missing seemed linked to the display. Almost as if trying to convey blindness…

That’s it.

“I-I think I have an idea…” Your voice, though quiet, echoed in the quiet room, catching the attention of the two men beside you.

Hannibal’s expression showed slight amounts of interest whilst the almost pained scowl on Will face softened, both of them silently inviting you to continue.

“The corpse, they’re holding their own heart, possibly conveying the idea of attraction or passion, but their eyes are missing. I think that one small detail could hint to blindness. As usual, this is directed towards Will, so I think this is a message to say that you–” You turn fully to Will to speak with him specifically, “–Are blind to his attraction.”

Hannibal’s brows twitched upward, expressing his impress.

A small smile slowly turned Wills lips, now connecting your inference to the evidence and how plausible it was.

A sense of pride and accomplishment filled your heart, a bashful smirk stretching your cheeks. But it fell ever so slightly out of curiosity as you watched Will step other.

He placed a gentle pat on your shoulder before reaching over slightly to press his lips to your cheek.

You couldn’t blink, refused to. You simply couldn’t miss a single second of that moment. The moment his slightly chapped lips made contact with the soft flesh of your cheek, euphoria flooded your body. You became oblivious to the world around you as your body felt as light as a feather.

You flinched as the sudden clank of metal tore you from your moment of bliss, looking down to realize that you dropped your keys. Your eyes flickered between Will’s slightly amused look and your fallen keys before you bent down to grab them.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Reblogs are appreciated <3

#will graham x reader #will graham #hannibal #hannibal nbc #hannibal lecter #x reader #reader insert #gn reader #gender neutral reader #fluff #will graham fluff #will graham x reader fluff

[kettlemouse]

Smitten

Will Graham x Reader

In the midst of finding a motive for the latest murder, Will's friend has a eureka moment, prompting an unexpected yet very welcomed reaction from the man.

This is inspired by a tiktok I saw of two dogs—I won't specify as it'll spoil what I've written—and thought I'd make it into a fluffy moment.

Warning: The following contains hunts to mental illness and graphic topics such as murder, gore and body horror.

Reader's discretion is advised.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Stress was high.

And the scene before the trio was less than savoury.

Strung up by hooks, a corpse hung, arms held up via stakes that were plunged deep into the carcass' ribcage. Within their outstretched palms, laid their heart.

The mere sight, let alone smell twisted your stomach and made you queasy. You gazed at it anxiously from over your fist, fingernails brushing over your lips as a way to cope, the sensation grounding. Your other hand fiddling with your keys.

"Do you have an idea for a possible motive?"

Hannibal's voice rang through your brain fog, bringing you back down to reality. At the psychiatrist's question, your head turned to Will's direction, a careful yet curious expression on your face.

"I think..." He paused, brows furrowing and eyes narrowed in concentration. But he never finished his sentence, a blockade keeping him from accessing his own thoughts. His hands balled into fists at his side, no doubt from overstimulation whilst he chewed his lip in frustration.

Your eyes returned to the corpse, this time, calculation filling your mind space. Perhaps you could make it easier for Will, find a motive so he could rest his wired nerves.

"Will, you need to think hard about this-"

"I'm trying, okay?" Will's voice was sharp, quickly cutting off any opportunity for Hannibal to pressure him further.

Sympathy flexed your face, forming into a short wince on his behalf, leaning over to gently place a comforting hand on his bicep as your eyes trailed over any visible detail on the lifeless face infront of you—

Their eyes are missing...

Your head tilts at this revelation, taking a small step forward fingers turning the metal keys over in your hands. The Chesapeake Ripper did take trophies, but this time, the eyes being missing seemed linked to the display. Almost as if trying to convey blindness...

That's it.

"I-I think I have an idea..." Your voice, though quiet, echoed in the quiet room, catching the attention of the two men beside you.

Hannibal's expression showed slight amounts of interest whilst the almost pained scowl on Will face softened, both of them silently inviting you to continue.

"The corpse, they're holding their own heart, possibly conveying the idea of attraction or passion, but their eyes are missing. I think that one small detail could hint to blindness. As usual, this is directed towards Will, so I think this is a message to say that you–" You turn fully to Will to speak with him specifically, "–Are blind to his attraction."

Hannibal's brows twitched upward, expressing his impress.

A small smile slowly turned Wills lips, now connecting your inference to the evidence and how plausible it was.

A sense of pride and accomplishment filled your heart, a bashful smirk stretching your cheeks. But it fell ever so slightly out of curiosity as you watched Will step other.

He placed a gentle pat on your shoulder before reaching over slightly to press his lips to your cheek.

You couldn't blink, refused to. You simply couldn't miss a single second of that moment. The moment his slightly chapped lips made contact with the soft flesh of your cheek, euphoria flooded your body. You became oblivious to the world around you as your body felt as light as a feather.

You flinched as the sudden clank of metal tore you from your moment of bliss, looking down to realize that you dropped your keys. Your eyes flickered between Will's slightly amused look and your fallen keys before you bent down to grab them.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Reblogs are appreciated <3

#will graham x reader #will graham #hannibal #hannibal nbc #hannibal lecter #x reader #reader insert #gn reader #gender neutral reader #fluff #will graham fluff #will graham x reader fluff

[dastardly-imbecile]

Warmth

Wrote this for a friend, do not know a single iota of anything Hannibal-related, which is probably abundantly clear.

The chair is made of plush red velvet; so dark that it’s nearly black. Soft under you in the way that you know you could fall asleep if given ten minutes. 

Around you, the house is dark and silent. All but for the crackling of the fireplace - such a cliche term, but cozy nonetheless. Too dark to read a physical book, but you don’t particularly feel like pulling out something electronic. It would ruin the illusion that you’ve so carefully crafted in this atmosphere - the idea that you’re in some fantasy world, relaxing in your mountainside chalet, nothing more than the fire and the chair and the dark, dark walls. 

“Y/N?”

Well, something had to break the immersion eventually. Not that you’re really mad about that - not when it’s Hannibal. You can practically feel his approach behind you, feel it past the sound of his footsteps and the scent of the tea he’s carrying. It’s the feeling you’ve always had, ever since seeing him for the first time all that time ago - an internal fire; a warmth that starts in your chest and spreads. 

Different from the external warmth of the fire. Strange to think about, to attempt to articulate to anyone - but you don’t really need to. All you need is to feel it yourself. 

His presence moves around the chair to stand beside you. He’s tall, somewhere in the realm of the upper-fives lower-sixes. Enough to tower over you sitting here. “Are you okay?”

“Perfectly fine.” 

He pats the armrest next to you. “May I?”

You nod. There’s the sound of shifting above, and he settled next to you. Perched delicately - an anathema to that looming height, he wields it like a dancer would. Makes you wonder where he learned. It lends to the quiet sound of his footfalls and the languid, easy way he moves. Not a care in the world - a skill you sometimes wish you could learn. 

Simply having him is enough for now. 

Just now.

He passes the cup and saucer down. Warmth, it’s what you’re surrounded by, the fire and his body and the cup, and it’s spreading inside of you, down past your stomach and up into your head. More as you take a sip - it’s pleasant enough to loosen your muscles. 

You shift to lean against him. He accepts it without comment, and your head lays just under his elbow. 

“Bad day?” He asks. You’re a veterinarian, and that’s part of what drew him to you in the first place - said he admired anyone who would try and help animals. It’s hard sometimes to put them down or to see the ones that have been mistreated. Not today, though. 

“Tired.”

At that, you yawn, and he laughs - softly, but you can still feel it jostle your head. Not an entirely unpleasant sensation when it comes from the person you love. 

His arm settles around your shoulders. “We should get you to bed then, shouldn’t we?”

Probably. You can’t quite get your arms to move, however. He divines that - as he always does, somehow - and stands. “Or do you need an incentive first?”

“Maybe.” You take another drink; he moves around behind you.

Strong hands settle on your shoulders. At the moment, there’s a layer of fabric separating skin from skin, but the phantom memory of that sensation still shivers through you. Yes, this is definitely doing wonders for your wakefulness. 

They start to knead - moving across your shoulders, gentle at first, but pressing deeper with every second. It sends your muscles tensing for a brief moment before they surrender to the feeling of being worked, molded into nothing but the feeling of release. 

“Better?” He asks. 

There’s nothing you can do but nod mutely. It’s as much as any words could’ve said.

It has to end, as all things do, but at least you’re comforted by the fact that there will be as many massages as you’d ever want. He helps you up from your chair, hand on your back. The touch of it sends residual tingles rushing through you. He can probably feel them. 

He walks with you until you enter your bedroom - lights dimmed to suit the rest of the house, bed made and ready for sleep. 

“I’ll turn the fire out,” He murmurs, voice soft and dark as the velvet chair. “Sleep, Darling.”

You do. 

#hannibal #hannibal lecter #hannibal x reader #hannibal lecter x reader #x gn reader

[defectivevillain]

tongues and teeth

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reading (can be read as romantic or platonic)

reader's pronouns & race: unspecified, ambiguous

summary:

“What should I do?” Franklyn whines. His voice continues to grate on your ears. Every remark that comes from his lips is dripping in misguided arrogance and misplaced hero worship. He’s staring down at his tortillas with worried eyes. “He hates me.” “Chef Lecter?” You ask incredulously. Franklyn nods. “I don’t think he cares enough to feel any particular way about you,” you say, the words slipping from your lips before you can stop them. There’s a whisper of a dark laugh from far away, an amused exhale of breath.

Chef Hannibal Lecter is a world renowned chef praised for his innovative dishes. He’s won numerous awards and his restaurant, Hawthorn, reflects his talents. There’s something off about him, though. It isn’t until you’re seated in Hawthorn, a distance away from the door guarded by security workers and looking down at a breadless bread plate, that you begin to connect the dots.

word count: 6k | ao3 version

Warnings: spoilers to The Menu, canon-typical blood & violence, suicide, hanging

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is going to be an alternate universe, in which the characters from the Menu are replaced by those from Hannibal. Hannibal is the main chef and the reader takes the place of Margot. In this universe, we’re pretending that the dinner guests—many of whom are criminals in Hannibal—are not hardened killers, but rich consumers in the highest echelons of society. There’s an exact list of which character corresponds with The Menu dinner guests in the endnotes, if you’re super interested.

I have many different justifications for some of the choices I made while writing this, but I don’t want to bore you all to tears, so I’ll detail them in the endnotes. Just know that Hannibal and Julian (the antagonist of The Menu) have very different reasons and motivations for killing, which will impact the story

You’re not sure how you find yourself sitting at a table in Hawthorn, one of the world’s most exclusive restaurants, next to someone you can barely consider an acquaintance. Actually, you do know—you’d just rather not think about it. The boat ride over to the private island, the entirely unnecessary tour of the facilities, and the weirdly stringent rules governing your every move… You indeed remember how you got here. These occurrences all seemed outlandish and entirely otherworldly to you. This entire day has been nothing but a flight of fancy for those with more money than they know what to do with. Not for the first time today, you regret every decision that led you to step into the boat, walk along the sandy shores, and step into this cage of a restaurant. 

Indeed, the space is nothing more than an enclosure. Everyone in the group seemed too excited about the upcoming meal to notice how the door promptly swiveled shut when you entered, sealing you into this urban nightmare of a building. You had turned over your shoulder upon hearing the door close, only to find several men in suits blocking the exit. A horrible feeling had settled in your chest. Whatever may come tonight, one thing is for certain: you are not supposed to leave. This may very well be your last meal. 

You’re ushered rather forcefully to your table. Franklyn Froideveaux, the man who invited you, looks completely ecstatic. You berate yourself for accepting the invitation; in your defense, however, you weren’t exactly given a choice. You owe this man a favor, as begrudged as you are to admit it. You’d rather wash your hands of the scourge that is Franklyn Froideveaux as soon as possible, which is why you find yourself in Hawthorn tonight. This restaurant doesn’t accept single reservations—something Franklyn made sure to announce several times on your walk over. You should be grateful for this opportunity, Franklyn says every few minutes. Currently, he’s prattling on about the cooking utensils in the kitchen, and about some television series that he claimed to watch about the executive chef. You nod and hum at the appropriate moments, but your attention is elsewhere. Conversations fill the space, combining with clinking glasses to create a pleasant ambiance. At least, you suspect it is intended to be pleasant. However, you can’t help but see past the pleasantries scattered around you—especially when in the presence of such… notorious dinner guests. 

First, there’s Frederick Chilton—self-proclaimed genius and institutional leader of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Next to him sits Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier, another high-profile psychologist known for her numerous research publications. Dr. Alana Bloom is seated in the third spot at the table. From what you know, the three professionals are colleagues in the medical field and research partners. 

Next is Freddie Lounds. You remember seeing her make the news for her self-published food review magazine, TattleCulinary. She sits with James Gray, another critic who is more well-known in the art world. Gray edits the journalist's pieces, and you can pick up on the underlying tones of superiority in their dynamic as Lounds dominates their conversation.  

Scott Komeda sits at a table off to the side with his wife, Cheryl. Neither of them look too happy to be here. You can’t say you blame them; although, judging from their luxurious attire, they’re all too familiar with a rich dining experience. A sordid state of affairs, you might say, if they weren't absolutely dripping in wealth. It almost appears as if they’ve dined here before. You certainly wouldn’t be surprised if that were the case. 

Mason and Margot Verger sit at the table to your left. Rumor has it Mason is a cruel bastard. Since his rise to stardom, he’s been embroiled in many scandals—scandals that have dragged him into the courthouse, of all places. He is not a good person. Margot, his sister, sits next to him. Her shoulders are drawn tight, as if she’s on guard. You can’t find it in your heart to pity her—not when you remember her and her brother’s exorbitant wealth. 

And, of course, Franklyn is sitting across from you. Truly, you’d rather be sitting here with anyone but him. Mr. Tobias Budge was supposed to dine with Franklyn instead—as the hostess so rudely reminded you several times—but he couldn’t make it. You wonder if Franklyn also has Tobias under his thumb; although, if he was able to escape this dinner, you suppose Tobias is in a much better spot than you are. 

You allow your gaze to wander about the room. Everyone is preoccupied with speaking to one another or sipping the proffered wine. Upon first glance, there isn’t much that this group has in common. However, the more you look at them, the more you’re struck with one fatal realization: this entire group is enamored with greed. You can see it in the most minute of gestures—the roll of their eyes when they’re left waiting, the expectations they carry on shoulders that have never known burden or suffering. Indeed, it costs an excessive amount to take part in this dinner—this dining experience, Franklyn is keen to remind you. 

Amuse bouche is served first. You stare down at the dish. It looks to be no more than two mouthfuls of food. You can’t help but huff a laugh from under your breath, which goes entirely unnoticed by Franklyn. He’s too busy sneaking pictures of the food—something the group was explicitly ordered not to do—and ranting about something pretentious. 

As you stare down at your plate, you feel a prickling sensation rising up your spine. Unnerved, you turn around, only to find that a new addition to the kitchen is staring at you. It’s not just a new addition, you realize with growing horror, but the chef himself. You’re the first to break eye contact, as you tear your gaze away and focus on the appetizer. The man unsettles you. 

Ultimately, you don’t end up eating the dish, so Franklyn takes it and eats it himself. Somehow, his behavior has grown worse since you first set foot on the island. You contemplate the thought for a moment, before you’re interrupted by a loud clapping sound. It makes your heart race out of your chest; startled, you turn around to find the chef standing in the center of the room. 

“My name is Hannibal Lecter,” he says, his voice cutting through the eerie silence. “Today, you will ingest some of the building blocks of nature and, perhaps, even nature herself.” You take the gifted opportunity to study the man before you. Perfectly coiffed hair frames a sharp, angular face and mahogany eyes. An understanding smile is plastered on his face, yet malice curves his lips and sharpens his teeth. Your heart is hammering in your chest. You’re thrown out of your reverie by the light applause scattered about the room. Clenching your fists at your sides, you try to remain calm and turn back to face Franklyn. The cooks descend the stairs and serve you the first course. Once again, the dish you’re presented with resembles a display more than a meal. You pick around at it for a few moments before abandoning the thought. 

If the first course is sparse, the second course is almost entirely empty of nourishment. Lecter’s description—an allusion to the privilege of the very guests sitting around his restaurant—is a warning for what lies ahead. The group will not be receiving bread, you realize as the cooks step down from the kitchen and fan out across the room. You have to suppress your irritation at the scene. Sure, you understand what the chef is trying to say. However, you get the feeling you’re not his intended audience. You’re not from the same world as these people. This is painfully present in the way Freddie Lounds tastes her dish, gushing about its distinct flavor profile. You grit your teeth to stop yourself from saying something stupid. 

You’re anchored to your seat. Ultimately, you don’t belong here amongst these upper-class socialites, born with silver spoons on their tongues and privilege in their every movement; you feel like a sheep in wolf’s clothing. 

The third course doesn’t bring nourishment, but it certainly brings a host of other feelings. The chef’s anecdote about his childhood is disturbing—especially when punctuated by the dish he serves, chicken thigh with scissors stabbed in it. When the dish is served, you can’t bear to touch it. Thankfully, there is an accompaniment to the poultry: tortillas. The tortillas have engraved drawings on them, supposedly. You unfold the tortilla cautiously. To your disbelief, there are indeed intricate depictions on the tortilla. Your heart hammers in your chest as you look at the single tortilla you were served. It’s an exact replica of how you’re seated right now, except Franklyn is missing. His chair is pictured and there’s a dish placed on his side of the table, but the man is excluded from the image. Upon closer examination, you find his fork and knife positioned vertically on the plate. Dread courses through your chest as you recognize the nonverbal sign of a finished meal. This does not bode well for Franklyn. 

Franklyn, seeing that your attention has been captured by the tortilla, moves to grab his own. His tortillas are engraved with sketches of him seated at this exact table, holding up his phone and sneaking pictures of the meal. The color promptly drains from his face. You’re about to ask him why he looks so disturbed when you hear several outcries from the tables around you. Each person’s tortillas are depictions of unsavory, humiliating truths. The three researchers are whispering hurriedly amongst each other. Mason Verger is glaring at Margot, as if the dish is somehow her fault. Mrs. Komeda is staring at her tortillas with wide eyes and her husband seems to be sweating. Suddenly, you feel as if you were spared from any potential humiliation and embarrassment. 

“What should I do?” Franklyn whines. His voice continues to grate on your ears. Every remark that comes from his lips is dripping in unfounded arrogance and misplaced hero worship. He’s staring down at his tortillas with worried eyes. “He hates me.”

“The chef?” You ask incredulously. Franklyn nods. “I don’t think he cares enough to feel any particular way about you,” you say, the words slipping from your lips before you can stop them. There’s a whisper of a dark laugh from far away, an amused exhale of breath. 

Franklyn’s preoccupation with his tortillas prompts you to look down at your own. You look down at the tortilla warily. Suddenly, you realize your picture has another meaning. It’s not just an omen for Franklyn, but for you, too. It’s a warning: this night is going to be a bloodbath. 

The fourth course validates the trepidation settling in your chest. Chef Lecter allows a cook, Jeremy, to take center stage. Immediately, you know something is wrong. From what you’ve seen, Hannibal Lecter treats cooking as a performance. What performer would willingly let another take the stage? Unless… that other performer was the entertainment. Your suspicions are proven correct when you see Jeremy put a gun to his mouth and fire it off. You flinch at the gunshot, even though you’re expecting it. The guests around you scream. 

The subsequent dish is aptly dubbed “The Mess.” There’s a significant resemblance to the human body, and the dish’s sauce looks like blood. You swallow hard, feeling rather nauseous. Franklyn rubs his hands together and begins eating, as if someone hadn’t just committed suicide before his very eyes. He is entirely unbothered and you’re sorely tempted to snap your fingers in front of his face. 

You feel completely sick to your stomach. You grip the table hard, trying to keep yourself anchored to this horrible reality. A man died before your very eyes. You’re going to die tonight, surrounded by wealthy, privileged assholes. Bolts of pain slide through your fingers. Before the sensation can begin to truly burn, there’s a harsh grip on your shoulder.  Hannibal Lecter, the chef, is looming over you. You flinch at the sudden touch and look up at him, while trying to regain feeling in your locked joints. There’s a buzzing sound in your ears. The chef’s eyes gleam crimson in the bright lighting. Franklyn lets out a weird squeal, clearly excited by the prospect of Lecter visiting your table. Unfortunately, the chef doesn’t have eyes for Franklyn. He’s staring at you hard enough for your skin to be lit with a phantom burn. 

“How are you enjoying the meal?” Lecter implores, looking down at you. He’s rather handsome up close, you realize. You try to choke out a response, but Franklyn is quicker. 

“It’s wonderful, sir!” Franklyn gushes shamelessly, “Truly exquisite-”

“I wasn’t speaking to you,” the chef interjects, sending him a withering glare before focusing back on you. He raises an eyebrow ever so slightly at you. You’re scrambling for words, empty promises and compliments that will leave him satisfied enough to leave you the hell alone. Thankfully, you’re spared by the enraged scream of Scott Komeda. The chef’s attention is drawn away from you and you breathe a sigh of relief. Lecter clasps his hands behind his back and levels the man with an expectant gaze. 

Mr. Komeda’s eyes are frantic and he breathes heavily. “Get me the hell out of here!” He screams. 

There are a few beats of silence, before the hostess—Abigail, you think her name is—paces over to him and places a hand on his shoulder. She whispers something quietly to him, something that goes unheard by everyone else. Whatever she says, it must be suitably disturbing, because the man’s face pales significantly. Abigail’s grip tightens on his shoulder. 

“Which hand would you like to lose, sir?” She asks politely. The placating smile on her face almost makes you second guess what you just heard her say. The man blinks at her in evident disbelief. His wife tries to pull him back, but security guards descend on the man and he doesn’t budge. “Left or right?” He does not answer.

“Left hand, ring finger,” Lecter announces, breaking through the tense silence that was descending in the air. You inhale sharply, nearly choking on air at the reminder of the dangerous man lurking near you. You had nearly forgotten his presence. Abigail nods and walks back towards the kitchen, returning with a sharpened butcher’s knife. 

You avert your eyes, but the man’s scream is enough to inform you of what occurs. When you turn back, you find Mr. Komeda holding his bloodied hand. His ring finger rests on the elegant tablecloth. You very nearly vomit right then and there—just barely managing to avoid the urge by placing a hand over your mouth and turning away. Mrs. Komeda’s jaw is frozen wide-open, and everyone else seems just as nauseated as you. At least, everyone except Franklyn. Somehow, amidst all this chaos and madness, Franklyn is still eating. His unaffected ferocity unsettles you. 

“Let’s get a breath of fresh air, shall we?” Lecter asks, before motioning for everyone to rise from their seats. No one seems to understand his question, in the wake of what just happened. After he repeats the question, the guests are quick to rise from their chairs. It is dangerous to try opposing the chef. You stand up and follow the group back through the entrance hall, until you step out the door and outside the building. The chef waits in the center of the assembled group, pausing for a few moments to let any stragglers catch up. Franklyn is still chewing. The researchers are whispering amongst themselves, and Mason looks two seconds from decapitating his sister with his own hands. You keep your eyes firmly on the ground. 

“You will be given a forty five second head start,” he begins. Everyone stares at him in confusion. “You may try to run. After forty five seconds have passed, my staff will chase you down.” Lecter doesn’t finish speaking before Frederick Chilton is sprinting away. The chef huffs in amusement, not looking the slightest bit threatened. He turns to regard the rest of the group. “Your head start begins… now.” Alana Bloom and Bedelia Du Maurier exchange glances before running away. Mr. Komeda stumbles away, with Mrs. Komeda tugging him along. Freddie Lounds and James Gray run in opposite directions, foregoing the path straight ahead and diving through the trees and bushes. Margot Verger doesn’t hesitate to run away. Mason watches her go for a few seconds, before pursuing her. This leaves Chef Hannibal Lecter, Franklyn Froideveaux, and you. You turn on your heel, about to run alongside the exterior of the restaurant and behind the building. A loud clap interrupts your momentary escape. 

“Stay.” You swivel back around, only to see Lecter staring you down. His eyes are glittering in the dark night. You bite the inside of your cheek. Of course, you could simply ignore his command. However, you know you’ll be caught by his staff eventually, anyway. Might as well spare him the chase, you think to yourself. You nod and take a step to break the distance between the two of you. Franklyn sends you an incredulous gaze that you pretend not to notice. “We will go inside.” Lecter doesn’t wait for your answer, instead walking past you and back towards the door. You follow after him apprehensively, wondering what he could be planning. Perhaps he will slaughter you and serve you as the fifth course. The thought makes you shudder. You step through the opened doorway and stop once you’ve crossed the threshold. Chef Lecter is staring at Franklyn with a bored expression. 

“Not you,” he says, effectively dismissing the man. Franklyn, evidently embarrassed, steps back from the door. The attendant closes the door, leaving you as Lecter’s only dinner guest who is still in the building. The chef’s shoes click against the polished floors. You momentarily contemplate ducking down into a hallway, but you realize you don’t know the building well enough to ensure you have a fighting chance at escape. Lecter leads you through the kitchen and into another room, waiting for you to enter before closing the door behind you. The room is sparsely furnished.

“This entire evening has been meticulously planned,” the chef says, taking a seat. You move to do the same. “You are not according to the plan.” He doesn’t seem too troubled by the notion—it’s a mild inconvenience. You frown. Before, you had attributed the chef to be a person taking his grievances out on his guests—each of whom serves as a reason for his loss of love for his craft. You were wrong, you’re beginning to realize. Hannibal Lecter is doing this for his own amusement. The social commentary behind it all is certainly motivation for his actions, but he does not intend to offset the system—the fragile ecosystem of the high-end restaurant industry. He is utilizing it to cater to his desires. What exactly are his desires, though? 

“Why are you doing this?” You decide to ask, your heart hammering in your chest. 

“Whenever feasible, one should always try to eat the rude.” It is not an answer to your question, yet it somehow provides you an explanation nonetheless. From there, the chef manipulates the conversation expertly, asking you all sorts of questions about your childhood, your adult life, your career… You’re beginning to feel unnerved, all up until he releases you from your pseudo-captivity. His attention has been recaptured by his staff, which you are extremely grateful for. His gaze felt as if it was searing through you. When you return to the dining area, you’re surprised to find the rest of the guests are already seated. They look tired, their hair messy and their clothing slightly rumpled. Just as you sit down, you’re immediately assaulted with tons of questions from Franklyn. They start off innocuous enough, but soon descend into an envious madness.

“Why would he want to speak with you?” Franklyn spits, stabbing at the remains of his meal. You watch as he shoves another bite into his mouth, seemingly immune to the positively disgusted glare Chef Lecter is pointing at him right now. 

“Franklyn.” The chef is heading towards your table. Franklyn practically lights up upon the chef saying his name. Lecter steps impossibly closer, until he’s almost towering over your table. It feels as if he’s looking down on you—and he sort of is, from his position. You try to just breathe. His attention isn’t on you right now. “There’s something you haven’t told your friend here.” The chef’s tone is slightly mocking.  His mention of you throws you for a loop. 

You look to Franklyn, only to find that he’s steadily paling. Agitation itches beneath your skin as you try to rationalize what could possibly cause such a fearful expression. Lecter is nearly smirking from his position at your side. You grit your teeth and clench your fists under the tablecloth.

“What were you told about tonight?” Lecter prompts the man. Everyone is looking at Franklyn now. Even the kitchen seems to have fallen into an uneasy quiet. What could he have possibly been told about tonight? You’re not sure. 

“Everyone would die,” Franklyn admits. There’s a ringing sound suddenly, and it takes several seconds for you to realize the sound is in your mind. Every thought almost seems to come to a screeching halt, as you try to come to terms with the unshakeable fact that Franklyn willingly attended this dinner, despite knowing he would die. 

“And what happened to your original companion?” Lecter muses. “Who did you bring in Mr. Budge’s stead?” You don’t stay still for long enough to hear his next remark. There is a sharp knife lying next to your fork and spoon, almost as if this very interaction had been planned (if not for you, then certainly for Tobias Budge). Rage governs your every move, as you realize that Franklyn brought you here despite knowing you would die. This night was a death sentence, executed by Franklyn himself. Before you can contemplate the consequences, you lunge across the table in a fluid movement, before reaching out and cutting him. Before you can stab him, you’re roughly yanked backwards by someone. The knife slices at the skin on Franklyn’s cheek, and he screams loudly. You try to fight the person’s grip off, and it takes a few people to hold you back from Franklyn. When you see the shock and fear on his face, you’re filled with a cruel sense of satisfaction and vengeance. 

“That is enough,” the chef remarks, slicing through the tense air with a simple sentence. 

“Sorry, Chef,” Franklyn immediately replies, a bead of sweat trickling down his face. Does the thought of falling out of Lecter’s favor really distress him so? Although, when you think about it, you’re not sure if he was ever in the chef’s favor. 

The chef looks at you now. You don’t bother apologizing. You didn't do anything wrong. If you’re correct, Chef Lecter engineered that very interaction. You don’t regret lashing out at Franklyn, so you meet Lecter’s expectant gaze head-on. Eventually, he seems to come to terms with your resolve, because his attention falls back to Franklyn. 

“Franklyn,” the chef starts. You see Franklyn nearly go limp at the prospect of Lecter using his name. You grimace. Something feels wrong here. Indeed, the chef’s next remark seems to be an omen. “You believe yourself superior to me.” 

“No, Chef,” Franklyn is quick to say. The patrons around you are entirely silent. The room almost seems to buzz around you, ringing with unresolved tension. You think back to Franklyn’s hero worship of the chef, clumsily combined with his own attempts at thoughtful critiques. 

“You have made a mockery of my craft,” Lecter continues.

“No, Chef-” Franklyn sputters. 

“Now,” the chef breaks off, a glint in his eyes, “We will test your assertions. Come here,” the chef orders. Franklyn obeys and, once he’s in the kitchen, Lecter awards him an apron and ties it around him. Franklyn looks absolutely over the moon, but you see the gesture for what it really is: the final nail in his coffin. “Everyone, please step back. Franklyn will cook something for our guests.” A hollowed laughter echoes throughout the space as the cooks chuckle, before stepping back to let Franklyn have control over the kitchen. 

What ensues is quite easily the most embarrassing and humiliating display you have ever been forced to witness. By the end, there are tears slipping down Franklyn’s face. You almost feel bad for him—almost. Your sympathy quickly fades to obscurity when you remember that he invited you here despite being told everyone would die. 

When Franklyn’s dish is complete, there’s a renewed silence around the space as the chef takes a few steps forward and leans down to smell it. Chef Lecter motions for a cook to step next to him and gestures for them to taste the dish. The cook eats the food, their left eyebrow ticking up ever so slightly.

“How is it?” Lecter questions. 

“Horrible, Chef,” the cook answers. “The lamb is undercooked, and the sauce is practically inedible.” They grab a napkin and wipe their mouth, before putting it in the pocket of their apron and stepping back to join the rest of the cooking staff in the background. The background is an apt term for the group—they are mere backdrops, accessories, to Chef Lecter’s performance. 

“Do you see now, Franklyn?” Chef Lecter asks, an understanding smile on his face. All you can see is sharpened teeth and a crooked malice. “Guests must remain in the dining hall, just as cooks must remain in the kitchen. Take off your apron; you’re dismissed.” But Chef Lecter isn’t done yet. The moment Franklyn takes off his apron and holds it in a clenched fist, Lecter places a hand on his shoulder and leans in to whisper something to him. It’s incomprehensible to you, but you can still see the way Franklyn’s expression falls, before an eerie resolve sets his shoulders. Without explanation, Franklyn steps further into the kitchen and disappears from sight. 

Things don’t end there, however. Lecter then calls your name, beckoning you to follow after him as he weaves through the busy kitchen with ease. The rest of the patrons are banished to return to their seats. You glance back at them for a moment, before returning your attention to the chef in front of you. Once you turn the corner and are out of view of the guests, the chef turns on you. 

“Abigail was supposed to bring dessert,” the chef remarks. His gaze flits to the hostess behind you for a moment. You hadn’t noticed her presence. Lecter stares at you. “Fetch the barrel from the smokehouse. It is a key instrument for the next course.” You stare at him in disbelief. You desperately want to object, but you suppress the urge. Once you think about it, you realize you’re being given a golden opportunity: a chance to leave the restaurant and explore the premises. Perhaps you could find something to aid your escape. With that knowledge in the back of your mind, you accept Lecter’s request.  

You nod and turn around, intending to retrace your steps. You’re walking into the kitchen when something enters your field of vision. You squint and take a step closer, eyes widening as you process just what you’re seeing. Franklyn is hanging from a noose, feet hanging limp in the air. There’s a horrible motley of bruises around his neck and his eyes almost seem to pop out of their sockets. Your eyes are inexplicably led to the bloody cut on his cheek. You take a deep breath and pretend you didn’t see anything, before heading through the winding hall and exiting through the door Lecter mentioned. When you reach the open air, you feel a new sense of tranquility and calm hit you. The night air doesn’t know of the pain and suffering inflicted tonight; its briskness seems to ground you to the present.

You manage to make it to the smokehouse and, once you find the barrel, you drag it outside. However, knowing this may be your only opportunity for exploration, you decide to look around a little. Leaving the barrel to rest near the smokehouse, you head towards the nearest building. To your surprise, the side door is unlocked. When you open it, you’re certainly not expecting to be standing in a living room. Upon closer examination, this appears to be a home—the chef’s, most likely. Abigail had mentioned that all the cooking staff sleep in barracks, which leaves Lecter as the only viable owner of this residence. You look around the space, unsurprised to find that it looks meticulously clean. 

You look around a little more, finding a gleaming stainless steel kitchen and an elaborate dining room. There’s only one space that remains: hidden behind the wooden door that you’re currently staring at. You tentatively grasp the door knob and slowly twist it, only to find that it’s locked. You tug at the door again, only for the sound of footsteps to distract you. 

You turn around, your heart nearly jumping out of your chest as you see Abigail standing a short distance from you. “No one is supposed to enter Chef’s personal quarters,” Abigail remarks, her voice hollow. There’s a dullness to her eyes that disturbs you.

You frown. “Why are you here, then?” You ask. She stills for a moment, clearly not expecting the question. A moment later, the hostess regains her composure. 

“You were asked to fetch the barrel, because of my mistake,” Abigail recounts, eyebrows furrowing to let you know what she really thinks of that idea. She crosses her arms over her chest, her eyes gleaming in the dim lighting. “But Chef never asked me to fetch it.” There’s a dangerous look in her eyes and a weapon in her hand. 

It happens in the blink of an eye. One moment, Abigail is running at you; the next, you’re standing over her bleeding body. A knife juts out of her throat and it seems that she’s choking on her own blood. The light slowly leaves her eyes, until her form is terribly still on the kitchen floor. You take a shaky breath in, finding the effort rather laborious. It takes you several moments to come to terms with the fact that you just committed murder. Once you’re finally able to steel your nerves, you take the hostess’s key and walk over to the door. After twisting the key, the door swings open to reveal a hallway. You don’t make it more than a few steps into the hall before noticing a doorway to your left, barricaded by a steel door with a small glass window. Against your best judgment, you steal a glance through the window.

There are chains and sharpened tools lining the walls, metallic gleam burning your vision. A corpse hangs from the ceiling, flayed and mutilated beyond recognition. It isn’t even the thought of a corpse that frightens you. No, this corpse is different from the ones you saw in the smokehouse—this one isn’t an animal. The realization slowly sinks into your skin, sending your heart roaring in your ears. Human corpses hang from dangling meat hooks, in various states of mutilation. 

You’re suddenly immensely glad you never ate anything. That chicken thigh served in the third course… was probably not chicken. You shudder. One thought triumphs over all others in your mind: you need to leave.

Afraid of what else you may find, you decide to turn back. You retrace your steps and walk back through the kitchen with bloody flooring and the empty living room until you’re outside once more. The walk to the smokehouse is quick, but once you grab the barrel, you’re reminded of how heavy it is. Your trip back to the kitchen takes longer than you’d like but, fortunately, Chef Lecter doesn’t seem bothered by how long it takes you to return. He only nods and instructs you to give the barrel to one of the cooks. Lecter’s attention is then taken elsewhere—as he still has a dessert to prepare—so you decide to take advantage. You know a way out now, after all. You have to wait for an opportune moment to access the outside door, since cooks are mulling about the kitchen near the exit. Eventually, you manage to find an ideal time frame for your escape and, with equal apprehension and anticipation, you walk over to the door. Your hand doesn’t even clasp the doorknob before there’s a hand on your shoulder. 

“Leaving so soon?” You turn around, dread prickling across your skin as you’re faced with Chef Lecter’s disappointment. You’re not sure you’ll make it out of this alive, after all. Every time you blink, you see yourself as the next course in this absurdly fanciful feast. The Unwanted Guest, the chef would probably call it. “The final course hasn’t been served yet.”

You manifest a confidence that you don’t necessarily feel. “I’m finished eating,” you assert. Beneath what you hope is a cool exterior, you’re panicking. You can’t think of an excuse that will permit you to leave. Lecter seems to recognize that, because he only arches an eyebrow at you. He is not threatened.

“You’ll miss dessert,” he remarks, a sad smile on his face. You know the gesture is nothing but an act, a performance put on for an audience of one. You bite the inside of your cheek, stopping yourself from doing anything rash. 

“I’m not much of a sweets person,” you eventually say, when the torrent of noise in your mind manages to calm down. The kitchen continues to hustle and bustle behind you, providing a subdued background of sound. It’s not enough to drown out your fear. 

“Stay,” Chef Lecter insists. 

“I couldn’t possibly,” you answer. You need to think of something quickly. What could justify your departure? “My clothes…” You break off, motioning down to your dress clothes, which are now stained with Abigail’s blood and who knows what else. This is as good of an excuse as you have, but it just may work. Stained clothing is extremely improper, and if there’s one thing you’ve learned from this hellish night, it’s that Chef Lecter abhors rudeness. 

It must only be a few seconds of silence before Lecter speaks again, but it feels like an eternity. “Very well,” the chef finally responds. Lecter reaches towards you, his hand frighteningly close to your hip, before he opens the door for you. It feels too good to be true. There’s no way you actually convinced him to let you go, right? 

He’s still holding the door open. This isn’t a trick. As you stand in the doorway, you briefly contemplate staying to rescue the other people. You contemplate fighting back against this chef and his staff. The thought doesn’t last long—not when visages of the guests are conjured up in your mind’s eye—Mr and Mrs. Komeda’s annoyed, impatient expressions, Miss Lounds and Mr. Gray debating the integrity of an ingredient worth more than your very life, Franklyn eating while blood splatters, the researchers amicably discussing the lives of their patients over the very depiction of the chef’s own trauma, Mason Verger gazing at his sister predatorily. None of these people are worth saving. 

“Thank you for the meal,” you murmur to Lecter. Somehow, it feels like the appropriate thing to say. It must be a good choice, because a small smile appears on the chef’s face. It’s a fleeting gesture, but it almost looks genuine. 

“I hope to see you here again soon,” Lecter says. You don’t acknowledge that remark, instead turning on your heel and walking away. The chef’s ensuing laughter follows you and echoes in your ears, even as you board the ship and sail back to the mainland.

©2023, @defectivehero | @defectivevillain, All Rights Reserved.

Character Guide Chef Julian = Hannibal Lecter Margot = Reader Soren, Dave, and Bryce, business partners = Frederick Chilton, Bedelia Du Maurier, and Alana Bloom, research partners Lillian Bloom, food critic = Freddie Lounds Tim, Lillian’s editor = James Gray Tyler Ledford = Franklyn Froideveaux Ms. Westervelt, Tyler’s original guest = Tobias Budge Richard and Anne Leibrandt, restaurant regulars = Scott and Cheryl Komeda George Diaz, movie star = Mason Verger George’s personal assistant, Felicity Lynn = Margot Verger Elsa, Chef’s right hand = Abigail Hobbs

Adjusted Menu (Appetizer) Amuse bouche: compressed and pickled cucumber melon, milk snow, and charred lace. (First Course) The Island: plants from around the island, seaweed, raw scallop served on a rock from the island (Second Course) Breadless Bread Plate: no bread, savory accompaniments (Third Course) Memory: house-smoked chicken thigh, served with scissors stabbed in the meat, along with house-made tortillas (Fourth Course) The Mess: pressure-cooked vegetables, roasted filet, potato confit, beef au jus, and bone marrow Franklyn’s Bullshit: undercooked lamb with inedible shallot-leek butter sauce

Justifications At first, I thought Abigail as Elsa was a stretch. Then, I remembered that Abigail helped source the victims for her father, Garret Jacob Hobbs. That led me to conceptualize an older Abigail—one who wasn’t afraid to embrace the cruelty that she witnessed all around her. She is rather similar to Elsa, especially in the sense that she longs for Hannibal’s approval (just as Elsa longs for Julian’s). Just like Elsa, she is delegated to the sidelines—forced to carry out the chef’s every whim without even a moment’s gratitude.

Freddie Lounds as the food critic (Lillian) just makes perfect sense. She would be a perfect food critic—entirely unflinching and brutally honest. The Komedas fit pretty well too, and I wasn’t even aware of their existence until I looked through the Hannibal wiki for characters to substitute. Mrs. Komeda—and her husband, by extension—was a frequent guest at Hannibal’s dinner parties, which bled rather well into her status as a regular at his restaurant.

Since Hannibal’s relatives aren’t exactly alive or easily accessible, I scrapped the whole alcoholic mother bit that Julian had going, and instead just kept the third course as a vague allusion to Hannibal’s childhood. The bit about having the males hunt and the females dine felt misogynistic (and also exclusive of people who aren’t exclusively male/female), especially without the context of Katherine and Julian’s interactions, so I just scrapped it. Now, everyone gets to run from a murderer! Woooo!!

Y’all, I did A LOT of research for this fic… so pls lmk if u enjoyed reading it !!!! &lt;3

TAGLIST (hoped y'all don't mind I'm tagging you in this, but I figured you'd like another Hannibal piece): @its-ares @tobbotobbs @xrisdoesntexist @gr1mmac3 @tiredstarcerberuslamb @yourlocalratwriter @kingkoku @kahuunknown @atlas-king1 @pendragon-writes @slipknotcentury @cryinersaved @the-ultimate-librarian @starre-eyes @pendragon-writes @peterparkeeperer @gayschlatt69

#defectivevillain #x reader #reader insert #male reader #gn reader #hannibal x reader #hannibal x male reader #hannibal x gn reader #hannibal nbc #Hannibal Lecter x reader #Hannibal Lecter x gn reader #Hannibal Lecter x male reader #the menu #the menu fic #fanfic #sorry for all the tags lmao

[gemstone-roses]

Hi!!! How you doing?

It's me again. Ik it's been like years.

Thank you so much for the last fic it really brightened my month tbh. I saw someone mentioned taking legal action but sadly in the country where I live mental illness isn't taken seriously. So yeah but I got a new job so it's cool.

Anyway lol.

Could I get Hannibal/Will x gn/male fic?

Reader has an expensive car that they always brag about(not in a mean way) and say they love the car more than the world. Then Will/Hannibal borrowed the car and got into an accident nothing too major. So they call reader expecting them to freak out but the reader shows up and hugs them. Reader tells them that they don't give a fuck about the car they're just glad their darling is safe. Maybe the first-time reader admits they love them? Or some mutual tears?

I suspect Will would freak out because he couldn't pay for the car and Hannibal would just be chill lol.

Love ya and hope you have an amazing week!

Ps. Sorry for the long message I've overthought this into oblivion.

~🦊

Hi! Glad to hear you got a new job! Sorry that happened to you. Also sorry it took me so long I kinda lost my muse a bit and yeah.... anyway, here you go, and thankyou for requesting, it keeps me going! I know very little about cars and driving so keep that in mind🥺

warnings: minor car accident, swearing, 18+ thanku!

Hannibal wasn't one to be jealous, not at all, but he did pause every morning and admire your car in the parking area. A small smile dancing across his face. He'd heard you talking about your car, your pride and joy, you said, not showing off, just genuinely happy and well, proud of the brilliant car you owned.

You and hannibal were close, you harbored feelings for the man. So when he asked if he could borrow your car for an afternoon of course you said yes.

What you weren't expecting was a phone call a few hours later from hannibal, slightly out of breath but still his calm self.

"Y/N, don't worry I'm fine but I'm afraid there's been a slight accident, and your car its-

You hang up the phone before he can finish, hannibal frowns on the other end.

Will gives you a ride, getting out the car you run straight to hannibal.

Wrapping your arms around him he's taken aback slightly, but he returns your hug.

"Oh thank god your okay!" You breathe.

"But, your car?" Hannibal questions lightly. He knew you loved that car more than anything... or so he thought..

"I don't care about the car! Fuck, the thought of you being hurt and-

"Y/N, I'm fine it's just a scratch honestly!" Hanbibal soothes, his hands on your shoulders.

"I, I couldn't bare the thought of something happening to you I-

You look at him hoping he's somehow developed mind reading capabilities and you don't have to say it.

"I loveyou" you say fast, hannibal pulls you back into his arms.

"I am so glad to hear you say that y/n because I've been wanting to say this for a while... I love you"

And despite your car being a total write off, and hannibal mildly injured, you were the happiest you've ever been.

#hannibal lecter fanfiction #hannibal x reader #hannibal x gn reader #hannibal fanfiction #🦊 anon #hannibal nbc fanfiction #hannibal lecter x reader #hannibal lecter x you #hannibal x you #hannibal imagine #hannibal lecter imagine

[tac-the-unseen]

Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Will Graham Headcannons

Fluff, Minor edits for formatting!

Involves: Cooking, sleeping, art, tattoos, piercings, dates, funny little ideas

•While Hannibal is mostly the one cooking when you, him, and will are in a kitchen together it get a bit chaotic.

•You're decent at cooking but Will is a hot mess compared to you and Hannibal (that doesn't mean he's a bad cook, just not as good as you guys are). But you and Hannibal have no problem guiding and teaching him. It's a great bonding experience for all of you.

•When Hannibal talks in the kitchen you and Will call him 'chef'. Hannibal loves it but will never admit to it.

•All of you share a bed but you also have separate bed in another room that is used when one of you really needs your sleep or space. None of you talk about but it has really saved your relationship...multiple times.

•Hannibal mostly uses it when he has an important event coming up and needs to get a full night's rest.

•Will mostly uses it when he feels like the world is caving in on him and needs to get away.

•You mostly use it when you're mad that them or need to work a late shift.

•Hannibal loves taking you and Will to museums and art galleries. He loves digging through the layers of the art to get to its over all meanings.

•Everyone knows Hannibal likes to play the 'sugar daddy' role but he appreciates when you or Will try and contribute with the costs.

•Will isn't a fan of pet names. He thinks it's weird and kind of degrading, but if you or Hannibal use one or two, he won't complain. Especially if it's to comfort him during an episode.

•That being said if you call him William he immediately thinks he's in trouble for something. If he's not in trouble he will pout about you using his full name.

•On the other hand Hannibal loves pet/nick names. If you call him darling or love he will internally swoon.

•Will doesn't like to be touched and you and Hannibal are not expections. He can deal with touch but he's not happy about it. If you touch him while he's having a break down he with scream, shout, and cry.

•You can get away with cuddling at night but just barely. Be careful about your hand placement.

•If Will is losing an argument he'll say 'nah huh' and Hannibal without a beat will say 'yeah huh' right back.

•You and Will have woken up after a nap to find Hannibal sketching you several times. If he finds either of you asleep he'll run to get his sketch book and maybe some tea and gets to work.

•Hannibal is 10,000% a bridezilla. If you could get married he would be a nightmare to deal with. He might call off the whole wedding if he doesn't get the flowers he wants. And the catering, dear god the catering. He got so upset he thought about just making the food himself...day of...

•If Hannibal ever gets sick he feel guilty because he feels like he should be the one taking care of you two, not that other way around.

•If you have tattoos or piercings Hannibal will just and stare that them. He wants to mesmerize every piece of you. In his spare time he finds him self drawing up concept art for more future tattoos. He doesn't show you any of them,but if you find one and end up getting it tattooed on you he might just have a heart attack.

•Very Interested in the tattoos/piercings healing process. Like he knows but he just likes to watch.

•Will likes to trace said tattoos and even considers getting a matching one with you!

•If Hannibal spots you and/or will getting overwhelmed overstimulated in public he hold your hand and whisper affirmations to you two.

Thanks for reading <3

#hannibal lecter #will graham #gn reader #hannigram #hannibal x reader #will graham x reader #Hannibal x reader x will #hannibal #nbc hannibal #slashers #boyfriends

[hannibals-favourite-meal]

Can you do prompt 15 with Hannibal please?

Mistaken Destiny

Hannibal Lecter x plus size reader

A case of mistaken identity leads to love at first sight and maybe an unhealthy obsession

Warnings: fluff, incredibly vague allusions to cannibalism and murder (it’s Hannibal my guys, what do you expect)

WC: 748

Minors DNI

3000 Follower Celebration

The invitation had to be a mistake, there was no way that the beautiful handwritten calligraphy on ultra expensive card-stock was meant for you. You doubted you had even met anyone who knew what calligraphy was, and you certainly didn’t know this Doctor Hannibal Lecter.

And yet, once your shift at the diner finished, you caught the bus to the fancy side of town and cautiously approached the extravagant house a polite 10 minutes before the party was set to begin. Your heart pounded loudly in your ears as you rang the bell, practically shaking with nerves.

The ornate door opened slowly after a moment, a warm breeze rushing over you, carrying with it the smell of rich food and the sounds of classical music. “May I help you?” The older man standing before you was dressed smartly in a charcoal grey three-piece suit, his silvery hair quaffed to perfection and his amber eyes holding many questions in their swirling depths.

“Uh hi. I um, I got this invitation in the mail and I doubt it was for me and there wasn’t a phone number or anything so I couldn’t call you. I was going to just ignore it but my mama taught me that it was rude to ignore an invitation to dinner so I thought I would come in person to apologise for this mistake.” You rambled, thoroughly flustered by the handsome man who you assumed to be Doctor Lecter. A soft smile slowly grew on his lips as you spoke, his shoulders relaxing with your words.

“I believe I should be the one apologising considering this is my fault. I’m sorry that you had to go out of your way to let me know about this. I would invite you in but it appears that you weren’t anticipating staying to enjoy dinner.” His eyes dropped to your work clothes but there was no malice in his gaze, in fact, it seemed maybe lustful? A chill rolled up your spine. 

Thrusting the invitation into his open hand, you turned to leave with a, “I hope you have pleasant evening doctor” but he gently grabbed your arm. “I would like to make this up to you, how about I make you a dinner at a time more convenient to you? It is the least I can do.”

You melted, utterly charmed by him. “Uh yeah, that would be quite nice.” You were unable to refuse. His smile grew and he released your wrist to fish a pen from his suit coat. He jotted down something on the back of the invitation then handed it back to you.

“I will be greatly disappointed if you don’t call me, I would hate to think I scared you off, Mx…?” He prompted, to which you shyly gave him your name. “Wonderful. Please call me at your leisure, it would be my pleasure to have you over properly. Get home safely my dear.”

Just as the first of many fancy cars rolled up to the curb before his home, you withdrew from the threshold with a smile. “I will, thank you doctor.”

“Please, just call me Hannibal.” By the time you returned back to your dingy apartment, your smile had yet to fade, the conversation replaying on a loop in your mind, your chest warm with affection. Now all you had left to do was to summon the courage to actually call.

——————

Hannibal quietly worked at his desk, typing up his final thoughts of the day, his eyes occasionally flicking to his cell phone which remained silent. It had been almost a week since the dinner party and you had yet to call. There was something about you that had caught his attention, he didn’t know whether it was your politeness, the shy way you held yourself, or your plump body, but something had piqued his interest. And he was actually disappointed that you hadn’t taken him up.

He supposed that he could use Will to find you but he would rather not resort to abusing the federal government’s resources, yet. As Hannibal began to pack his things, the dark screen of his phone lit up with a text.

‘Hi! I hope you haven’t forgotten me, and I do hope that your offer is still on the table, whatever you were cooking smelt amazing.’ It seems that Hannibal had to start putting together a menu befitting of your beauty and he couldn’t be more glad about his mistake.

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[spinning-stars]

Hiii sorry I haven't posted and like- 3 days, I made the grave mistake of watching the Hannibal lecter TV series and now these two fruit loops in denial have sucked me in and I can't stop watching. Have a lovely day more posts will be soon.😄

#hannibal #fanfic #slashers #slashers fanfiction #horror character #tumblr writers #ao3 #hannigram #will graham #feed #ao3 slasher feed #ao3 Hannibal feed #hannibal lecter #x reader #gn reader #gay #fruit loops #mads mikkleson #william graham #will x hannibal #hannibal x will #hannibal lecter tv series #Hannibalxwilliam #hi #horror fans #horror #ao3feed #ao3 fanfic #text post #slasher memes

[mx-pastelwriting]

Kinktober Day 22: Mirror Sex

Hannibal Lecter x GN! Reader

Summary: Hannibal making you look at yourself while fucking you.

Warnings: Smut, Hand on throat, Looking at yourself, Punishment, Hannibal being greedy

Kinktober Masterlist

Minors do not interact!

Eyes rolled back as Hannibal's hand wrapped around your throat as he fucked your from behind in his beautiful bathroom counter. Feeling him lean in while moving your head, then whispered, "Look at yourself," following his orders with his hand guiding.

Seeing yourself a mess, cheeks were flushed with eyes watered, ready to spill over, sneaking a glance at Hannibal, unknowing that you would meet.

In punishment, his hand pulls you down, drilling into you with no mercy. His hand holds your head up from your throat, making sure to show you the state of feeling nothing but him. Moaning out filling the house, it sang a loud song to Hannibal, feeding into his greed to hear the song more.

In holding your punishment long under his greed, making your brain turn to mush letting pleasure take over, rolled eyes that spilled clouded the vision of yourself being fucked raw by Hannibal, who had a small smirk.

Hello, I hope you enjoyed if there is and grammar mistakes or misspellings sorry about that feel free to let me know in the comments, have a great day/afternoon/night!

Taglist: @memphiscity69 @secrets2004 @christynalou @xo-c0nnie @the1redrose @cvnt4lyfe @scryi

#hannibal x reader #nbc hannibal #hannibal lecter #hannibal lecter x reader #kinktober 2023 #kinktober

[horror102]

Night time massacre!

Slashers x Asylum therapist GN! Reader

TW: Midnight Angst, Heavy Angst. Emotional Hurt! Manipulation, Lying,

(Slashers: Gabriel May-Hannibal Lecter-Norman Bates-Brahms Heelshire-Jacob Goodnight)

Your plan was to get the slashers to trust you, that was what you were instructed by your peers and boss. And it was a hefty deal of money. And being a little middle class or below it, you needed the money. And when you were done you left.

Norman bates

His mother kept telling him it was a trick, utter buffoonery! But he didn’t listen, he insisted it was love. And that you felt the same way!

The way you would bat your eyelashes at him. How you’d lightly wake him up from his solitude.

He couldn’t keep his eyes off you practically sticking his head through the bars as your feet tapped the cement floor of the halls.

He’d watch how you step, notice a pattern in your walks, grow shy when you’d pay attention and bring up what he said in far later notices.

One day he’d even take it up to himself to make you a mattress flower, ripping his mattress up with raw strength and shaping it into a flower with his teeth and peeling cement off the walls.

He planned to give it too you Friday, so you won’t have to come back the next day and think about his proposal while you were on your two day break.

But Friday never came, you weren’t there. He thought, maybe you were sick. Oh my! Maybe you were sick! You probably caught the flu. Maybe it’s pneumonia, god you could die! No, no, no, no, his precious angel couldn’t die before he confessed.

He didn’t sleep, he didn’t eat, he didn’t even listen too his mother. He thrashed out on his own. Growing agitated after days passed. Monday, where were you? Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. And on and on. He couldn’t fathom the fact that you were gone, Completely.

Hannibal Lecter (series)

He knew you didn’t care for him, he acted in such a job himself. He knew, oh god he knew, but he was so lonely he couldn’t help but enjoy the company.

He loved everything about it, from the clacking of your shoes as you stepped in the room to the way your eyebrows tilt when you were confused.

How you’d laugh at his stubble seriousness or jokes that were “so unfunny that they were actually funny because it wasn’t!” You stated.

Mesmerizing his favorite color, his phrases, adapting some of his manipulating habits.

He began to fantasize, creating this delusional realities of intimacy of you two in his mind while he slept uncontrollably.

He began to obsess, Thursday he mesmerized your schedule, trying to learn about you. But then Friday came and you weren’t there.

It was hard to keep up with time in the asylum so he just assumed you were off on Friday’s

Until you were off on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and back to Thursday.

Maybe you got hurt, best case scenario rather then the image in his head of you getting murdered by one of his enemies.

The image of you being eaten and cut up like he did to his victims, a piece of your jewelry hung up as decoration.

His mind became distraught, keeping his usually calm demeanor but eye bags were clearly shown. Agitation in his voice and hatred as he talked to the new therapist.

Gabriel May

For a while he didn’t trust you, he didn’t believe someone would try to understand a “parasite.”

He was utterly surprised when you called him Gabriel instead of “IT” when you called him by his normal He/him pronouns instead of “a parasite.”

He grew a little agitated at the fact that you made your way into his little heart, giving him more time then his sister to talk to him.

Letting him take turns to draw with his sister as if he was still a little kid.

Once you talked to his sister longer than you’d normally would, he’d show verbal aggression. Going occasionally silent, or making tiny whispers to his sister, threats of any kind.

He began blocking out his sister, so while you thought you were talking to her you were actually talking to him.

Learning what you’d tell her while she would usually block him out due to her command.

He’d wake up early so he could take control.

Make her hallucinate so she’d be scared and have a fearful nap.

Make her have extra long nightmares, just so she could complain about them to you which made him angry.

Watch as your eyebrows furrowed when you would talk to him and scold him about what he did.

But something that made his heart flutter is when you always forgave him.

Thursday he did it again, he terrorized her. And you scolded him and Friday he was supposedly going to give you his apology for attention.

But you didn’t come, maybe you were sick, it could only be a cold, right?

Maybe you left him, just like his mother, just like how his sister tried to block him out, just like how the doctors tried to take him out. Just like everyone else in his life.

No! You couldn’t have you promised said you would come back the next day.

Why would you lie? You had no reason too. You wouldn’t just abandon him, would you?

He started to listen in when his sister would talk to the guards. Hearing something he wish he didn’t.

No that can’t be true, they left.

Brahms Heelshire

He quickly became attached. As soon as you walked on the door, watching you eye the cracked up doll and him. Watching you observe the two.

Asking him normal questions and not pondering him to leave the doll.

Asking him how the doll was, did it chip again? You could help him fix it.

Those words were like music to his ears, as you fixed it, he was eyeing you down. Watching how your hands delicately took the doll from him as if it was a real boy.

Calling them both Brahms.

Saying hello and goodbye to both of them, complimenting both of them, acknowledging them. Seeing them as two in one. Instead of seeing the doll as some parasite.

Eventually Brahms behavior became more erratic more irrational. He was openly jealous, he always asked about other patients and what you’d talk about with them.

Angered how’d you actually talk about them in such a delightful manner.

Angered at how you had mostly male patients.

One day he took it to far, as you went to leave him stating “I’m off to another patient, have a nice rest of your day Brahms.” He flipped, the chains on his hands almost breaking as he tried to flip the table over it shaking as he used all his might eventually going so in the spam of little minutes.

He was punished, he wasn’t allowed to see you until Friday. So Monday-through-Friday he didn’t see you. He was driven crazy when you didn’t show up at the end of the week.

He began to get angry. Immediately he assumed you left him. How could you possibly love a murderous monster!? So foolish of him believing someone could actually love him.

You left him, without saying goodbye. Just like his mother and father and all the tiny bit off friends he had before he was locked away as a boy.

But he was going to promise you. “He’d be good, he will”

Jacob Goodnight

He didn’t see the evil in your eyes, you looked uncanny, you looked sweet.

You respected his beliefs and you never told him yours out of respect. You respected his mother.

You’d give him compliments about his different color eyes, about his height, about his cheeky smile.

You’d acknowledge how much he knew about his religion, you’d pray with him, even if it wasn’t something you believed in or was.

You’d compliment his Christ, you’d learn and admire.

Religious talks soon became random chats, you’d talk about random things Like God and the color of the sky.

You’d talk about your favorite colors, and help him figure out his.

Soon enough to your surprise he became obedient. Randomly, he’d do anything you’d say. Bow to your every wishes.

“Lift your left hand up and stick your pinky down.” You’d test the guards theory, and to your surprise he did exactly what you commanded.

He was obsessed. From the way you smelled to the way your hair was. Your eyes, your nose, your pointy ears.

He wasn’t exactly too bright to know your schedule. But he knew exactly what time you’d come.

He’d count, he’d create a rhythm. Just to know and remember.

One day after all that practice he finally learned his favorite color, and he was planning to tell you but it never came.

And days passed, and immediately he was angered. He’d attack everyone who tried to talk to him about you in a disrespectful way.

He’d pray for you to come back, and when that didn’t work he’d pray for you to be safe.

He couldn’t let you disappear without gods protection.

He’d repeat, “Dear Heavenly Father, Dear God. Please protect them, and if you wish bring them back to me.”

Disclaimer! I do not mean to be disrespectful of his religion I am a Christian myself! I just wanted to make it opt for people with other religions! <3

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[defectivevillain]

this broken design, ch16

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader

summary: That familiar analytical gleam in your eyes lives in Hannibal’s mind as he sinks his teeth into his prey. Despite your departure hours ago, Hannibal sees you sitting across from him at the table. Dining alone has never bothered him; yet, right now, he can’t help but desire your company—your scintillating conversation, your sharp wit, your clever smirk. Indeed, his table feels uncharacteristically empty. Hannibal stares at the chair across from him—the same chair he’s grown accustomed to seeing you sit at—and takes another bite. Flavor explodes on his tongue, yet you are what dominates his thoughts.

Your experience in criminal profiling means that you've met a wide variety of people from all different walks of life. You've stared down hardened criminals and fought for your life against people hellbent on killing you. Even so, something about the FBI's new target, the Chesapeake Ripper, seems to elude you.

Then you meet Hannibal Lecter: an enigmatic jigsaw of a man with jagged corners and misshapen pieces.

Fortunately, you've always been rather good at puzzles.

read from the beginning here.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

some of this chapter is born out of me realizing, as i read The Red Dragon, that i essentially limited Alana’s presence in this fic to that one rather tumultuous interaction, instead of expanding on her potential as both a strong, intelligent side character and a friend to the reader. Hopefully this makes up for that a little bit. Alana’s pretty cool. I sort of lost sight of that.

warnings: negative self talk, suicidal ideation/thoughts, panic attack, hyperventilation, derealization, canon-typical blood, violence, & gore

The darkness swirling around you is relentless in its writhing, distorting and jerking you around in its shadowed grasp. For a while, you’re content to let the shadows take control. You float in an endless abyss. Memories flit before your eyes, just long enough for you to reach out to try to grab them. They never stay long enough, flickering and disintegrating before you get the chance to grasp them and dissect every miniscule detail. 

Stay awake, says a whisper itching at your skin. 

You take a deep breath. The next time you blink, you find yourself standing in a far too familiar place. Hannibal’s kitchen is quiet—eerily so, you think as your footsteps echo against the floors. There is hardly a sign of life on these countertops, hardly a stain or sprinkling of powder to assure you this place has ever been used. There is a single light boring down on the back of your head: a spotlight. You swallow hard and step to the side in an attempt to escape the light, only to find Hannibal’s rolodex sitting in the middle of the brightness. Your business card sits on top, displaying your name, phone number, email address, office location at headquarters, birthplace, height, weight, eye color, age, and any other demographic information you could possibly imagine. The font is tiny, yet you can read it with ease. Feeling a sudden urge to touch, you grab the business card and let it lie flat in your palm. There’s a tear in the corner, you realize. Frowning, you move to touch it, only for the tear to extend further down the flimsy material. Crimson dots appear on the white background, swirling and twisting until there’s blood collecting on your fingertips. You look down, only to realize that the dark red stains have permeated the fabric of your shirt. Puddles are gathering at your feet, marking your footsteps with every movement you make. The card melts into the blood gathered in your hands, and you’re left holding the tattered remains of your identity. 

Stay awake.  

You blink again. Abel Gideon is peering at you from behind the bars of his interrogation cell. “You have Lecter on a leash, don’t you?” Gideon remarks with a laugh. You huff a laugh under your breath. The thought amuses you, for reasons you cannot quite discern at the moment. “A very long leash, but a leash nonetheless.”  Your hands tremble at your sides and you restlessly shift your balance from one foot to the other. Gideon’s gaze is knowing and it pins you to the ground. 

Stay alive.  

A blink. You’re standing in the doorway of your office at headquarters. Everything is as you left it, save for your chair, which has an inhabitant. Franklyn Froideveaux stares at you with empty eye sockets and a gaping maw.  Blood slips down his gaunt frame, leaving murky red-brown streaks down his cheeks and around the cavity of his chest. You blink and his skin turns a murky yellowish green from decay. 

“See?” Garret Jacob Hobbs croons from over your shoulder. You can feel the smile on his face, feel his breath hitting your neck and provoking a deep nausea in your gut. 

Another blink. Blood slips hotly down your fingers as you stand in a dimly lit hallway. Your skin feels lit with flames and the knife in your hand gleams a sickening crimson. You want to release the weapon from your grip, but your fingers are locked around the blade with unshakeable force. The smell of death and decay wafting through the enclosed space makes your stomach turn. None of these sensations are powerful enough to rip your attention away from the corpse at your feet. 

“Killing must feel good to God, too,” Hannibal remarks with a hum, hands behind his back as he regards Abel Gideon’s form. There is a mildly intrigued expression on his face as he studies the body, before looking back to you with eerily crimson eyes. As he pivots, bloodstained antlers stretch from his perfectly coiffed hair. They disappear in a moment—a trick of the light. His voice is dark and airy all at once. “And are we not created in his image?” You swallow past the nausea building in your chest. Time stretches on with terrible slowness. His gaze is flaying you apart. “Don’t you want God To want you?” He asks softly.1 

“See?” Stay awake. Stay alive.  

Darkness, then light. “To the Ripper, understanding is love,” Hannibal says, a flicker of a smile settling on his lips. His hands are folded and he leans forward. Your chairs are close enough to force you to knock knees with him, but Hannibal doesn’t seem bothered by the prospect. “You are the first person to see through his façade, through the layers of his mask.” His skin looks strangely patterned, as if it's made of ceramic. You reach out to grasp his face, to yank off his mask, only for Hannibal to catch your wrist and hold it in a tight grip. Suddenly, your chair is tipping backwards precariously, lurching further into the abyss. You try to reach out and grab onto something, but Hannibal’s hold is the only thing that keeps you tethered. The void crawls up your skin mockingly, waiting to drag you into its umbra. Your momentum is slipping backwards and you’re filled with an unsettling anticipation. Contrary to your expectations, Hannibal’s grip remains strong. You look at him. The Ripper looks back, a bloodstained smile on his lips. You feel his fingers trace the edges of your skin with a mocking gentleness, before you’re falling backward into the darkness again.

You slip out of the darkness and bolt up, only to find yourself in a painfully bright room. You can’t quite stop the gasp that comes from your lips, nor can you suppress the urge to look around frantically, searching for the signs that this is a dream. The incessant pain in your abdomen is a harsh reality check. You look down at the area, only to find meticulously wrapped bandages covering your lower torso. Your upper forearm stings from the IV burrowing under your skin. 

“Hey,” a voice says. You squint in the bright light, waiting for the blurred figure in front of you to sharpen. It’s a nurse—the same one who helped you the last time you were wounded. She holds her hands out in a placating gesture. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You were just dreaming.” Her eyebrows are furrowed in concern, a sentiment you feel you don’t deserve. 

You bite back your questions—knowing the answers are clinging to the blinding white walls around you. The nurse asks you several questions about your symptoms and your pain level, before departing with the promise that she will return soon. 

The events that transpired in Hannibal’s office cling to your skin with fervency. Your abdomen burns, especially when you remember that Hannibal inflicted the wound. You shouldn’t feel betrayed. You shouldn’t be afforded the privilege of being betrayed, not when you knew Hannibal Lecter’s nature since that night you sleepwalked out into the middle of the street. 

Even so… you enjoyed being in Hannibal’s presence. You enjoyed the song and dance you had gotten so accustomed to playing. You spent so long spectating the game that you forgot your role in it. You were a pawn, and nothing more. The thought displeases you. With each passing second, the ugly feeling in your chest grows and swells within the confines of your rib cage. It’s getting to be too much. 

There is no one to sit at your bedside this time. When she returns, the nurse pointedly does not mention your husband. You don’t have the heart to tell her that your “husband” was the same person who stabbed you, or that your husband was never really your husband in the first place. She seems to understand anyway. Pity is hidden beneath the kind smile on her face. You stop making eye contact with her. 

Lying in this hospital bed is a lonely existence, dominated by a constant state of pain (at worst) or mild discomfort (at best). The only interaction you get is from the nurse herself. You get the feeling she’d be a good listener, but your tongue feels ironed to the roof of mouth and your conversations quickly morph into anecdotes about her life. You’re grateful for the small kindness—for the prospect of being treated like a human being, despite it all.  These small moments of humanity push you to keep going, even amidst the several voices crooning in your ears about your cruelty.

You don’t expect any visitors. Indeed, your first visitor is entirely unexpected. When you’re first told that someone wishes to speak to you, you think of Beverly, Jack Crawford… hell, even Freddie Lounds. You certainly don’t foresee Alana Bloom walking through the door, a gentle, reserved expression on her face. Seeing her brightens your day, and her presence reminds you that you’re not entirely alone. You welcome the thought. 

“Alana,” you greet her, your voice rather raspy. You cough to clear your throat. “How are you?” You ask. 

“I should be asking you that,” she responds with a wry smile. She stands at the end of your bed, before walking to the side. Alana regards the lonely chair at your bedside, before placing her hands on the back. She looks well—albeit a little tired. “I’m good. And you?”

“I’ve been better,” you decide to respond honestly. There’s no point in lying to Alana—she used to be your psychiatrist, your girlfriend. She would be able to see through your dishonesty anyway. Sure enough, Alana seems to appreciate your honesty, because her eyes momentarily widen before she moves to sit down. Seeing her sit in that chair makes your stomach turn. When you blink, you see Hannibal sitting there—lithe frame effortlessly arranged, tupperware in hand. You rub your eyes roughly, dispelling the image to the recesses of your memory. Alana was courteous enough to visit you—the least you can do is acknowledge her presence, instead of imagining her as someone else. 

For a moment, you stare at Alana. A mundane sense of envy strikes you, but it’s fleeting. You don’t deserve to be envious of her good health and safe wellbeing. Your own hubris is the reason why you’re currently confined to this cot. You look at her for a moment longer, before letting your eyes rest on the plain walls around you. You can feel Alana staring at you with concern. Instead of acknowledging that sentiment, you let the first question on your mind pass through your lips. “Where’s Jack?”

Alana is silent for a few seconds. Is it a difficult question? You don’t think so, yet Alana almost seems to falter. Eventually, she must manage to find the words. “Busy, as I’m sure you can imagine,” she evidently settles for saying. Upon closer examination, her hands are clasped in her lap—whitened knuckles betraying her otherwise tranquil image. Alana’s next words are quiet yet firm. “He’s tracking Hannibal—the Chesapeake Ripper.”

You inhale slowly. Somehow, hearing her say that cements the reality of it all. Everyone knows Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper. It’s not just you anymore. You bring up an arm slowly, before tilting your head down and pinching the bridge of your nose. Somehow, it is this statement that reminds you of the pounding sensation behind your eyes and the aching clustered around your temple.

“Are you alright?” Alana asks, lips twitching into a slight frown. 

“Yes,” you respond flatly. Your answer sounds devoid of emotion and purpose. 

“Are you sure?” Alana persists. You don’t have the heart to lie to her twice in a row. 

“...No.” You acquiesce. You rub a hand over your face, feeling rather small in this hospital bed. The sheets are slightly scratchy and the weight of them feels constricting, rather than comforting. You’ve never felt so small. 

“I’m sorry,” Alana sighs. She seems entirely sincere and it almost makes you want to scream. You don’t deserve her sympathy. “I know you two were close. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.” That statement is incredibly reassuring, despite the frenzy you had worked yourself into surrounding Alana. When you reflect on the events of the past months, you realize that you have few allies and even fewer true friends. One of those true friends is sitting right next to you. 

“Thank you,” you nod. Guilt stirs in your chest as you stare at your old psychiatrist and ex-girlfriend. Every time you’ve seen her since she kissed you, you’ve purposefully cut conversation short. Somehow, the thought feels silly to you now. Perhaps almost dying a second time does that to a person. You stare at Alana for a moment. She looks well put together, as always. “Alana?”

“Yes?” She questions patiently. That’s another thing you envy about her—her unwavering compassion, her unflinching patience. You could stand to learn a few things from her, you think. 

“I’m sorry,” you remark. The sentiment has been dancing on the tip of your tongue for the past several weeks, yet you never got the chance to verbalize it. Life has been a whirlwind lately. You’ve been so caught up in everything swirling around in your mind that you never paused to think about those around you, or how they were affected by the recent turn of events. “For…” You break off, unable to articulate it. You settle for a vague hand gesture. Alana seems to understand anyways, as her eyes momentarily widen before comprehension passes over her face. 

“Don’t apologize,” Alana is quick to say, nothing but sincerity written in the lines of her shoulders. Her eyes look slightly glassy for the briefest of moments, before she shakes her head and looks at you once more. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. I’m sorry for kissing you without warning.”

You nod in acknowledgement. Silence descends upon the brisk air, leaving the two of you to your thoughts. You’re not content to let this overbearing tension rule over your conversation. You clench your fists slightly, filled with renewed resolve. You stare at Alana for a few seconds, until she notices your gaze and returns it. “Friends?” You ask, extending a hand towards her.

“Friends,” Alana responds with a smile, rising from her chair to meet your outstretched hand. Your handshake is short but reassuring. It’s enough to convince you that there are no hard feelings between the two of you. Alana fills you in on some of what’s happened since your admittance to the hospital; mostly, though, the two of you talk about the small things. You know Alana is trying to give you some semblance of normalcy. You appreciate the effort, you really do… but you’re not sure you’re capable of pretending everything’s okay. Furthermore, the small things seem inconsequential—now that you’re entrenched in the middle of everything. Even so, you make sure to thank her before she leaves. You don’t know how you would have coped without seeing a familiar face. Alana smiles and promises to be back soon. 

As you expect, Alana doesn’t turn up the next day. You certainly don’t expect her to stop by, since you know she’s always rather busy.  Ultimately, you come to the conclusion that you want nothing more than to be out of this hospital. Even worse… apparently, the stunt you pulled with Beverly during your past hospital visit did not go over well. You’re firmly reminded to avoid any attempts at an early release. You’re too tired and embarrassed to argue. You don’t have anything better to do than rot in this hospital room, anyway. Besides, you’re certain you’ll be met with some unpleasant reminders of Hannibal as you get home. You think you have a few cardigans in your closet that you meant to give back to him. The thought sends a bolt of nervous excitement through you, and you have to actively talk yourself down that precarious ledge. 

Alana does visit the day after. Beverly turns up the day after that and gives you several hugs. After that, at least one of your friends—Alana or Beverly— visits every day, which you’re extremely grateful for. You’re certain you’d go absolutely stir crazy in this hospital bed if you didn’t have anyone for company. Your conversations are typically fun and refreshing, like light breezes of summer air. Sometimes, though, you’re bogged down by your memories. Sometimes, you’re forced to remember the corpses you left in your wake. 

Even with Alana and Beverly visiting, you’re given more than enough alone time to contemplate everything. You have ample time to pick apart Hannibal’s actions and discern his true motivations. So, when Jack Crawford finally visits, his shoulders drawn tight with stress, you’re prepared to recount that night to him. Jack is insistent on the fact that you don’t have to speak about anything you don’t want to, but you know the offer is more for pretense than anything else. He needs this information, needs to understand the Ripper’s past actions and how they govern his future.  With that in mind, you wave off his concern and tell him about your late night meeting with Hannibal.

Jack is silent throughout, never once interrupting you or reacting in a manner other than an affirmative nod. It’s very characteristic of your boss; you think that you would have been unsettled if he responded with heightened or dramatic emotions. Jack’s cool composure is an anchor that you quickly latch on to. 

“He wanted you alive,” Jack states, once you’re finished explaining everything. He says this with frightening assuredness. His utter conviction surprises you, prompting you to ask how he knows that. 

Of course, you certainly considered that same possibility yourself, but it feels more real when you hear it from Jack. “The stab wound wasn’t fatal,” he points out. His gaze falls to the edge of your abdomen. The bandages feel extremely constricting. You wonder if they need to be changed soon. “It easily could’ve been. The Ripper is a skilled killer—he wouldn’t have missed unless he wanted to.” You take a shuddering breath in. 

“He’s toying with us,” you manage to agree. Your hands fidget restlessly along the rough blanket thrown over your form. You feel restless once more. 

“He’s toying with you,” Jack supplies. There is no room for argument in his voice. He doesn’t look restless, afraid, or frustrated. Not for the first time, you wish you had Jack’s control and constitution. However, you know Jack well enough to see the signs of tension in his clenched fist and drawn lips. “Taunting you, and the rest of us, by proxy.” That statement in particular sets everything in stone. Your theories are no longer just theories—they are unobjectionable facts. 

“Jack.” you remark, trying to push the words past the dread settling on your tongue. 

“Yes?” Jack asks, patient and restless all at once. You’re choking on the words. It’s such a simple sentence, yet so dangerous of an admission. If you told the truth—confided in Jack about how you suspected Hannibal the moment you met him, and grew to realize that he is the Ripper—you would certainly lose your job, not to mention all of Jack’s trust. 

Selfish, your victims croon. Your psyche nods in agreement. It’s truly selfish of you not to provide Jack with your utmost honesty. You’re doing a disservice to every person Hannibal has ever killed, every waking moment the team spent hunting for the Chesapeake Ripper. You wasted so much time, so much space. 

“I-” You try to continue. I knew. I knew and I did nothing. I am complicit in his crimes. Tears are slipping down your cheeks. You’re a rotten excuse for a human being. You don’t deserve to be alive. Why hadn’t Hannibal just finished the job? It’s cruel, almost. He allowed his other victims the mercy of death, yet he left you alive. You will forever be scarred—both by Hannibal’s knife and by the bone-deep knowledge that your silence made you an accomplice to his crimes. 

Breathing is suddenly a far more arduous task. Your lungs burn and your throat feels as if it’s closing in on you. Your vision is extremely sharp and your shaking hands are drawn with harsh lines and even harsher edges. The world around you is suddenly rendered immensely inconsequential. The beeping of the machines at your bedside, Jack’s steady breaths, the traces of conversation slipping in from the hallway… It all fails in comparison to the chimes of the grandfather clock in your mind. You dig your fingernails into your skin, desperate for unspoken confirmation that you aren’t dreaming.

At this point, you’re panting. Drool falls from the sides of your mouth and hits the scratchy blanket. Every nerve in your body feels as if it’s on fire. You’re a puppet cut loose from the puppeteer’s careful hand, yet you’re still strung together with wooden bones and durable string. You bring your hand to your chest and try to breathe, but the more you try, the harsher and more rushed your attempts become.  

“Agent.” There’s a hand on your shoulder. It’s enough pressure to make you feel as if you’re melding with the thin mattress below you, sinking into the floor and the shadows. For a moment, you can see Hannibal looking down at you in your mind’s eye, a contentious expression on his face as he lets you fall to the darkness below.  “Breathe.” Jack grabs your hand and brings it to the inside of his wrist. His pulse beats steadily beneath your fingertips and you latch onto the rhythm.  Jack begins counting, prompting you to breathe in time with him. You’re not sure how long it takes you to clear your airways—you just know that, at some point, Jack migrated from where he stood at the end of your bed to the side of the bed. 

“Jack,” you try again. Your lips part but nothing slips out. It’s such a simple confession—a mere few words, yet you can’t utter them. 

“Agent,” Jack interjects, before you can choke on the words you don’t want to say. His expression has returned to a combination of rigidity and anticipation. You know what Jack will say before he says it. “Can I trust you to handle this case? Do I need to remove you from this case? ” He doesn’t say that last part, but you hear it anyway. You take a deep breath and rub a hand over your face. Your eyes burn from all the tears you shed. 

“I can handle it,” you assure him. 

“You’re close to all this,” Jack remarks. He gets up from where he had been sitting and walks back to stand behind the edge of the bed. His gaze meets yours, but you know he isn’t really looking at you. That expression on his face means Jack is looking through his options, puzzling out the future in his head. You wait for him to refocus. “You know I don’t typically assign agents with personal investments in cases… But, you’ve been on this case for a long time. You know the Ripper better than anyone else does, whether you want to admit it or not.”

You stare at Jack silently, daring him to take you off the case. You know that your words will fail you here, so you hope your conviction shows through in your eyes. Jack stares back and, for a long moment, you’re both trapped in silence. Eventually, Jack seems to ascertain that you think yourself capable. He takes a deep breath. 

“In terms of the Ripper, we currently have a unit determining his whereabouts,” Jack begins. “The Ripper—Lecter—covered his tracks very well. The last time he was seen was…”

“When he stabbed me,” you say for him. 

“Yes,” Jack confirms. “As you know, Lecter is proficient at leaving behind very little—if any—evidence.” You nod, thinking back to all the crime scenes he created. There was hardly any evidence left behind. Hannibal was always meticulous and careful in his crimes. 

“He only leaves clues when he wants to,” you continue. “He is not so kind hearted as to leave us clues for the hell of it, or because he slipped up. He doesn’t make mistakes.”

“We found very little in his office,” Jack concedes with a sharp nod. He pinches the bridge of his nose. Stress seems to tighten the line of his shoulders. “We did manage to find several concealed weapons, upon closer examination.”

“He stabbed me with a knife that was disguised as an antler on a deer sculpture,” you recall flatly. The thought makes your side flare up with pain again. “I shouldn’t have gone to his office. I should’ve come to you first. I knew, and yet…”

“Frankly, Agent, that is not my concern,” Jack states matter of factly. “The past is the past. If I were to dissect every minute mistake we’ve made along the course of this investigation, we’d never be able to proceed.”

“True,” you answer. You still don’t think Jack has truly comprehended the implications of what you just said. You knew Hannibal was the Chesapeake Ripper long before that night. After all, you didn’t explicitly state when you first discovered the identity of the Ripper. Of course, you suppose it is also likely that Jack was able to intuit that from your response. If that were the case, you can’t help but wonder why he hasn’t kicked you off this case or fired you. 

You know it’s best for you to drop this particular line of questioning, so you do. For the duration of Jack’s visit, he debriefs you on what the team has deduced so far—both in terms of his current location and where he’ll go next. After an hour passes, however, your luck runs out. Your nurse enters the room and promptly shoos Jack out, claiming that you need time to rest. She is entirely impervious to his objections, even when he tries to pull rank on her. You’re rather impressed. Jack manages to get a last remark in, before the nurse can guide him out of the room. 

“Lecter will turn up soon enough,” your boss states. With that, Jack departs. His cryptic remark leaves you with a lot to think about. You spend the rest of your hospital stay grappling with the implications of that statement, with the implications of Hannibal deciding not to kill you. You’re released from the hospital a week later with a troubled conscience and another scar to add to your collection. 

Somehow, news of your battle with Hannibal has reached the press, Jack tells you as he drives you home in the dead of night. Ultimately, Jack decided it would be best to get you home during a time when most people are sleeping. You’re grateful for his foresight, because when you return home, there are no flashing cameras or microphones shoved in your face. You thank Jack for the ride and he nods, sending you one final unreadable look before driving away. 

When you unlock your front door and swing the door open, you’re surprised to find that your house appears the same as when you left it. You close the door behind you and take in everything before you. Dust is beginning to collect on the shelves and surfaces—the space desperately needs a dedicated cleaning, but you know you don’t have the energy just yet. Right now, you’re content to cautiously walk to your closet and grab clothes. Despite the fact that Jack brought you a pair of old trainee clothes to change into when he arrived, you know you need a good shower to feel clean. The lukewarm water sliding down your skin is rejuvenating, but it doesn’t wipe away the dirt of your sins. You step out of the shower with clean skin and a muddy conscience. Drying off and putting on your clothes is an annoying affair, but you manage. 

After your shower, it’s safe to say that you’re entirely lost. You don’t know what to do next. You need to eat, you remember. Unfortunately, your fridge is pretty much empty. You sigh and survey the space that you call home. It doesn’t feel familiar, despite the knowledge that it’s been yours for several years. These are all your belongings, yet it feels as if you’re standing in a stranger’s shoes. You look around the room, pausing when your eye catches on a scrap of newspaper. The TattleCrime article from before rests innocuously on the kitchen counter. You walk towards it immediately, as if possessed. 

Criminally Insane. You stare at the photos featured in the article. The second photo—the one of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane—led you to realize that Frederick Chilton had been kidnapped. The first picture… It unsettles you. There are hints of the dark circles under your eyes that you now possess, but there’s also an unspoken confidence in your posture in the photo. You choke on a laugh, running your fingers along the rough newspaper. 

It’s a miracle you’re still alive. Well, it certainly feels that way… but you know your survival can’t be put down to mere fate. Inexplicably, Hannibal did not aim to kill you. You contemplate what would’ve happened if he had aimed that way. You would have died in that office, certainly. Would you be free of this terrifying helplessness, this aching despair?

You manage to tear your eyes away from the article. After a moment of thought, you stuff it in a drawer—hoping you will never need to look at it again. Unsurprisingly, you still feel incredibly restless. You begin pacing slowly around the room, desperate for something to do. Perhaps this urge to do something is indicative of a deeper sentiment. 

The cicadas buzz from the trees outside. You’re suddenly struck with a perplexing urge to step outside. You follow that urge and walk mechanically to your front door. Maybe someone is on your porch. You peek through the peephole, unsurprised to find no one there. After a second’s contemplation, you step out onto your porch, letting your arms rest against the railing.  

The brisk night air doesn’t help your worsening mental state. You still feel numb, empty. Nothing feels real anymore. As you look out at your driveway, at the other houses lining your street, you’re hit with an immense sonder.2 How did you end up in this situation? How did you end up here, staring out at the suburbia around you and wishing you could take on the life of another person—someone who isn’t desensitized to blood, gore, violence, and murder?

You don’t know where to go from here. Your feelings are a dizzying combination of remorse, regret, and contempt—combined with an unhealthy amount of wishful thinking. You raise your arms and put your head in your hands for a moment. Succumbing to darkness has never felt so comforting and terrifying at the same time.

“Lecter will return soon enough.” Jack had said. There was a certainty in his voice in that moment—a sincerity that was surely unfounded. He was making a prediction and nothing more. Yet… the conviction in his tone made it seem as if he knew the Ripper’s next move. Surely, Hannibal hasn’t grown so predictable. Surely, he will continue to elude capture for as long as he wishes. 

A car’s headlights reach your vision, and you watch as it slowly cruises down your street. There is a certain nonchalance to the way it slowly rises on the horizon. You frown, wondering what this person is doing driving down your street at such a late hour. Perhaps it’s a neighbor. You continue to watch warily. For a moment, you swear it seems as if the car’s slowing as it approaches. Surely that can’t be the case. It’s too dark to make out the details of the car—let alone the driver. You settle for staring in silence as it moves along. Within the blink of an eye, the vehicle moves past your driveway and into the dark expanse enveloping the space past your street. You exhale in relief, just realizing that your breath had hitched during the car’s brief stint in front of your house. 

Why were you nervous? What were you expecting? You don’t want to acknowledge the answers to those questions—those solutions will only bring more problems. You shake your head. Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, and everyone knows. There should be nothing to be afraid of, except for a single thought that never seems to leave you. He will return for you, a voice whispers against the wind. He wants to finish the job.  

You’ve never gotten so close to a case before. You almost wish you could travel back in time, to the first time you locked eyes with Dr. Hannibal Lecter. In that moment, you hadn’t been able to rationalize the intense foreboding and trepidation that seemed to crawl up your skin as he stared back at you. You had no true grasp of the danger you would soon experience, the lives you would soon take. When did you stop trusting your instincts? Your intuition is part of the reason why you’re such a successful criminal profiler, yet you were more than willing to entirely ignore it. 

A chill hits your skin, but it’s not from the brisk breeze of night air that gently rustles your clothes. The unsettling feeling comes from the car in your driveway, the bright headlights illuminating the woody forest behind your house. Were you so lost in thought that you neglected to notice someone approaching your driveway? You squint and take a step closer to the driveway, wavering on the edge of your porch. The car looks familiar, and that realization nearly pitches you off the porch and careening to the ground below. The driver turns the car off and swings the door open with taunting slowness. A roaring sound fills your ears. 

“Hannibal,” you remark. The driver closes the door and takes a step forward, close enough to the porch that the light hits their face and reveals familiar angled features. His lip is bleeding and there are droplets of blood scattered about his face. His clothing is ever so slightly rumpled. Other than that, Hannibal appears at ease. The Ripper looks at you, and utters your name in response. 

You don’t know what to do, what to say. Your hands clutch the railing in front of you with enough force to send bolts of pain through your fingers. It feels as if your heart is racing faster than humanly possible. You’re reminded of the pain in your abdomen, the scar slicing dangerously close to your eye. You clench a fist at your side and walk down the steps of your porch, before turning and moving to stand at a strategic distance from Hannibal: close enough to see his face, far enough to have an illusion of control and safety. 

The night is still. If it weren’t for your unexpected visitor, you might take solace in the tranquility of the midnight sky. Now, the stars seem to wink at you in warning. When Hannibal speaks, you nearly convince yourself that you imagine it. “I have evaded capture for long enough.” An ugly, foolish sort of hope settles in your chest. You try to push it away.

“You’re… surrendering,” you remark cautiously, waiting for him to dispel that notion. The Ripper does nothing of the sort. Instead, Hannibal stares at you, making strangely heated eye contact with you as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a knife. The moonlight briefly hits the metal, causing it to glimmer mockingly. Your stomach turns. The moon’s warm glow reveals more than just a shimmer—there are murky brown stains on the blade. You recognize the splatters as dried blood and your skin crawls. Hannibal is holding the very same knife he stabbed you with. He maneuvers it expertly, holding the blade and extending the handle towards you. Everything about this moment feels like a trap, but you willingly reach out and take the proffered knife, fastening it at your belt.

After a stretch of time in which neither of you elect to say anything, you decide that Hannibal must be telling the truth. Eyes locked on the man, you fumble around in your pocket for your phone and pull it out, dialing the only number you have memorized. Your intended recipient answers before two seconds pass. “Jack,” you say, your gaze still firmly fixed on the Ripper. 

“Agent,” Jack responds. Hannibal is staring at you with intense scrutiny, evidently attempting to decipher what Jack is saying to you. That recognition causes you to pause for a moment. At your hesitation, Jack’s voice takes on a concerned yet impatient tone. “What is it?”

“I have him,” you say, vaguely satisfied that your voice sounds clear and composed despite the emotional rollercoaster you’ve been subjected to. “The Ripper. He’s in my driveway.”

Jack’s end of the line is quiet. You know it must be nearly impossible to believe. You look at Hannibal and then look back at the phone, realizing what you need to do. Taking a deep breath, you bring a shaky hand up and press the speaker button. Despite every instinct in your body screaming at you, you take a small step forward—and another—until Hannibal is close enough to the phone. For a moment, he stares down at the device pensively. Then, in the blink of an eye, he grabs your wrist and tugs you closer—evidently to get to the phone. You glare at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. 

“Hello, Jack,” Hannibal remarks, voice laced with amusement as he grasps your hand— the phone, you tell yourself—with unshakeable strength.  Despite the severity of the situation, you can’t do anything but roll your eyes at his chosen greeting. It seems Hannibal’s dramatics know no bounds. Even when his very freedom is threatened, he will continue to wear his carved mask of politeness and elegance. You try to listen for Jack’s response. There’s still silence on the other end—Jack is probably dispatching a unit as you speak. You’re sure Jack himself will be on his way before long. 

Indeed, Jack confirms that a team is on the way. He hangs up and your phone screen fades to black. Despite the call’s termination, Hannibal is still holding your wrist. “Can I have my hand back?” You ask wryly. You try to shake his grip off and pull away, but he doesn’t budge. Your heart is racing as you try to find an escape. Hannibal doesn’t seem keen to let go, instead looking at you with mild amusement written all over his face. It doesn’t take you long to come up with an idea. You attempt to shake off his grip once more, knowing it will not work. The moment you try to pull your wrist back, you take advantage of the momentum and aim a harsh kick just above his knee. Per your expectations, he doesn’t anticipate the attack and is forced to fall down to a kneeling position to avoid falling over. You lock eyes with him and tear his grip off.

Hannibal looks up at you on bended knee, entirely silent. You begin to realize just what you’ve done—you just disrespected him. You were the epitome of the rudeness Hannibal abhors. You swallow. If you weren’t dead before, you’re certainly dead now. The Ripper is still silent, before tilting his head down to hide his face. Fuck, you’ve really done it this time. You feel yourself taking an instinctual half step backwards, and you’re moments away from turning on your heel and running when you hear an odd sound. 

Hannibal is laughing, you realize. It’s a far cry from the typical gesture of joy you’d associate with laughter, but his amusement is still evident. He brings his head up once more and regards you with interest. “You never fail to surprise me,” he remarks amiably, getting to his feet and pushing the dust from his pant leg with a quick swiping motion. Hannibal doesn’t give your threat any consideration, instead simply regarding you with that same eerie look you’ve grown to associate with his full attention. 

Your hand twitches to grab the bloodstained knife at your side. You imagine yourself plunging the blade into Hannibal’s side, watching his smirk falter and his victorious expression crumple. The vindictive thought thrills you for a second, before you come back to yourself and feel immense revulsion and disgust. Hannibal almost seems to sense the mental gymnastics you're going through, as an intrigued expression flickers across his face before it’s gone in a flash. 

Truthfully, you don’t know how long you stand there—across from Hannibal, staring him down as he stares you down, prey regarding predator—until Jack arrives. It feels like an eternity. Time seems to entirely stop during those moments. Somehow, the quiet is more informative than a conversation ever could be. You don’t need words—not when you can see the tight line drawn across Hannibal’s shoulders, the persistence in his gaze. 

Even eternity must come to an end, though. Police sirens blink in the distance, drawing you away from your thoughts. You watch as several police cars find their way to your driveway. Jack sits in the passenger seat of the car at the front, and he’s quick to step out of the car. S.W.A.T. officers swarm out of the cars, weapons pointed at Hannibal. There is a horrible tension settling in the air, thick enough to make your breaths occur just a little faster.

Despite the exorbitant amount of fully-armed S.W.A.T officers, you’re still afraid. Hannibal is closest to you. If he wanted to, he could kill you—even with so many people present. You don’t doubt his strength or agility. These recognitions leave your heart drumming in your chest at an incessantly quick rhythm. You glance over at Jack and he nods, holding a hand up to the officers and walking towards you. 

“Doctor Lecter,” Jack remarks. Even now, he is incredibly composed. You latch onto his composure and try to emulate it,  though you know it won’t look convincing enough. The headlights from the cars are blinding and you turn your head, giving your burning eyes a brief reprieve. 

“Jack,” Hannibal responds, his hands raised in the air in surrender. The Ripper is indeed powerless, yet the gesture looks mocking. A few officers step closer and surround Hannibal, who kneels down with his arms still raised high. “You finally caught the Chesapeake Ripper.” His hands move to rest behind his head. 

Jack stares at the killer with an indecipherable expression. “You surrendered.”

“I want you to know exactly where I am,” Hannibal responds to Jack. After that remark, his head turns and dread rises in your chest as you realize he’s looking towards you. His eyes are glittering in the moonlight. “And where you can always find me.” You’re frozen, limbs locked as his crimson eyes pierce through you. 

Vaguely, you hear Jack order for Hannibal to be placed in his car. The officers pull Hannibal up from his knees and escort him to the police car. The Ripper’s gaze is locked on you until he enters the vehicle. Jack remains where he stands, sending you a look. You incline your head slightly, to wordlessly encourage him to leave you. Jack seems hesitant to do so, but his sense of responsibility must win out, because he walks back towards the car. You still feel as if you’re being watched, and you get the feeling Hannibal is staring at you from behind the dark tinted glass. The police car slowly reverses out of your driveway, before heading down your street and eventually out of sight. 

You purse your lips, before walking back up the steps to your porch. Everything seemed to have happened far too fast. In the blink of an eye, you’re left to stand alone, with nothing but your conflicting feelings of grief, anger, and remorse for company.  Memories burrow their way under your skin. Each breath is a testament to your own cruelty. 

Inexplicably, you reach up to touch the jagged scar cutting down your face. Your fingertips brush against the marred skin and you jolt. Your abdomen burns in remembrance. Hannibal Lecter has given you the quiet evenings, the comfortable silence settling in the air, and the thrill of an attentive, burning gaze that sends warm embers dancing up your skin.

But he has taken so much more from you in return.

Gone is the gentle caress of a hand on your cheek and the comfort of having unquestionable support. Gone is the hard-won feeling of being truly seen for who you are. Gone is the excitement, the anticipation of knowing that your companion can never truly be predicted. All of it is gone. 

You look up at the moon glimmering in the dark night sky. You idly wonder if Hannibal sees it too. It’s a foolish thought. His cell likely won’t have windows. He has probably been confined to four walls of cement, a metal toilet, and a thin, dingy mattress on a cold metal frame. There is no hope for someone like Hannibal—he will earn several life sentences and spend his entire life in that cage. You have to wonder: why? Why would he surrender?

It was a tactical surrender—that much you know for certain. Hannibal could easily have spent the rest of his life moving from place to place, taking on new identity after new identity. He could have spent however long he wanted, camouflaged but free. 

Freedom. Maybe that’s the answer. After all, that kind of aggressive mimicry is not necessarily freedom. Hannibal Lecter values being an enigma. The mystery that surrounds him, in part, relies on his reputation. Life spent in hiding isn’t really life at all. Even someone like Hannibal—someone with arguably everything to lose—would understand that sentiment. 

You exhale slowly, watching as your puff of breath fades into the air. You suppose Hannibal’s statement may have carried some truth. You will always know where to find him; you won’t be able to bury the memory of him next to the other skeletons in your closet and leave him to rot. Whenever your psyche falters, Hannibal will be there—imprisoned within your mind palace, gathering strength and lying in wait. 

Your phone rings in your pocket. You pull it out, momentarily surprised by the time displayed. It’s getting late. You hadn’t realized how long you spent lost in thought. When you answer, your voice sounds unfamiliar to your ears. 

“Crawford,” Jack clarifies, cutting right to the chase, “We got him.” There is no further explanation needed. 

“We got him, Jack,” you echo. The recognition sounds hollow, empty. Your gaze is pulled towards your driveway once more. Jack’s voice reaches your ears, but you can’t discern what he’s saying over the ringing in your ears. 

Hannibal Lecter is behind bars now, yet you’re the one who feels trapped. You’re a prisoner—trapped in a cage of your own broken design.

1. Dracula by Bram Stoker

2. Sonder refers to the feeling of realization that everyone, including strangers and passersby, have lives just as complex and vivid as your own.

Sorry if the intro parts were confusing. I wanted to *try* to write it in a way that showed how weird and unusual dreams can really be, especially after traumatic events.The mind is infinitely powerful, able to conjure up a new reality at a moment’s notice. I liked the idea of the reader drowning in a whirlpool of their own mind’s creation—as they fight to get back to reality. (also, I found the word “umbra,” which is apparently used to describe the shadow created by an eclipse. I think that’s cool as hell, so I included it.) Dream logic never quite makes sense and can be extremely convoluted, which is why the intro is a messy assortment of memories with no clear beginning or end.

Y’all seemed to like my rationalization for the previous chapter, so I’ll include some similar notes for this chapter if you’re interested:

Hannibal’s surrender in this chapter is very much calculated. He realizes that he’s no longer free—since the FBI are onto him. There is a sort of cruelty in the life he would have to lead, as his “freedom” would include lots of mental effort, relocating, and subterfuge. Hannibal likely weighs his options, and decides between a life of constant stealth and relocation, and a life behind bars. It’s reasonable to assume that he also would have realized that his status as the Chesapeake Ripper would grant him special privileges as a prisoner—he’s aware of how much the Ripper has dominated the cultural zeitgeist and knows he will be able to use that notoriety to his advantage in captivity.

Of course, Hannibal also knows how to best dominate your thoughts: by remaining in one place. As he mentions, you will always know where he is and where to find him. You will not have to track him down by following the calculated clues he leaves behind—rather, you will constantly have to live with the underlying knowledge that Hannibal is accessible at any and every moment. In this case, Hannibal’s surrender is quite a tactical and manipulative move. He truly chooses to go to prison. It would be unsettling to know that the Ripper was on the loose, yes. But, the Ripper has been on the loose and free for several years already. On the other hand, it would be downright disturbing to know that Hannibal’s presence in prison is a willful choice—one that can be taken back at any moment. That can easily manifest a constant lingering fear in the back of the reader’s mind, in addition to an eternal desire to pin down exactly why Hannibal is remaining captive, chained. The chessmaster is willingly surrendering, but the game is far from over.

And now… Act 1 of this story is complete! 

Never fear, Hannibal will return in Act 2! As for the other characters… Well, you’ll have to wait and see. ;) I will say that Act Two embraces some elements of The Red Dragon and Silence of the Lambs. Don’t worry, though—you don’t need to have read either of them. :3

Here’s a scrap for your efforts! (*throws you this unused dialogue like a scruffy middle-aged man with grey hair and a scratchy quarter-zip throws a piece of raw beef to the wolves outside his cabin*) This was one of the MANY options I had considered (but never used) for the big reveal:

“How long have you known?” Hannibal asks. “From the moment you invited me into your home,” you answer. There’s silence for a dreadful moment. “And you stayed.” “I did.” “Why?” “I like talking to you, I enjoy your company.… Does one really need a reason to keep the company of another?” You finish. A beat of quiet. “... I suppose not,” Hannibal acquiesces.

Act 2 will be posted as the second part of this series. Here's the link to the AO3 series: these jagged scars. I'll also post it over here on Tumblr. :)

Thank you so so so much for all the support! Your likes, comments, and reblogs keep me going! <33333

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